Sex and the Single Earl

by Vanessa Kelly

  He bit back a curse. No wonder Sophie wanted to rescue her. Right now Simon would have enjoyed nothing more than to beat every man in the room into a bloody pulp. Something about Becky—her innocence, perhaps—reminded him of Sophie at that age, and the thought of Puck subjected to such degradation made him want to punch something.

  As Becky walked past, her tray now loaded with empty glasses, she looked up and met his eyes. She gasped and jerked to a halt, the tray wobbling in her hands, the glasses beginning a precipitous slide toward the floor. Simon grabbed the tray and steadied it.

  “Careful, child.” He smiled at her, plucking the tray from her trembling hands and placing it on the bar.

  Becky stared at him with huge eyes, seemingly struck dumb with terror. Simon turned back to the bar, hoping his apparent indifference would calm the girl and prevent suspicion on her father’s part.

  But as he caught the calculating look on Taylor’s face, he knew he’d failed. He practically growled, lamenting his lack of discipline. He had planned only to make a general inquiry about Toby’s well-being, in the guise of a charitable man who had been dismayed by the boy’s wretched condition. The last thing he intended was to signal a particular interest in either child, for that could very well bring the father’s wrath down upon their heads.

  Simon slid his half-empty tankard across the bar and raised a bored eyebrow at Taylor. Becky reached a stealthy hand for her tray and began to creep past him toward the kitchen door.

  “Stop.” The father growled the command at his daughter. She froze, then slowly turned around.

  “M’lord. I’d like you to meet my daughter,” Taylor said.

  Simon moved languidly to face the girl, resting his elbow on the bar, schooling his face to indifference.

  Becky gripped the tray with shaking hands, and even in the dim light of the tavern Simon could see the smoothness of her face turn ashen.

  “Becky, this here is the Earl of Trask. Make a proper curtsy to his lordship, now. Just like your ma taught you.”

  Becky placed the tray on the bar, took her grimy skirt in her hands, and made a graceful curtsy. Thick black hair curled around her face, trailing down to gently curving breasts as she bowed forward. Her loose-fitting shirt gaped open, revealing creamy, perfect skin. Every man in the tavern was riveted by the sight, and Simon damn well couldn’t blame them. He had never seen a girl as beautiful or as terrifyingly vulnerable as Becky.

  “Say hello to his lordship.” Evil intent breathed through Taylor’s quiet order.

  Becky rose from her curtsy and fastened wide pleading eyes on Simon. “Good day, your lordship.”

  “Child.” He kept his voice bored and remote, but he knew he had already lost the battle.

  Her father gave a jerk of the hand. “All right, girl. Back to the kitchen with you.”

  Becky snatched her tray and fled to safety.

  “She’s a right beauty, that one. Takes after her ma.” There was a strange, fierce pride in Taylor’s voice as he gazed after his daughter’s retreating figure. “She’ll do well by me, I’ll see to that.”

  The nape of Simon’s neck prickled at the tone of ruthless greed in the man’s voice. When Sophie had told him that Taylor wanted to sell his daughter to the highest bidder, he had dismissed it as a tale cut from whole cloth—a story invented by a frightened boy to extract money from a soft-hearted lady. He no longer doubted a single word.

  “About that business of yours, m’lord,” said Taylor. “Maybe I can guess what you be lookin’ for in The Silver Oak.”

  “I doubt it.”

  The other man grinned, clearly undeterred by Simon’s deliberately arrogant manner. Taylor leaned across the bar and spoke in a confiding voice.

  “Everyone knows your reputation with the ladies, m’lord.”

  “Careful, Taylor.”

  The man shrugged. “Bath is a small town. There be no secrets here. And it’s no secret that you keep only the best. My Becky is the greatest beauty this town has seen in years, and she ain’t no trollop, neither. Her ma saw to that. She’ll be worth every penny to the lucky man who spreads her thighs.”

  Simon dropped his hand off the bar and clenched it into a fist. There was little about the world that surprised him anymore, but Taylor’s callous dissection of his daughter’s future would shock the most hardened jade.

  Mistaking his silence for acquiescence, Taylor forged ahead.

  “And, she’s a virgin. I’ve seen to that, m’lord. Aye, he’ll be a lucky man who takes his pleasure with her the first time. And I’m suspecting you might be that man, your lordship. For the right price.”

  Simon expelled a hard breath. A slaughtering fury swept through him, every muscle in his body hardening in preparation for a fight. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill the man, if only the law wouldn’t hang him for it. But it wouldn’t help Becky and Toby. Without a father, their fate would likely be even worse.

  That murderous intention must have been writ large on Simon’s face, for Taylor jerked back, knocking over the tankard of stout. He stepped away from the bar.

  “What do you want from me?” he snarled.

  Simon rested a leather-gloved fist on the bar.

  “I want you to listen to me. And do not dare to question or doubt what I say.”

  Taylor began to grope for something under the bar, but paused when Simon narrowed his eyes at him.

  “Try it and you’re a dead man.” He gave Taylor his most lethal smile. “In fact, try anything and you’re a dead man. That includes your plans for your daughter. She has my interest now, and if word ever reaches me that you’ve harmed her, I won’t bother to go to the magistrate. And if you try to prostitute her, I’ll close the Oak down in a heartbeat. As you say, the girl deserves better.”

  Taylor’s face had turned a bruised-looking shade of purple. He was snorting like a wounded boar, but he didn’t reply to Simon’s threat. He didn’t have to—Simon knew exactly what he was thinking.

  “Yes, I know,” he continued. “You would like to kill me. That would be unwise, however, since my servants know exactly where I am. Heed my words, Taylor. I’ll be watching.”

  He retrieved his hat from the bar, turned on his heel, and made his way leisurely to the door. Silence followed in his wake. Silence, and a sullen resentment, more telling and more deadly than any shout of anger.

  He stepped outside and turned his face to the rain that sleeted down in icy prickles. After the noxious atmosphere of the tavern, even the soot-filled air of Avon Street seemed clean by comparison.

  “My lord.” A breathy whisper reached his ears. He recognized the voice instantly. Toby.

  The boy tugged at his forelock before flitting into the dank alley past The Silver Oak. Casting a quick glance around, Simon strode after him.

  Toby crouched behind a pile of filth and old crates, all but hidden by the shadows of the looming walls on either side of the alley. He beckoned Simon closer.

  “You didn’t tell, my lord, did you?” The lad’s voice was thin with fear.

  He reached out and gently rubbed some dirt from Toby’s cheek. The boy flinched. Simon clenched his teeth against the urge to return to the tavern and give Taylor the beating he deserved. That kind of impulse, however, would serve no purpose. The man had a legal right to his children, and unless Simon could prove some grievous harm there was little he could do to protect them.

  He extracted a guinea from his pocket and wrapped the boy’s dirty little paw around it. Toby’s eyes grew almost as round as the coin.

  “Toby, I’m staying in lodgings in Milsom Street.” Simon gave him the address. “If ever you need me, if ever your sister needs me, go there. Ask for me, or for my secretary, Mr. Soames. I will tell the porter to be on the lookout for you.”

  Toby inhaled a wavering breath and met his gaze. A look of cautious trust crept into his pale blue eyes and he bobbed his head in agreement.

  He touched the boy’s cheek once more, then spun on his
heel and stalked from the alley. As he turned his face into the cleansing rain, he ruefully acknowledged that Sophie had been right again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sophie leaned back in her chair, enjoying the spectacle of Robert defending himself to his irate wife.

  “Blast it, Annabel, why would I want to dance with Lady Hume?” he exclaimed, casting a furtive look at the rotund baroness as she stomped around her crowded drawing room.

  Annabel gave him a steely-eyed glare. “Because she is your hostess and one of your mother’s oldest friends.”

  If Sophie hadn’t been so angry with Robert, she would have laughed out loud at the hangdog expression on his face. But since she was still furious with him, she hoped Annabel would make him dance with every bilious old woman in Bath. And hoped his feet got thoroughly trod upon in the process.

  “She’ll natter on forever about her beastly grandchildren,” he implored. “The woman is a menace, Belle. Honestly.”

  Annabel simply narrowed her eyes. Robert made one last desperate appeal. “Besides, you know her breath is like the inside of an old boot. It’s enough to drive a fellow to Bedlam.”

  His wife responded with an impatient tap of her foot, the silver beadwork on her slipper reflecting the light from the nearby sconce.

  “Oh, all right.” Robert glared at Sophie. “I hope you know this is your fault, sis.”

  She repressed the urge to stick her tongue out, instead giving her brother a sugary-sweet smile. He muttered a few choice words about sisters before stomping off to meet his doom.

  “Finally,” breathed Annabel. “I thought he would never leave. He’s been trying to explain away his outrageous behaviour all day, and I just won’t have it.”

  She leaned forward on the edge of her chair and inspected Sophie’s face. “How are you feeling, dearest?”

  They sat in relative obscurity in the far corner of Sir Geoffrey Hume’s elegant, Chinese-inspired drawing room. Most of the other guests had bunched together at the opposite end of the room, outside the double doors of the adjoining saloon, where a small orchestra played country dances and the occasional waltz.

  Invitations to Sir Geoffrey’s private balls were highly coveted in Bath. His champagne was excellent, the food superb, and the company refined. Sophie would have enjoyed visiting the sumptuously decorated townhouse in Sydney Place if her world hadn’t come crashing down earlier in the day.

  She gave a slight grimace. “I’ll survive, Belle, I promise.”

  Annabel heaved a sigh. “It’s so lowering to realize men can be such idiots. I thought better of Robert—and of Simon. Perhaps it’s best not to expect too much of them. That way one is bound not to be so disappointed.” She smiled encouragement at Sophie, as if her madcap logic actually made sense.

  Sophie rolled her eyes at her.

  Annabel sighed again. “I know. I wish I could say something that would make this horrible day go away.”

  “Well, you can’t,” Sophie replied.

  It was all she could do to get the words past the lump in her throat. Annabel’s sympathy somehow made everything seem worse. Her sister-in-law only meant to help, but Sophie was sick to death of thinking about Simon and the farce of her engagement. It was bad enough that she had to drag herself out to parties, worse that she had to accept the astonished congratulations that came with her altered state, and worse yet that she had to pretend to be happy about it. Even her teeth ached from the false smile she had plastered on her face all evening.

  Sir Geoffrey sauntered up, the aging beau dressed impeccably as always. He executed a faultless bow despite his creaking corset. “Mrs. Stanton, may I have the honor of the next dance? Miss Stanton, I wouldn’t think of asking you to stand up for this set. No doubt you will want to wait until your fiancé arrives, eh?”

  Despite the twinkle of genuine benevolence in Sir Geoffrey’s eyes, Sophie could barely resist the impulse to box his ears. It wasn’t his fault. The person who deserved a good, hard slap still hadn’t arrived. How typical of Simon to keep her waiting, even after such a dreadful day as this.

  Annabel hesitated, loath to leave Sophie but unwilling to offend their host.

  “Go ahead, Belle.” She conjured another smile. “I’m happy for the opportunity to have a rest before Simon arrives.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Annabel whispered as she took Sir Geoffrey’s hand.

  Sophie eased her numb bottom to the edge of the pretty but hard beechwood chair, wondering how long she would have to wait before Simon bothered to show up. Once he did, she would make him take her home. Not that she wanted to be alone with him, but even that was preferable to an evening spent like an exotic insect under a magnifying glass.

  The minutes ticked by as she watched the dancers through the double doors to the saloon. Engagement to the Earl of Trask seemed to have resulted in a strange combination of avid curiosity and precipitous abandonment. Even her middle-aged bachelors had been driven away by the news of her impending marriage

  She twisted her favourite diamond bangle around her gloved wrist. Simon had sent a terse note promising to meet her in good time tonight, but he hadn’t made much of an effort so far. Was this a glimpse into her future? Always waiting for a man who cared more for everything else in his life than he did for her?

  Maybe, she reflected with a sickening pang, he didn’t think she was worth the bother. She couldn’t decide which was worse—hoping Simon would grow bored with her and leave her alone, or fearing he had never really cared for her in the first place.

  A pleasant male voice jerked her out of her gloomy reverie. “Ah, Miss Stanton. Why so glum? Surely no creature as lovely as you has cause to look so forlorn?”

  Her stomach did a sickening flop. Where had Mr. Watley come from? She stiffened. More to the point, where was Lady Randolph?

  “I find myself wondering where all your suitors are,” Mr. Watley murmured as he arranged his limbs in the vacant chair beside her. He smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from his superfine tailcoat, then gave her a charming smile. “Surely they haven’t been frightened off by the prospect of your wedded state? Respectable men are such fools, don’t you find, Miss Stanton?”

  Sophie couldn’t think how to respond. Was he flirting with her? Handsome men never flirted with her. She laughed uncertainly, not wishing to appear rude.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Watley. I only know respectable men.”

  His pale blue eyes glittered. “We shall see what we can do to change that, lovely lady.”

  He was flirting with her. But why would he bother? The latest on-dit had him attached to Lady Randolph, and they had certainly seemed friendly the other day in the Pump Room. Could his flirtatious behaviour be yet another attempt by the countess to humiliate her in front of half of Bath?

  Her chest grew tight. As if today hadn’t already been bad enough.

  She pretended to be Lady Eleanor, forcing herself to sound majestic. “I’m surprised to see you alone, Mr. Watley. Or is Lady Randolph in the other room?”

  He arched his brows, looking genuinely surprised.

  “No, Miss Stanton. I am alone. Her ladyship has other engagements tonight,” he said, giving the words a faint, bitter taint.

  The muscles of her neck and shoulders pulled into hard knots. What did he mean by other engagements? Could Simon be with Lady Randolph right now? Surely he wouldn’t do that to her—not after today.

  She shook away the gruesome thought.

  “Her loss is my gain,” she said, affecting a bright tone.

  He unleashed a charming smile. “My sentiments exactly, Miss Stanton.” His voice dropped to a low purr. “I say, don’t you find the atmosphere stifling in here?”

  Now that she thought about it, it was rather stuffy. She nodded cautiously.

  “I’m told Sir Geoffrey has a lovely conservatory—small, but elegant, and with some rare species of plants,” said Mr. Watley. “Perhaps I could tempt you into a brief stroll? I’m sure it will be worth the e
ffort. His fuchsias are rumored to be some of the rarest in England.”

  Sophie hesitated, not quite trusting the man’s motives. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the ebony sideboard. Almost ten thirty. And still no Simon.

  “Come, my dear. What can be the harm? All we need do is step through the library, and there we are. Don’t be nervous,” he added with an outrageous wink. “I already know at least one of your secrets, and I have not betrayed you. Surely you can trust me to keep my counsel on something as harmless as a stroll amongst the greenery?”

  A bland smile played around the corners of his mouth. He looked harmless. A voice inside her whispered not to trust him, but it was true he hadn’t revealed what he’d seen that night outside the theater. The night she’d taken Toby into Lady Eleanor’s carriage. The night Simon had proposed to her.

  Simon. The memory of their kiss in the alley brought a hot flush to her cheeks. Where the devil was he, anyway? He should have been here ages ago.

  “I really should wait for my fiancé, sir,” she replied.

  Mr. Watley’s smile grew knowing. “It would appear his lordship has other amusements this evening. Why should you not have a few of your own? Surely you don’t desire to sit against the wall all evening with the spinsters and widows, do you?”

  His gentle taunt wormed its way past her defences. What could be the harm? It wasn’t as if they would be leaving the house, or going out into the gardens. Not on such a cold night. And the muscles in her neck had twisted into an impossibly hard little knot, which would no doubt lead to a headache. Perhaps a nice, relaxing turn in the conservatory would do her good. If Simon deigned to appear while she was strolling with Mr. Watley, well, so much the better.

  She silenced the warning voice in her head and rose from her chair. With a gently triumphant smile, Mr. Watley extended his arm. As far as Sophie could tell, no one saw them leave the room and go across the hall to the library, which was unfortunate given her growing desire to avenge herself on Simon.