Sex and the Single Earl

by Vanessa Kelly

“This is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” Her voice held a flat, almost toneless quality.

  He weighed his words carefully. If he didn’t get the next few minutes right—explaining everything to her with as much honesty as he could—their life together would be over before it had begun. He had to make her realize how much this meant to him.

  “Yes, I want that land. I won’t pretend it doesn’t matter. It does. Very much. And I won’t pretend it wasn’t a factor in my decision to marry you. But it wasn’t the only reason. If it was, I would tell you, I swear it. I would never force this marriage on you, and I won’t force it now. After listening to me, if you wish to end our engagement, I will accept your decision and will make our families accept it, as well.”

  He paused, trying to gauge her reaction. “But this is important, Sophie, so I ask you to give me a fair hearing. I promised I would never lie to you again, and I won’t. Believe that, and trust me.”

  Her eyes widened at the pleading note in his voice. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. It shocked him too. She stared at him, clearly suspicious. For a moment, he thought she would refuse to hear him out. Instead, she dipped her head in cautious agreement.

  He moved around the table to join her. Gently plucking the parchment from her hand, he spread it out flat on the table.

  “As you can see this is a survey of your lands in the north, lands which I believe hold the key to a prosperous future—for our family and for the people of Yorkshire. I know it sounds odd, Sophie, but you can be a part of something much more important than our own petty, everyday concerns.”

  She crossed her arms and gave an unladylike snort. “Like the success of our marriage?” she retorted.

  Considering what she was capable of, that was a fairly mild rejoinder. He took a deep breath and forged ahead.

  “See here, and here,” he said, pointing to the projected sites for the mines. “An engineer from the Royal Society is dead certain your lands are rich with coal, Sophie. As am I.”

  “Coal,” she whispered, staring down at the parchment. “You’re marrying me for my coal.” The pain of disillusionment laced her voice and struck him to the quick.

  “I’m marrying you for more than that,” he said, forcing back an unfamiliar sense of panic. “The most important reason is that I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone but you. You are the only woman in the world for me. That I swear on my grandfather’s life.”

  Sophie’s gaze flew up to meet his. Her pretty mouth quivered as she blinked back a shimmer of tears. More than anyone, she would know how seriously he took such a vow. After all, he had given up everything to accede to the old man’s autocratic demands.

  He stood quietly, waiting for a sign—for any indication she might believe him. Endless seconds ticked past as her questioning eyes searched his face. Finally, she returned her attention to the parchment.

  “Continue,” she said. Her voice was clipped, but held a touch more warmth than it had a few minutes ago. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, a reluctant curiosity.

  Repressing a sigh of relief, he shrugged the tightness from his shoulders before looking back to the survey.

  “What do you know about the textile industry, Sophie—the wool trade, in particular?”

  She wrinkled her forehead, looking thoughtful. “As much as most, I suppose. It’s the lifeblood of the nation, is it not?”

  “And has been for decades. The war greatly enhanced England’s dominance of the trade. Our naval blockades of enemy ports throttled their industries and gave us command of both the materials and the means of production.”

  He hesitated. “Does this make sense to you?”

  Her brows snapped together in a scowl. “I’m not an idiot, Simon. I do read the papers, remember?”

  He bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Of course, my sweet. Forgive me for ever doubting you.”

  “Please get on with it,” she said with an impatient wave.

  “The development of new machinery and advances in mill design has made it possible to produce finished products at a much greater rate. These products are the foundation of our trade with foreign markets. And those markets are vast and their appetites insatiable. In order to feed them, we must expand. We must build bigger mills, and we must power those mills.”

  The wounded look in her eyes had disappeared, replaced with a growing interest. The tension in his gut began to ease.

  “Do you know how the mills are powered, Sophie?”

  “Steam, I would think.”

  “That’s right, steam. And do you know how we power the steam engines?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Coal.”

  “Correct, my dear. And the Stanton lands in Yorkshire are exceedingly rich in coal.”

  One hand fluttered up to cover her mouth as she stared at the documents strewn across the table. Remorse washed through him for the pain he was causing her, but he had gone too far to turn back now. He had to trust her to make the right decision.

  She dropped her hand. Her eyes, glittering with angry challenge, met his. “Who will build these mills? You?”

  “No. There is a man in Bristol, a factory owner, who seeks a partner to build mills in the north. But he requires assurance of a steady supply of coal before he will agree to the contract. Coal from Stanton lands will provide that assurance, Sophie.”

  She blinked owlishly from behind her spectacles, and then sighed. “And how is this supposed to make me feel better, Simon? We seem to be right back to where we were this morning. All is business for you, including me.”

  “I would never deny how important my trading concerns are to me. Or how much I want to succeed.” His grandfather would spin in his grave to hear such a statement, but the old earl had not lived to see the times now before them, the end of the traditional ways of living.

  “There are other considerations, however, considerations that should weigh on the mind of every man of business or wealth in this country.” He set the survey aside and reached for a pile of architectural drawings. “I want you to look at these, Sophie. These are the designs for the new mills I will build with my partner. They would employ hundreds of men. Perhaps, in time, thousands.”

  She bent her head over the papers. Her slender hands slowly traced the lines and figures of the drawings as she inspected his plans.

  “Over the long years of the war, many men have given their lives for England,” he continued. “Many more have now returned home from the Continent—to wives and children, to families they must support. But they have no work. These mills could be part of the answer. They would provide work for decommissioned soldiers and help stave off the discord that threatens England’s peace. Legions of men without work could lead to dire consequences for all of us. The French learned that lesson years ago.”

  Her delicate eyebrows arched upward. “I didn’t know you were concerned about such things, Simon. After the way you reacted about the workhouse…”

  “That was about you, not about what you saw there.”

  Her expression was troubled, her eyes full of doubt. “Do you really think it’s possible to help these men?”

  He rubbed a hand against the back of his aching neck. “I believe it is possible, sweetheart, and I’d like to try. We can’t let these men return home to nothing. There’s going to be the devil to pay for all of us if we don’t provide some proper means of employment.”

  She regarded him with solemn eyes, as if waiting for something more. He made one last effort to convince her.

  “Sophie, I know how you long to help those less fortunate, but can’t find the way to do it. If you consent to be my wife, you’ll be a woman of power and influence, married to one of the wealthiest men in the land. There is much you could do to change things—much we could do together. Your life could have true purpose, beyond the foolish whimsies of the ton. And,” he reached out and traced the soft curve of her neck, “you would make me a very happy man.”

  One of her hands rose up to touch his fingers where t
hey stroked her skin, but then she dropped it back to the table.

  He tried an encouraging smile. “Think of all the children you could save if you had access to my fortune.”

  That brought the scowl back to her face. “I ought to murder you for keeping this from me. But I suppose your stupid male logic told you it was best not to hurt me with the truth, didn’t it?”

  He spread his hands in silent apology.

  She eyed him balefully. “You’re a beast, Simon, and an idiot. You know that, don’t you?”

  The last bit of tension leached from his body. “I depend upon you to tell me that whenever you think it necessary, my sweet.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath.

  “All right, Simon. I understand what you wish to accomplish. I know you’ll never love me as much as I love you, but I suppose there’s no help for that. It’s not in your nature.”

  He blinked. It was the first time she had ever admitted to loving him, and the force of it shot through his chest like a cannonball.

  “But you’re a good man,” she continued, blithely unaware of the impact of her words. “I’ve always known that, even when you’re being a complete ass. No doubt we’ll drive each other to Bedlam, but I promise I’ll do my best to be a good wife and a good countess. After all,” she finished morosely, “it’s what everyone seems to want.”

  He moved quickly, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

  “I hope it’s what you want as well, love,” he said, holding her against his chest.

  “Don’t be a looby, Simon. You know it is,” she mumbled into his shirt. “Everyone knows.”

  He smiled at her disgruntled tone, relishing the enticing feel of her lithe body in his arms. They held each other for several moments, offering and receiving comfort, until she stirred restlessly.

  “I just wish there was something we could do for Toby and Becky,” she said.

  He brushed her curls back from her face. “Well, as to that…maybe I already have.”

  She jerked her head back. “What did you do, Simon?”

  He smiled, arching one brow.

  “Tell me.” She pinched his arm.

  He laughed. “Very well, little demon, but only because I fear the damage you’ll otherwise inflict upon me.”

  He drew her to the club chair and settled her on his lap. Leaving out the more revolting details, he related the events that had occurred at The Silver Oak. She listened breathlessly, interrupting only once to ask a question. Her expressive face reflected the rapid shift in her emotions as she absorbed his story.

  “Oh, Simon.” She wriggled excitedly, setting off an interesting reaction in the region of his groin. “I wish I had been there to see it! I wish I could go down there and beat that horrid man myself.”

  He seized her face in his hands, forcing her to sit still. “Sophie, if you ever dare to go to The Silver Oak, I swear I’ll—”

  “Oh, pish. Stop lecturing. I’m forgiving you for being so nasty to me. In fact, I’m so proud of you I could burst.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and mashed her lips to his mouth. But before he could deepen the kiss, she pulled back and gazed at him with eyes as beautiful as Russian amber.

  “I love you, Simon St. James, I love you so much. And I always will.”

  He laughed and drew her back into a triumphant embrace. The ground had been rough and the going heavy, but his plans were finally coming to fruition. No more obstacles stood in his way.

  Sophie would be irrecoverably his, and soon.

  Simon might be an idiot, but Sophie knew she was a fool. One who apparently never learned her lesson. He had deliberately used her as a pawn in his business affairs, and still she couldn’t help throwing herself into his arms. Part of her wished she had the fortitude to box his ears and walk right out of his life, but that was beyond her capabilities.

  Simon cradled her in his lap, his arms locked in a possessive embrace. His tongue slipped past her lips and surged into the depths of her mouth, eagerly taking what she so cravenly offered. As she sank into the luscious delirium brought forth by his kiss, her embattled wits admitted she no longer had the strength to fight him. She wanted him too much, and when he touched her that way, his long fingers trailing up her stomach to her breasts, it felt as if he had set a torch to her body.

  When he pulled his mouth from hers, she gasped, struggling to reclaim at least some small measure of sanity. Was this a mistake? Should she allow him to make love to her again? She feared being vulnerable once more—prey to the storm of emotions that held her in a merciless grip. But he had apologized, and most sincerely. Of that she was certain.

  More importantly, he had finally admitted he cared for her more than any person in his life. She could have wished for a more passionate declaration, but Sophie understood him well enough to know how difficult it had been for him to reveal even that much.

  As if he could sense her momentary withdrawal, Simon seized her attention by sucking on and then nipping her lower lip. She pulled in a breath, shivering at the curious thrill invoked by his aggression.

  “Pay attention, my love,” he said as he gently removed her glasses and set them on the worktable. “You’ll wound me if I suspect you’re bored.”

  Sophie couldn’t hold back a nervous giggle. “Then I suggest you try harder to keep me from getting bored.”

  He swooped down and took her lips in an achingly short kiss that still left her gasping for breath.

  “I’ll see what I can do to amuse you.” His voice was heavy with sensual promise.

  She sighed as his hands moved to cup her breasts. He tweaked her nipples, caressing the hard tips until it seemed she would go mad with pleasure.

  She moaned and arched her back, weak with the delicious sensations that racked her body. He shifted to wrap his arm securely about her, forcing her to lie still against his massive chest. His hot breath fanned her cheek as he continued to stroke her tingling breasts through the thin silk of her gown. Every time he fingered her nipples—gently tugging on them to the edge of pain—insidious warmth flowed through her veins and pooled between her legs.

  Though impulse dictated she shut her eyes, concentrating only on the sensations he evoked within her, Sophie forced herself to focus on her lover. Her desire to watch him at play was wicked, but she couldn’t help it. In any event, Simon didn’t seem to find her behaviour scandalous, at least not in this particular instance.

  He studied her body, his expression rapt as he untied her tapes and laces with swift, knowing fingers. In less time than it took to think about it, he had pulled her gown and chemise down, exposing her breasts to his gaze. She panted, and the soft globes quivered, the nipples flushing to a dusky rose.

  A sharp hiss escaped from between Simon’s clenched teeth. The hard planes of his face and his stern jaw made him look like a conquerer of old, a warrior about to claim a long-sought prize. It was feudal, really, but the idea of her as his prize made her squirm with impatient excitement.

  “Sophie.” His voice sounded strangled by a combination of laughter and desire. She couldn’t help but squeak when he moved a warm hand back to possessively claim a breast. “Let’s move into the bedroom, shall we?”

  “Why?” She stretched to follow the movement of his clever fingers as they stroked and massaged her sensitized flesh. “It’s so cozy in here, by the fire.”

  Besides, she didn’t want him to stop touching her, not even for a second. Nothing had ever felt as delicious as Simon’s calloused hands on the softest parts of her. It was as if she were floating on a cloud of warmth—a warmth that made her weak with desire. The idea of standing on her own two feet seemed impossible.

  “You wish me to make love to you in a chair?”

  “Why not?” She gave a voluptuous sigh, mesmerized by the kneading motion of his fingers. “You made love to me on a sofa.”

  His laugh sounded more like a feral growl. “You’re a damned peculiar girl, Sophia Stanton, and I’m grateful for it.�
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  She wriggled her bottom on his aggressive erection. “Why, Lord Trask, you do know how to flatter a girl.”

  “I’ll show you flattery.”

  She shivered at the erotic threat in his voice.

  To her surprise he stood, bringing her to her feet with him. She staggered and would have collapsed to the floor if not for his strong grip. Before she could voice her irritation, he stripped the clothes from her body, leaving her stockings, garters, and shoes intact. He pressed her back into the club chair. She jumped at the feel of the soft, cool leather making contact with her naked bottom and thighs.

  “Simon! What are you doing?”

  He gave a low, wicked laugh. “Flattering you.”

  She gasped as he took her nerveless legs and draped them over the broad arms of the chair. Her thighs were spread wide, her most secret parts exposed before him.

  “Simon!” Sophie tried to pull her legs down onto the seat, but his unyielding hands held her firmly in place.

  “Stay still.” He invested the words with all the authority of a command. She gulped, stunned by the ferocity marking his features.

  “Really, this is outrageous,” she protested weakly.

  “You’re the one who wanted flattery. Well, I’m going to flatter you in the best way I know how.”

  As he had just a short time ago, Simon dropped to his knees in front of her chair. But she hadn’t been naked then, totally exposed to his gaze, vulnerable in a way that was intimate, unnerving, and exciting.

  He stroked his hard, masculine hands up the pale flesh of her thighs.

  “Look at yourself, Sophie,” he whispered. “Look at how beautiful you are. So sweet, so damned innocent.”

  She looked down at her smooth belly. At the nest of downy curls at the juncture of her thighs spread wide. At Simon kneeling between her legs, his brawny body—clad only in black trousers and a white linen shirt—making her seem all the more dainty and feminine in comparison. The startling contrast, the fevered images of what he would do to her, made her damp flesh turn to hot honey in anticipation.

  “The only thing that’s outrageous is how much I want to taste you,” he muttered, his voice thick.