My Irresistible Earl

by Gaelen Foley

  Knowing that Jordan had witnessed the secret of her pain made her feel so strange being around him, wavering between uneasiness and an unfamiliar sense of safety with him. She kept waiting for him to use it against her somehow.

  But he never did. He kept his promise, and that was part of why she had thought that she could trust him. Still, feeling that he was unobtainable, she had tried to check her fluttering heart and striven to think of him only as a friend—until, being seventeen, she could no longer hold back her feelings.

  As it turned out, she had been right to be cautious, for she had learned that night in the garden that her feelings weren’t returned.

  He wouldn’t even agree to let her write to him, nor would he write to her. But at least he didn’t lie, she conceded as she leaned in the doorway. Well, in hindsight it was obvious that in her girlish innocence, she had wildly overidealized him—and had undervalued herself.

  She knew better now. Jordan was not perfect. He was not a demigod, not an invincible hero, but a man. Even knights in shining armor had their weaknesses. This night could be a chance to get a clearer, grown-up picture of who he was, or at least who her young Prince Charming had become.

  More importantly, for herself, she had finally got it through her head that she was not and never had been anywhere near as bad or stupid as her parents had taught her to believe.

  She had worth, talents, virtues. She was good at any number of things. She was a good mother to Thomas. A far better mother than the one she’d had.

  And maybe, just maybe, she actually did deserve love.

  Her heart fluttered just like in the old days at the thought of him, but as she toyed with the idea of going to the party, she couldn’t help wondering how a flawed, world-weary Jordan and a stronger, grown Mara might affect each other now, twelve years later. As much as time had changed them both, would they still be drawn to each other? Could they still fall in love?

  Dangerous thoughts, Mara warned herself. After all, the opposite could be true. If she went tonight, she might come home again with a newfound peace of mind, only wondering what she had ever seen in him.

  Then she might finally be free of him at last.

  God. She shut her eyes.

  Her guilty conscience enjoyed tormenting her from time to time, reminding her of the night she had conceived her son, how she had lain beneath her drunken husband, shut her eyes, and thought of him.

  She only doubted Lord Falconridge would ever be that clumsy, rough, and inconsiderate with a woman…

  She flicked her eyes open again, shaking off the disturbing memory.

  Thomas was having a chirpy little conversation with his blocks, to the staff’s amusement. Several servants had gathered to watch the tot at play. Mara didn’t mind. The servants’ genuine affection for her boy only endeared them to her more.

  Oh, blazes, she thought, watching the whole household dote on her son, he’ll be well taken care of if I go to Delilah’s just for a little while.

  To try to deny her cautious interest in finding out what Jordan had been doing all this time would have to make her as obstinate as her two-year-old, whose favorite word was “No.”

  She glanced uncertainly at the mantel clock again.

  Other than her own stubborn refusal of yesterday, there was no real reason not to go.

  She could not even claim she had nothing to wear. Her modiste had just delivered a new, lush purple satin gown. She considered her mink stole for warmth. High black gloves. She still had those from her mourning. Her pearl choker…

  She’d have to look her best, just on principle, of course. Show her former dream man she had gone on with her life quite happily without him, thank you very much.

  Thomas suddenly squealed with delight as he knocked down his tower of blocks for the umpteenth time there in the informal, multi-use room they simply referred to as the parlor. His old nurse, Mrs. Busby, continued praising the young builder.

  Mara smiled. There was something inspiring in the way the boy immediately began constructing his little tower again. Unfazed by failure. Undaunted by the wreck of all he’d built.

  Try, try again.

  Right, she thought, suddenly resolute. With Pierson dead, she had to be both mother and father to Thomas, and she would not set a cowardly example for her son by hiding at home, too weak to face someone who had hurt her.

  “Mary.” She turned to her freckled maid with a businesslike air. “Tell Jack to ready the carriage.” She lifted her chin, and announced: “I am going out.”

  Delilah’s guests had congregated in the drawing room in anticipation of the feast. The summons to the dining room was imminent, and still, Mara hadn’t appeared.

  Well, this was a fine thing! Jordan thought in annoyance, surreptitiously watching the door. He had only come here tonight for her sake, and the blasted hussy could not be bothered to show up. It seemed she did not even have the nerve to come and face him.

  All the other guests had arrived, leaving him in a roomful of strangers and casual acquaintances. While his new friend, Delilah, kept prattling on, Jordan could only scoff at his own disappointment. Would he never learn?

  Meanwhile, Delilah’s tall, strapping lover, Cole, was watching him with eagle-eyed suspicion from over by the fireplace. Don’t worry, mate. I have no interest in your mistress. He half listened to Delilah’s chatter, rather wishing he had stayed home to work on deciphering some new code.

  Then, all of a sudden, he saw the butler step into the room. His heart sank as he expected to hear the familiar summons, “Dinner is served.”

  She’s not coming.

  Instead, the butler announced: “Lady Pierson.”

  His whole body tensed as Mara walked into the drawing room. My God. Every man present stared, but Jordan, for a few pulsations, suffered a sheer, fleeting agony of desire.

  Gone was the playful seventeen-year-old coquette, masking all her insecurity behind coy flirtation. Into the drawing room glided a devastating woman who carried herself with worldly confidence and cool poise.

  Even the way she moved proclaimed her the most powerful sort of female, in his experience. The type who knew exactly who she was.

  Brava, bella, Jordan thought in riveted admiration as the truth hit him. Mara Bryce had come into her own.

  The candlelight slid beguilingly over the deep purple satin of her gown, the dark tone of the bodice hugging her round, glorious breasts and making the pale skin of her chest shimmer like distant starlight.

  Her shadow-dark hair was wound up in a fetching knot atop her head with Classical tendrils trailing down. His gaze followed one of those fetching spirals that framed her face, gently grazing her cheek, still rosy from the cold outside, until it came to rest upon her lips; these were stained a deep rose shade with some cosmetic the ton seductresses favored.

  He could not take his eyes off her, nor could any other man in the room, except for Cole, whose full attention did not stray from Delilah.

  Mara had entranced the rest of them merely by crossing the room—but that was no change from when they were younger. Getting close to her had never been easy, surrounded as she had been by beaux and admirers.

  “Darling! I’m so glad you came!” Delilah sailed over to greet her friend with a careful embrace, mussing the perfection of neither lady.

  “Sorry I’m late. I wanted to make sure Thomas was feeling better.”

  “Ah, of course. No worries. I had a place set for you anyway—just in case.”

  Jordan noticed the wry look the women exchanged and wondered what it meant.

  All of a sudden, they both looked over at him.

  He felt taken off guard, caught staring.

  He smiled ruefully and offered a courteous nod, which Mara returned warily from across the drawing room.

  In the next instant, she was thronged by her acquaintances. They blocked her from his view. Which was just as well. For he was suddenly in a terrible state, his heart pounding; he tightened his stomach muscles to try to
ward off an absurd tickle of butterflies.

  Good God, what was wrong with him? She was a jolt to his system that had made his entire body tingle. He tugged discreetly at his cravat, wondering when the room had suddenly grown so hot. His clothes seemed to chafe—too constraining, his white shirt and cravat, his black formal attire. He longed to be rid of it all, in his bed with her, both of them wearing nothing but the moonlight and a lover’s sweat and making up for lost time.

  She caught his eye through the crowd with a faint blush, as though his sentiments were written on his face.

  He dropped his gaze and swallowed hard, cursing himself for the wild, unsteady joy that now pounded in his veins. This, he observed, was one hell of a foolish reaction. He thrust his hand into his pocket and took another swallow of port, using all his discipline to bring his reeling senses back under control.

  Then dinner was served.

  The guests repaired to a dainty pink-and-blue jewel box of a dining room, where gilt figurines held up the candles, plaster flower garlands wound about the ceiling, and rich rose valances festooned floor-to-ceiling windows. They took their seats in lyre-back chairs at a table draped in snowy white damask. Jordan found himself two seats down and across from Mara, close enough to keep a watchful eye on her.

  Soon, a parade of liveried footmen in powdered wigs began bringing in the food on gleaming silver trays. A large epergne of soup helped ward off the night’s chill; but as the first course was revealed beneath the silver warming lids, Jordan skipped the calves’ ears in favor of the chine of mutton.

  As the first half hour passed, Jordan enjoyed merely listening to the others’ banter, savoring the idle back-and-forth of normal people who did not have the weight of the world on their shoulders.

  As a younger man, he had always made a point of keeping in touch with friends and acquaintances who had nothing to do with the Order. It had helped him maintain sanity. He had tried, at least back then, not to let their deadly shadow war against the Prometheans take over his whole life. He dreaded to end up like Virgil.

  But somehow he had let that wise practice slip away from him over the years.

  Now the idle chatter of these carefree aristocrats made a dark corner of his heart angry, or at least scornful.

  Their air of bonhomie should have cheered him, restored his flagging spirits, but instead, he found himself resenting how easy they had it. Bloody hell, they would not last a day in his life. They lived for pleasure, without any kind of pressure on them at all.

  He felt so distant from them, detached.

  The only other guest at the table as silent as he was the Peninsular War hero Delilah had invited, some red-coated major about his own age who walked with a crutch, having lost his leg at Waterloo. Jordan had taken pleasure in shaking the officer’s white-gloved hand back in the drawing room. Fine man. Not a hint of self-pity. The sort that made one proud to be English.

  Meanwhile, the company gossiped about expected parties coming up this Season at the homes of people Jordan did not know. When the second course arrived, he chose roasted pigeon and the prawns stewed in white wine, and still, he had barely said a word.

  He was trying not to stare too much at Mara; but when he ventured another glance in her direction, he caught her studying him, the faceted chandelier speckling her with tiny chips of light.

  He gazed somberly at her; she looked away. But with her face in profile to him, he could see the blossom rising from that beautiful sweep of her neck up to her cheek.

  “So, Lord Falconridge,” Delilah spoke from the head of the table. He tore his gaze away. “It’s so nice that you could join us tonight. Lady Pierson tells me you have been in the diplomatic service.”

  “Yes.” He set his fork down politely, sensing an interview coming.

  “Where was your post?”

  “Various courts in northern Europe, Mrs. Staunton. Prussia, Sweden, Denmark. Most of my time abroad, however, was spent at our embassy in Russia.”

  “Dear me, that must have been dangerous, considering half the time, the Czar could not decide if he was with us or Napoleon!”

  He nodded with an urbane smile. “Sometimes, yes, quite, I’m afraid.”

  This topic roused the Peninsular veteran’s interest. “Were you in Russia during 1812, sir?”

  “Indeed, I was, Major.”

  “Did you get to see Napoleon’s retreat amid the Russian winter? They say he lost a hundred thousand men just from the cold alone.”

  “Horrible,” one of the ladies murmured.

  Jordan nodded. “Yes, from a distance, I could see their columns in retreat, and before the French army arrived, I also saw the Russians burn Moscow themselves rather than let Napoleon take it,” he added. “Even Boney must have realized he could not defeat a people willing to do that.”

  “I’m just glad the war’s over,” Delilah declared, “and we can all finally get on with our lives.”

  The major sent her a quick, cynical look. Easy for you to say. Jordan glanced at him in wry sympathy as the others discussed their eagerness to travel to the Continent on holiday once the bombarded cities were rebuilt; when he raised his glass to the man in a silent toast, the major gave him a grim smile and a grateful nod.

  “I want to see Italy! It’s been ages since even a proper Grand Tour was even possible.”

  “I hope all the fighting didn’t harm the Roman ruins.”

  “What of the Alps? I’ve seen paintings of Lake Como that make me want to move there,” one lady said with a sigh.

  “Lots of people are doing just that, I hear. The Continent is supposedly easier on one’s purse.”

  Jordan listened to their idle banter, feeling more isolated from them by the second as he marveled privately at how small their world was.

  Their talk of holidays in distant lands merely seemed to emphasize the fact that, aside from their country homes, they rarely ventured beyond the well-marked boundaries of Mayfair.

  “What about Russia, Lord Falconridge? Should we include St. Petersburg in our tour?” another lady asked, fluttering her lashes at him.

  “Absolutely,” he replied. “It’s very elegant.”

  “Russia and elegant?” the red-cheeked, portly chap beside her grunted. “Never thought I’d hear those words in the same breath, what?”

  Jordan smiled, recalling the Russians’ opinion of the English in return, but he did not think it politick to point that out just now. “St. Petersburg is highly refined, my lord,” he said idly. “You must be thinking of Moscow. That’s where you go if you want an adventure.”

  “Oh! What sort of adventure?” the lady asked.

  An image flashed through Jordan’s mind of the three Promethean spies in the Kremlin he had hunted down and dispatched before they could make their move against the young, fickle, and vexingly impressionable Czar.

  He merely smiled. “More of the true Russia, I’d say. A taste of the Eastern influence.”

  “Hmm, that sounds very intriguing,” Delilah purred.

  “Well, I think it sounds abominably cold,” Mara spoke up all of a sudden, entering the conversation. “But then, you must have been right at home in that frosty climate, Lord Falconridge. Was it cold enough for you, hmm?”

  Jordan turned to her, slightly startled by her soft but pointed mockery.

  She brushed her lower lip tauntingly against the rim of her wineglass as she waited for his answer.

  He spoke with care. “It is true the climate runs toward snow, Lady Pierson. But the Russians have devised several intriguing ways of keeping warm. Shall I describe them for you?”

  “Do, do!” Some of the men who were already getting drunk laughed at his obvious innuendo.

  “If you’d rather, I could show you.” He moved as if to rise from his chair.

  “Hear, hear!”

  The other fellows thumped the table with their hands while the ladies tittered.

  Mara narrowed her eyes at him. “No, thank you,” she answered primly, losing the g
ame.

  He returned her scowl with an angelic smile.

  Well, she had earned that poke after her impertinence.

  “I feared the cold was going to keep you at home tonight, my lady, when we did not see you earlier,” he remarked.

  “No, as you can see, I was merely detained.” She glanced around the table. “I apologize again to everyone for arriving late—”

  “Nonsense,” Delilah scolded fondly. “You were here in time. Besides, it’s understandable. Her child has been ill.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Jordan spoke up in an easy tone, though he waited in amusement for some opportunity to poke at her again. “I hope it is not too serious.”

  “Just a cold, but he is on the mend now, thank you,” Mara answered. “Thomas is a strong boy.”

  “How old?” Jordan already knew the answer, but he welcomed a change of subject other than his years abroad. He was an excellent liar; he just didn’t like having to exercise that particular talent.

  Besides, after seeing Mara doting on her child last night through the window, he suspected that this might be the one topic that could draw her out.

  And he was right.

  For a full five minutes, thanks to a few leading questions, he got Mara to speak, nay, to sing her boy’s praises. Then—adorably, he thought—she realized the rest of the worldly guests were growing bored to the point of yawns to hear her recounting the particulars of Thomas’s daily routine.

  Even Jordan was not so very interested in what the tot liked for breakfast.

  She was suddenly blushing. “Oh—forgive me. How I have been rambling on!”

  “Not at all,” he said with a fond look. “Obviously a favorite subject of yours.”

  “Delilah says I am the world’s most doting mother.”

  “As much as you adore him, I’m surprised you only have the one,” Jordan said.

  But instantly, he realized his mistake.

  Her sudden pallor told him too late that this was a highly sensitive subject. She dropped her gaze. “If it were up to me, I would’ve had many more, but, you see, my husband died before we could be blessed a second time.”