Sex and the Single Earl

by Vanessa Kelly

  They crossed the shadowed library to a pair of double doors leading to the conservatory. She paused as they crossed the threshold, her eyes widening with genuine delight.

  Sir Geoffrey’s conservatory was a compact but elegantly designed half-dome of metal and glass with a tessellated floor of black and white tile. Pots and tubs of varying sizes—some made of stone and others of polished wood—had been packed into every corner of the room, all filled to overflowing with exotic flowers and plants. Oriental fuchsias nestled alongside chrysanthemums, camellias, and geraniums. An orange tree in a stone pot stood in the center of the room, a dozen pieces of ripe fruit hanging from its well-tended branches.

  “How beautiful.” For a moment she forgot her anger at the world. “Mr. Watley, thank you for bringing me here.”

  “I am overjoyed you are pleased,” he replied, escorting her to a wooden bench next to the orange tree. “But nothing in this room compares to your astonishing beauty.”

  Now that was a bit much.

  She peered at him, her spectacles slightly misted by the moist air of the conservatory. Men like Mr. Watley could spout flowery compliments as easily as they breathed. After all, flattery was a dandy’s stock in trade. But he did seem to be gazing at her intently, with a gleam in his eyes that made her shift uneasily on the hard bench. Perhaps allowing him to bring her to this secluded place had been a little unwise.

  Her discomfort soon faded, replaced by boredom as Mr. Watley kept up a relentless stream of compliments about her hair, her gown, her figure—really, that was getting a bit warm—and, finally, her graceful deportment. When he compared her to one of the graces of classical antiquity, she could barely stifle a giggle. No one had ever called her graceful before, not even the middle-aged widowers.

  Mr. Watley clearly didn’t sense her growing restlessness. In fact, he had moved closer on the bench, close enough for Sophie to discern the extra padding in the shoulders of his formfitting coat. An image of Simon’s massive shoulders—naked and corded with muscle—leapt into her mind, causing a strange weakness in all her limbs. Compared to that of her erstwhile fiancé, Mr. Watley’s physique was that of a youthful stripling.

  Sophie blinked as her companion’s thigh brushed up against her gown. She was about to suggest they return to the drawing room when he grabbed her arms and planted an alarmingly enthusiastic kiss on her lips.

  No man but Simon had ever kissed her like that before—and Simon’s kisses were altogether in a different category. For a stunned moment she allowed her curiosity to run away with her. Emboldened by her acquiescence, Mr. Watley gripped her tightly and tried to slip his tongue between her lips.

  A sour taste of revulsion surged in her throat. She choked and pushed against his chest, her gloved hands slipping against the silk front of his waistcoat.

  She wrenched her mouth free. “Mr. Watley! I insist you take me back to the drawing room immediately.”

  The dandy’s fingers dug into the soft flesh above her elbow-length gloves. His eyes glinted with a lecherous ardour. “You needn’t play coy with me, sweet Sophia. We both know why you let me to bring you in here.”

  He bent and tried to reach her lips once more. Sophie dodged, banging the top of her head against his chin. He cursed, grabbing for the nape of her neck, his other hand pawing at her waist.

  Panic bolted along her nerves. She swiped at his arm, teetering over the back of the bench. No one had seen them come in here. No one would come to her rescue. Should she scream?

  She righted herself, pushing at Mr. Watley with all her strength. He gasped out a strangled cry and toppled sideways—straight into the orange tree which, along with Mr. Watley, went crashing to the tiled floor.

  Sophie jumped up and raced for the door, leaving the hapless dandy in a tangle of broken tree limbs, shattered pottery, and a small pile of dirt. A lone orange dangled over his head, as if someone had carefully placed it there. A second later the fruit dropped from the limb and bounced off Mr. Watley’s forehead. He whimpered.

  “I suggest we keep this unfortunate incident to ourselves, Mr. Watley.” Her breath came in a pant, but she strove for a dignified tone. “You may know my secret, but if my fiancé ever discovered your…your impertinence, things would go very badly for you indeed.”

  A string of curses met her threat. She spun on her heel and fled through the library. Slipping into the hallway, she gave a silent prayer of thanks that it was deserted. Then she took a deep breath, forced her trembling limbs to steady themselves, pulled her wrinkled gloves taut above her elbows, and prepared to return to the drawing room.

  A deep voice pierced the quiet. “Sophie.”

  She almost jumped out of her kid slippers. Simon strode down the hallway, a velvet cloak flung over his arm. He looked stern. Panic once more whipped her heart into a mad gallop.

  “You’re flushed. What’s wrong?” he said as he came up to her.

  Even as she tried to calm her thundering heartbeat, she plastered a bright smile on her face. “Nothing. I’m just surprised to see you.”

  His eyes narrowed under suspicious brows. “Why? I told you I would meet you here tonight.”

  “Well, ah, it was getting so late I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  “Sophie, when I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”

  She bit back the retort that sprang to her lips. The arrogant earl needed a set-down, but this was not the time to get into an argument. She had to get him away from the library door before Mr. Watley put in an appearance.

  Simon gave her a thorough look. The nostrils of his patrician nose flared as if he could sniff out her lies. She tried not to squirm under his inspection.

  “What are you doing out here?” he demanded.

  “I had to visit the retiring room. Not that you needed to know,” she huffed, feigning indignation.

  When he opened his mouth, she cut him off in an attempt to forestall any more questions. “Why don’t you escort me to the saloon? Truly, Simon, I’ve been longing to dance with you all evening.”

  His eyebrows shot up. She winced inwardly. Considering how their last conversation had ended, she may have over-played her hand. He hesitated, but obviously decided to let her deranged suggestion go unchallenged.

  “As much as I would like to dance with you, my dear, it’s getting late. It’s time for us to leave.”

  She noticed for the first time that it was her burgundy cloak draped over his arm. As much as she wanted to be gone, she hadn’t actually thought about the consequences of being alone with Simon. The very idea made her wish she was back in the conservatory with Mr. Watley. At least she could manage him.

  “I suppose you’re right. But I must tell Annabel we’re leaving, and say good night to Sir Geoffrey and Lady Hume.”

  “I’ve already done so.” He draped the heavy cloak over her shoulders and tied the tasseled cord under her chin.

  The feel of his warm fingers brushing her skin made her gulp. She raised her eyes, scanning his features for any kind of reaction. He looked cool and remote—the mask of the imperious lord having slipped once more into place.

  Weariness descended on her like a shroud. “I’m ready to go home, Simon.”

  He hesitated and the mask slipped. “Not home. Not just yet. We need to talk in private.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Not more talking. Why couldn’t he leave her alone? “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I’m really very tired.”

  His eyes, dark as midnight in the shadowed hall, gave nothing away. “I’m sure you are, Puck. But it must be done. We must resolve the questions that stand between us, for both our sakes.”

  She moistened her lips, acutely aware of him as he loomed over her. He looked so handsome, so…so masculine in his severe tailcoat and dazzling white cravat. He even smelled wonderful. The faint scent of sandalwood and leather teased her with memories of the glorious night when she had surrendered…well, thrown herself at him, if she were to be honest about
it.

  Doubt twisted within her like a Gordian knot. He wanted her to trust him again. She could actually feel him willing her to trust him—could see it in the flaring intensity of his gaze.

  How could she, when she didn’t even trust herself?

  He stroked a thumb over the sensitive skin of her neck. She had to stifle the whimper of longing that rose to her lips.

  “I never meant to hurt you, Sophie. You know that. Let me explain what happened.”

  His sinfully seductive voice slid over her, overcoming all her resistance. She nodded weakly, hating how easily he could persuade her.

  Simon took her arm and led her from the house to the waiting carriage.

  “Where are we going?” she whispered.

  “To my lodgings in Milsom Street.”

  Her anxiety spiked again. Alone with Simon. In his private apartments. Late at night.

  Her rational mind—and propriety—demanded she refuse him. But if that incident in the conservatory had taught her anything, it was that Aunt Jane had been correct. Simon was the only man she would ever love. She had to find out if he could return that love, even a bit, and if he regretted treating her as he had. For them to have any chance of a life together—if only as the friends they once had been—she needed to know.

  It took only minutes to reach his lodgings. She barely had time to catch her breath before he was ushering her into his apartment, untying her cloak and tossing it over the arm of a square-backed chair. He moved silently to a heavy mahogany table covered in ledgers and correspondence and turned up the lamp that had been left there. The soft light glowed, highlighting the hard planes of his face.

  Sophie’s heart gave an extra, painful beat. Something akin to despair crept through her as she studied his rugged features. Would she ever truly know him? Ever pierce the shield he had erected around his heart? He knew everything about her, but these last few days had left her feeling she no longer understood anything about him.

  He steered her with a gentle hand to a leather club chair beside the table. She perched on the edge of the seat, watching him uncertainly. To her surprise, after discarding his greatcoat and gloves, he knelt on the floor before her. He took her hands and began to strip the gloves from her arms. Tiny shivers danced up her spine.

  “Sophie, I owe you an apology.” He didn’t look at her, keeping his attention on the task of easing the butter-soft kid from her fingers. “What I did was wrong, and I never would have done it if I hadn’t been convinced there was no other way.”

  He finally looked up and gave her a rueful smile. “You have a rare talent for driving me insane, Puck, and that little scene you put on in the Pump Room forced me past the limits of my endurance.”

  Sophie couldn’t repress a stab of guilt. “Simon…”

  “No, the fault was mine. I should never have let you talk me into making love to you that night. I knew it was a mistake.”

  Irritation quickly replaced guilt. “Well, it might have been a mistake, but not for the reasons you think.”

  He ignored the peevish note in her voice. Instead, he took both her gloves and dropped them to the floor. Raising one of her cold hands to his lips, he pressed a burning kiss into her palm. The tiny shivers racing up her spine turned into a jolting shudder.

  He returned her hand to her lap, keeping his on top of it. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and self-contained, but he kept his gaze fastened on their clasped hands. “My behaviour was less than honorable, Sophie. I knew full well I was pushing you, and I regret that. But I did it to protect you. You don’t realize how vulnerable you are. There are those who would hurt you if they could, and it’s my duty to keep you safe.”

  She sighed, frustrated that he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “But don’t you see? That’s the problem. I’m not a child anymore, and I’m not that innocent. I need you to respect me, not order me about as if I were still in the schoolroom.”

  That brought his head up. “Believe me, Sophie. I do recognize you’re no longer a schoolgirl. Fully recognize it.”

  A sly grin transformed his expression as his eyes raked over her body. Despite her irritation, she felt an answering heat.

  “But you’re not tutored in the unhappy ways of the world,” he continued, “and I hope you never are.”

  She opened her mouth to object, but he placed a long finger across her lips.

  “Sophie, hush. Let me apologize.”

  Subsiding into her chair with a grumble, she decided it was best to ignore the smile lingering around the corners of his mouth. After all, he could hardly enjoy this. Simon rarely apologized to anyone.

  His amused expression faded, replaced by a serious, direct gaze. “I acted the fool when I should have been patient and understanding. I won’t make the same mistake twice, I assure you. I won’t lie to you again, and I will never break a promise, either.”

  Sophie tried to resist the urge to capitulate, but she could feel her heart turning traitor. As she gazed into his eyes, she knew he spoke the truth—at least as he understood it. She yearned to accept his apology, but it felt too much like surrender. What control of her life, her emotions, would she have if she gave in to him?

  “I don’t know, Simon.” Her voice held a humiliating quaver. “When Lady Randolph…”

  He cut her off, shaking his head. “No. She means nothing to me, Puck, and never will again. I give you my word of honor. You are the only woman in my life.”

  Sophie gazed wretchedly back at him. She loved him so much she sometimes felt there was no room inside for herself. But how did he actually feel about her? It was all very well to apologize, but he would never be true to her. Not true in his heart, the way she was to him.

  Simon rose with a masculine grace, pulling her up with him. He took her face between his hands and brushed his mouth softly against her lips. She trembled, every part of her yearning to feel his arms around her once more. To give herself to him. But once married, she would forever be weighed down by her need to win his love.

  “I care for you more than anyone, Puck,” he murmured, trailing a string of tender kisses across her cheek. “Nothing will ever mean more to me than having you as my wife. That I promise.”

  Her resistance crumbled. She choked back a whimper and lifted her face to his. His lips captured hers in a hot, devouring kiss, his arms lashing her against his hard chest.

  But as Sophie yielded to him, surrendering to her own love and weakness, something deep within whispered a warning. Simon still hadn’t said he loved her, and she was beginning to believe he never would.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Triumph surged through Simon’s veins. And, he ruefully acknowledged as he explored Sophie’s honey-sweet mouth, a feeling of relief she had capitulated so completely.

  He slid one hand down to her hip, easing her softness into his already full-blown erection. It had taken but a moment for him to turn as hard as a pike—ready to pull off her clothes, spread her legs, and plunder the heat of her tempting body. He throttled back the impulse. She needed reassurance, not ravenous lovemaking.

  When she had asked him about Bathsheba, her finely drawn features etched with anxiety, he had almost taken her then. But her eyes, brimming with vulnerability behind her gold-rimmed spectacles, had held him back. She required tenderness and understanding, and he would give her those in full measure.

  Sophie trembled in his arms even as she returned his kiss with a shy enthusiasm that threatened to break his self-control. He softened his mouth against her lips, hoping to soothe her, but little tremors coursed unabated through her limbs. He set her away from him just as she tried to clutch at his shoulders.

  “Are you cold, my love?” He stroked her tumbled curls back from her pale face. They felt like velvet ribbons twining around his fingers.

  “A little.” She gave him a wavering smile.

  He dropped a kiss on her plush mouth and eased her down into the club chair.

  “Rest for a minute, Puck. I’ll get you something warm t
o drink.”

  Simon crossed to the marble chimneypiece and stirred the banked fire to a roaring flame. He glanced back at Sophie. She perched on the edge of her seat, peering anxiously at him as she followed his every move. He paused, struck by the pure lines of her elflike face, and the abundance of her wild auburn hair. What a fool he had been, blind to her all these years.

  Her unique beauty would belong only to him, he vowed as he strode through the connecting door to his bedroom. Sweet and funny, Sophie had a heart more generous than a man could imagine. He would see to it that she never had cause to mistrust him again.

  He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat and untied his cravat, tossing them onto a ladderback chair by the door. As he grabbed a decanter of brandy from the top of his wardrobe, he glanced at the richly upholstered canopy bed standing in the center of the room. He couldn’t help grinning as he thought of all the sensual pleasures he would be sharing with Sophie in that bed very soon.

  Simon strode back to the drawing room and paused in the doorway. He gripped the crystal decanter in a tight fist, cursing silently at the scene that met his eyes.

  His ever-curious fiancée stood before the large worktable holding a rustling piece of parchment in her trembling hand. He knew exactly what it was. He knew from the stunned, almost blank look on her face. She held a survey of the Stanton estate in Yorkshire—the one that demarcated the proposed sites for his future coal mines.

  Frustration with his carelessness rolled through him.

  “Ah, Sophie, I wanted to talk to you about that.” He moved cautiously to the end of the table, placing the heavy decanter well out of her reach. It wouldn’t be the first time Sophie had resorted to physical measures to express her frustration with him, and he had the childhood scars to prove it.

  She looked at him, her eyes filled with a volatile combination of vulnerability and resentment.