Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  “Play me and find out.” She dared him with her word and her eyes, all the time hoping she would never have to tell him her darkest secret. She could not bear to see him turn away from her in disgust.

  “Then my body will be my forfeit as well. So, it’s your body, if I win, and my body, if I lose. I claim the match now.”

  “That’s not the way the game works.” She backed toward the closed billiard room door.

  He followed, stepping between her and the door. “It is, if we want it to be.” She backed away again, but he was ready, and he pressed her against the wall, his hands on each side of her face, his body boxing her in. As he breathed on her neck, he reached out to the billiard room’s door. She heard the lock turn.

  She could feel his heat warm the whole of her body, and rebelliously her own answered it. He pulled her body into his and kissed her with all the ardor of a man long denied. She felt her own heat rise in answer.

  “And after the end of the special session, what if I refuse to end this non-marriage?” Harrison brushed his hand from her jaw down her neck, then kissed the base of her throat.

  “It’s done, Harrison. Or not done. Never done.”

  “I remember.” He trailed one finger down the side of her cheek, down the soft sensitive skin of her neck, across her chest to the spot where her breasts swelled full and lush. She felt the finger as a trail of fire, warming her with each inch of movement. “I remember this.”

  He moved his face near hers, so close to her lips she thought he was going to kiss her, and her lips reached out toward his, but at the last moment before their skin touched he bent his lips to her cheek then her neck, breathing without touching the line his finger had traced. Then he touched her with just his tongue. No kisses, just the teasing flicker of his warm flesh on hers.

  Then suddenly his mouth was on her neck. She closed her eyes, and lifted her chin away from him, increasing his access to her tender flesh at the join of her neck and chest. Then he moved lower, his mouth on the crown of her breast. As he moved down her body, he pulled her buttocks against him with one free hand, and pressed their bodies together.

  There with her back pressed against the wall, he began to plunder, taking what he wanted, and once more she offered no resistance. She’d wanted him again, told herself that if he offered, she would take it, let him give her another week of pleasure before disappearing from her life again as he had before, this time for good.

  But when his other hand moved from the wall to her lower body, pressing against her mound with his hand, letting his fingers squeeze and tease, she stiffened. Was she sure? Could she survive another heartbreak?

  She closed her eyes, lost in the sensation, in the memories of his body on hers, in hers.

  His hand moved more insistently, and his mouth took possession of hers. She kissed him as fervently as he did her. It was heady, his body pressing her into the wall, his hands teasing her to greater and greater heights.

  His mouth moved lower again, stopping for greater pleasure, then a hand replaced his mouth, pulling and kneading her breast to hard points, and his mouth replaced his lower hand. He groaned as he took her sex in between his lips, again pulling and caressing, until she thought she could bear no more, and then he plunged one finger into her depths, and she cried out in an agony of sensation. All her senses were tied to the movement of his lips and hand, in the strokes of rough flesh against unbearably soft. Then his mouth was gone, and she felt herself widening as another finger joined the first. “Do you remember this, Livvy?”

  And all movement stilled. “Tell me you remember. That you want this again.”

  “Yes. Please. Yes.”

  And his mouth moved against her again, inside her, teasing, tormenting, until she shattered in his arms.

  He held her a long time, both of them leaning against the wall. He listened to her breath come back to an even rhythm, enjoying the moments before she came back to herself, where the only emotion between them was satisfaction. It wouldn’t last; she would still leave him. But this, at least they could have this timeless moment. Until time intruded again.

  * * *

  “I didn’t know an invalid marriage could come with such benefits.” Harrison leaned his shoulder against the wall, gazing at Olivia.

  “As I cannot be your wife, think of me instead as your eager mistress.” She stood upright, straightening her clothes. “For six long years, you left me without satisfaction, and now, I find I require it.” She stepped from the wall and picked up her cue.

  “Able, my lady, and oh so willing.”

  “This means nothing, Harrison. It’s only pleasure,” she cautioned, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “I’m making no promises.”

  He answered by plundering her mouth once more. If she thought his kisses signaled agreement, so be it. He could not refuse the offer of her body, when he’d been faithful to their marriage for so long. But he wasn’t releasing her from their marriage merely because she had found a way to escape. No, not when he hadn’t tried being her husband in all the ways that truly mattered.

  As they kissed, he backed her against the table, then lifted her until she rested against the finely grained wood. The material in her skirt was sufficient to allow him to spread her knees and step into the space between her thighs.

  For some moments there was nothing in the world but their kisses and the warmth of their bodies touching through their clothes. But soon they grew more urgent.

  Slowly, as a dancer at one of the less respectable establishments, she pulled her skirts tantalizingly up her legs. Her legs spread wide, her skirts barely covering the entrance to her sex. He pushed the skirt up the rest of the way and tucked it behind her legs, revealing all of her. The slit in her pantaloons was wide, offering a study in dark and light, the white cotton framing the flushed darkness of her sex.

  Lifting one leg over his shoulder, he knelt down to worship her. He kissed a line from her ankle to the top of her inner thigh, touching his finger to her most sensitive skin. He pressed his finger into her darkness, until she groaned his name, and when he pressed farther she rocked against his hand.

  He pushed her morning dress down her shoulder, ripping some of the old material as he revealed the skin of her chest and her breasts, smooth and firm. He squeezed, and she moaned in response. So responsive. He tried other more subtle techniques. He kissed from her nipples down to her belly button, where he began to suck against her belly, leaving small blue marks as he moved, marking her as his.

  She clutched his hair in her fingers as he worked his way down, and when he reached her soft flesh, she guided him even lower, to that spot so sensitive and so private. When his lips reached their goal, she barely could contain her desire.

  He raked his fingernails against the softness of her thighs and teased until her moans grew more and more fevered.

  When Harrison pressed into her, he felt as if they were connected in every cell, with every nerve, every muscle. As her body welcomed him, he felt her ache intensify, tensing and releasing then tensing again. They fell out of control, out of their bodies, except for the welling passion that kept them tied to this one spot and this one time.

  * * *

  He held out his hand to help her up, then in quiet helped her repair her clothes once more. He brushed her hair with his hand, smoothing it, luxuriating in its silken smoothness.

  She looked at him with an earnestness that touched his heart.

  “Harrison, this, between us—” She struggled for words. “It changes nothing. I’m still not married to you, and I have no intention of changing that.”

  And just like that, the past rose up between them.

  “You knew the marriage was invalid from the first, didn’t you?” He tried to keep the hurt out of his voice, but knew he did not succeed.

  “I suspected, but your father was so ebullient, I wanted to believe him when he said all the formalities were being observed. Had you come home, I might never have investigated it, but once I did
, once I discovered we weren’t married, I couldn’t continue the lie.”

  “But it was my father’s lie, not mine. I’ve believed all these years that we were married. My friends will tell you, in matters of my own affairs and my own choice, I’m hopelessly honest. It’s the only way to remain sane in a political world which shifts by the minute under your feet.”

  “And yet you lied to the cook.”

  “I had a choice: to give the lie to your story—which would have only magnified a problem I unwittingly created—or lie to support you. But you are not playing fair. I was speaking of the important things in life: whether I have been faithful to you, whether I will care for you and the estate, whether you can trust me to do as I promise. Part of being honest requires that we treat those who live in community with us with kindness and respect. Sometimes it requires omitting a truth or letting a half-truth pass without remark. But in things that matter I try never to lie, even when it might benefit me.”

  “You are a Member of Parliament; you lie as a vocation.”

  “But not about things that matter. You have read my speeches. Have you not noticed how scrupulously I hold to the truth?”

  “I have considered it was merely an artifice, to gain a reputation for honesty so that when you lie, no one will notice.”

  “Then you do not know me.”

  “You have not given me much occasion to learn your character.”

  “That is why I’m telling you this now: I will not lie to you, Livvy. You can trust me on that. If nothing else, that is something solid between us. If I promise something, you can trust my word. If I lie to you, then you have every right to leave me, and I will not follow.”

  Her face changed. Had he known her better, he might have thought that he saw regret as well as guilt and suspicion. But, he told himself, he didn’t know her.

  “I still believe it would be best for us to separate, for you—and me—to pursue different lives.”

  “Will you tell me why?”

  “You have promised to be honest, Harrison. I’m not sure yet if I have that luxury. I have made decisions that require me to keep my own confidences.”

  “I accept that. But if you allow me, you will find me as stalwart as my friends complain I am.”

  “Yet you have carried such anger with you, even though your father has been dead for three years. When you couldn’t punish him, you punished me.”

  “I felt you were complicit, but I see now that by refusing to come home, I made you a victim of his lie as well. What would it hurt, though, to see if we might suit?”

  “There is no marriage.” She shook her head emphatically.

  He held up his hand, asking for a pause. “I know. I understand the legality of it. But in the eyes of society—this community, the ton—we have been married for six years.”

  She turned her face from him.

  “I came home to address the question of our marriage. True, I might not have come home otherwise, but I’m here now. We could start over, but you don’t seem to wish to.”

  “You say that you will not lie to me. But I can’t promise you the same. I don’t know who I am, Harrison. I don’t even know my own name, not really, and the only person who can answer my questions is my father. So, until I find my answers, I can’t be your wife . . . or anyone’s.” And with that, Olivia quit the room, leaving Harrison to wonder if he truly wanted to know the secrets she kept.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “A gentleman is sleeping in the drawing room, your ladyship.” Mr. Pier held out a dog-eared calling card. “I told him Lord Walgrave is not present, but he insisted on speaking with you. He assured me he is not a scholar.”

  “That’s good. We are overrun with scholars. If he is one of Walgrave’s friends, we must accommodate him, but he might be traveling on.” She signaled for the footman to follow her, as she read the calling card: Adam Montclair, Esq.

  Montclair was slumped on the edge of the chaise longue, his clothes dusty from travel. To arrive so early, almost at sunrise, he must have traveled all night.

  “Mr. Montclair.” Olivia shook the man’s shoulder gently. He did not respond. Shaking his shoulder a little more forcefully, she tried his first name. “Adam.”

  “Em? Em? Sweet Em. Forgive me.” He nuzzled her hand with his face, clearly asleep.

  Annoyed, she shook his shoulder harder, less gently. “Wake up, sir. You must wake up.”

  He opened his eyes slightly. They focused for a moment on Olivia’s face. “You’re not Em.” He slurred.

  “No, I am not Em.” Olivia found herself suddenly annoyed. One of the first lessons Mrs. Flint’s School for Exceptional Girls taught its pupils was how to appear unremarkable, even invisible. Perhaps she had learned that lesson too well; even Harrison hadn’t recognized her at the theater. She placed her hands on Mr. Monclair’s shoulders and shook more insistently.

  The man finally awoke, shaking his head against the last vestiges of sleep.

  “Excuse me, your ladyship.” Montclair pushed himself upright. “I left London last night in search of Lord Walgrave.”

  “Even during the day, that’s a difficult journey, with a dozen places to go astray if you don’t know the route.” She stepped back, looking him over. Even dust-covered and weary, he was a handsome man: Dark hair, green eyes, his voice cultured.

  “I believe I found each one of them.” He brushed his forehead with his hand and yawned. “Can you tell me where your husband is? Your butler seems to believe him in London, but I had it on good authority Harrison is here. I carry a letter for him.”

  Olivia gave Montclair a closer look. He had called her husband by his first name. Montclair was a friend then as well as a messenger. That explained why, when waiting until light to leave London would have been the better choice, Montclair had chosen to leave while it was still dark. But she did not know if Walgrave wanted his presence known—he had gone to such lengths to hide it. How could she handle Montclair’s request without revealing that Walgrave was present? “Might I see the letter?”

  Montclair pulled out a pack he wore against his chest. He withdrew the letter and held it out, letting her see the address and the seal. The handwriting was Mentor’s. Mentor had promised to find a distraction for Harrison. Perhaps Adam was it.

  She turned away to give herself time to think. Knowing that Harrison worked for the Home Office should have made her feel more at ease: A man who trafficked in secrets, no matter how much he personally tried to tell the truth, might understand the choices she’d made. But knowing that Harrison continued his investigations over the Home Office’s objection made her wary. What could be his reason? Mentor had assured her that Harrison was not complicit in the passing of secrets abroad, but his insistence on continuing to investigate suggested otherwise.

  “Lady Walgrave? Are you well?”

  “Yes, of course.” She shook off her reflections. “I take it you are a friend of Walgrave’s.”

  “I am—though sometimes that role is challenging.” He tried but could not keep himself from yawning. “Excuse me, my lady. My body refuses to accept I am awake.”

  The footman stood at the door. “Mr. Montclair will be staying the night. Please tell Mr. Pier to prepare a room in the family wing, then join me here.” She waited until the boy pulled the door shut behind him.

  “Whose authority tells you Walgrave is here?”

  “I cannot say.” He looked away, not meeting her eyes. “Parliamentary privacy, and all that.”

  She thought for a moment before answering. “Walgrave will meet you in your room. Since he has been so long absent from the estate, he wished to learn about it as a stranger might. He plays one of the scholars and goes by the name T. L. MacHus.”

  Montclair burst into laughter, shaking his head. “Well, that’s Harrison for you. He has returned home in secret to observe the inhabitants of his estate, and he chooses Telemachus as a name. Why not just call himself Odysseus and be done with it? Has no one noticed?”
<
br />   “I must admit, Mr. Montclair, until this moment I had not realized it either. Telemachus, Odysseus’s son who searches for his father. I suppose choosing Odysseus would have been too obvious. But the parallels are amusing: Odysseus returns from sea and he finds his home invaded by suitors. Here the Walgrave home is invaded by scholars.”

  “Having been at Cambridge, I won’t speculate which are the more dangerous: suitors or scholars.”

  “I have no need to speculate. Scholars. Every time.” At a tap at the door, she nodded the butler into the room. “Mr. Pier, we have been speculating on Homer’s Odyssey, and whether suitors or scholars are the more dangerous. Given your experience on the battlefield, have you an opinion?”

  “Scholars, my lady. They are unpredictable . . . like fighting a battle with only Punch and Judy for your allies.”

  “We must make sure our hospitality equals that of the ancient world, Pier. A bath, a meal, and a bed. Does that suit you, Mr. Montclair?”

  “Very much, my lady.”

  * * *

  She found Harrison in the corner of the library he had claimed as his own.

  “I have had the most interesting discussion with a friend of yours.”

  “A friend?”

  “A Mr. Montclair, come from London to meet with Lord Walgrave.”

  Harrison stood abruptly. “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Perhaps it would be wise to first tell me who he is.”

  “An associate.”

  “An associate who knows you are here and who traveled all night to reach you. That sounds like more than an associate, more even than a friend.”

  “Parliamentary matters are sometimes urgent.”

  “You and I both know it isn’t Parliament.” She pushed his books aside to lean against the table in front of him. “I think it is time to be more honest with me, Harrison.”

  He stared at her, confirming all her suspicions. “Is Montclair still here?”

  She waved him silent with a hand. “During the wars you were supposed to be at sea.”