Sex and the Single Earl

by Vanessa Kelly

  As he watched her walk away, anger sliced through his gut and boiled in his chest. How dare she compare him to his grandfather? She, who knew better than anyone what the old man had been like. What the hell had gotten into her?

  As for walking away…Sophie belonged to him, and no one could ever change that. Not even her. And she was naïve to think she could ever escape him.

  Sophie could barely breathe as she walked to the door. She had accused him of the worst thing she could think of. Watching the love in his eyes transform into shock, then anger had sliced her heart into ribbons. Her harsh words had levelled him, and Simon would never forgive her.

  It was for the best. Lady Randolph’s words popped into her head, making her want to scream with the injustice of it all. She had to get out of the drawing room. Before despair overtook her, and before Simon recovered from his stunned paralysis. His anger would surely erupt any moment.

  As her fingers reached for the brass knob, she heard him move in a hard rush. He pushed her flat against the wall, his chest a granitelike barrier along her spine. The impact of that masculine heat and strength sent a throbbing pulse of fear and longing coursing through her veins.

  He twisted the key in the lock, blocking her escape.

  “Let me go,” she gasped, struggling in the hard cradle of his upper body.

  He didn’t give an inch. His brawny arms encircled her in an unbreakable grip as he pressed his fully rampant erection into the swell of her bottom.

  “You think me cold, Sophie?” His voice was a fierce growl against the nape of her neck.

  She ground her teeth, unable to repress a shiver of excitement.

  “The last thing I am around you is cold.” His tongue darted hot and wet into her ear. “As you’re about to find out.”

  One big hand moved up to capture her breast. His long fingers delved beneath the edge of her bodice, finding a nipple, squeezing it into an aching point.

  “Go to hell.” Her voice was more plea than taunt as she tried to repress the arousal surging through her body.

  “I probably will, but we’re going to go up in flames together first.”

  He sucked the tender skin of her neck, licking and biting his way down to the top of her shoulder. His fingers worked at her breast, bringing a release of moisture between her legs.

  How could she let him do this? How could she do this? She should scream—tell him he was hurting her, do something to make him stop. Letting him love her would only make things worse when she had to reject him again.

  Her heart beat frantically against her ribs. God, she wanted him so much. Every part of her body responded to him, yearned for him. Prepared itself for the sweet invasion that made her shake with anticipation.

  His questing mouth slid back up her neck to her jaw, leaving a trail of shivers in its wake. He nuzzled her cheek with a tenderness that unravelled her resistance.

  She groaned and dropped her head onto his shoulder, giving up everything to him. If only for this brief moment, she wouldn’t deny him what they both craved.

  He murmured husky words of satisfaction as he pulled his hand from her bodice and brought it between her thighs. Cupping her sex through the thin layers of clothing, he pulled her back against his bulging erection. She bit her lip and groaned, tipping her pelvis into his caressing hand. Suddenly, she was ravenous with the need to feel him inside her.

  “Simon,” she moaned.

  Urgent hands pulled up her skirts. She whimpered with relief as his calloused fingertips found the throbbing bud of her sex. He played with the hot flesh, holding her fast as she squirmed against his chest.

  She was already slick—she could feel it as his fingers circled and stroked. The ache in her core intensified as he alternately cupped and flicked the hard peak.

  “God, Sophie, you’re going to drive me insane,” he moaned as he rubbed his face against her neck.

  She shivered, relishing the bristling feel of his skin. He flattened her against the wall, his body an iron cage behind her. Her nipples, pushed tight against her bodice, tingled with painful intensity. She arched back against him in an effort to relieve the ache.

  As she did, he pushed a finger deep into her sheath. Sophie bit back a cry and went up on her toes. He inserted another finger and pumped gently, building the sensation in a slow, hot surge.

  She pressed her hands against the cool plaster of the wall, pushing back as he played with her. The feel of him behind her—his body grown hard with passion—made her feel weak and hot with desire. If he didn’t come inside her soon, she would go up in a flaming puff of smoke.

  “Simon,” she panted. “Please. Now.”

  “Yes, love. Now.” His voice shook with desire.

  His hand slipped away, and she could feel him tear at the fall of his breeches. A moment later his hands were back on her, pushing the fabric of her gown and chemise up around her waist. His fingers spread wide on her hip bones, taking a firm grip before lifting her off the floor. The tip of his erection probed her wet flesh, and with one sharp movement he surged into her heat.

  She cried out, pushing against the wall with a desperate strength as he worked her body up and down his thick shaft. Each hard thrust rubbed against the most sensitive part of her sex, bringing her closer to climax. He brought his lips to her ear, his breath a scorching pant. His entire body strained in need for a release as urgent as hers. She sobbed, overcome with the force of her love and the devastating certainty this would be their last time together.

  He let her toes hit the floor as he pushed back into her with another aggressive thrust, his erection rubbing hard against her throbbing nub. She cried out, flinging her arms wide against the wall as she climaxed. A moment later he followed, pulsing in her slick heat. Her body convulsed around him once more, and she collapsed, utterly spent. If not for the muscular arms locked so securely around her, she would have slid down the wall to the floor.

  After a few dazed moments, he steadied her and carefully pulled out. She winced, the tender flesh between her thighs aching from his lovemaking, and the emptiness that followed his withdrawal.

  But that pain was as nothing compared to the shame crawling along her nerves. How could she have given in to him like this? Behaving so disgracefully in broad daylight, especially after she had rejected him. Lady Randolph had nothing on her.

  The contempt he must feel for her made her cringe, and she wanted to creep into a deep, dark cave and never come out.

  “Sophie…”

  “Don’t. Don’t say a word.” She winced at the self-loathing in her voice as she cut him off.

  With trembling hands, she smoothed her dress and rearranged her bodice. When he tried to help, she pushed him away and fumbled for the lock of the door, refusing to meet his eyes.

  “Sweetheart, don’t be ashamed,” he said. “You can’t say no to me any more than I can say no to you.”

  His voice held a hint of masculine arrogance. He reached out a hand to cup her cheek. She swatted at it, her face burning with mortification.

  “Just go away, Simon. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to see you again. It’s over.”

  She heard him make an impatient noise and, out of the corner of her eye, saw him quickly button up the fall of his breeches. As she fumbled once more to open the door, he grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around.

  Their gazes locked. His was dark and merciless.

  “This isn’t over, Sophie. It will never be over.”

  He lifted her right out of her slippers and planted a smothering kiss on her lips. Before she could respond he released her and wrenched open the door, striding out without a glance at her.

  Sophie staggered to a cane chair next to the window and collapsed onto the seat. A choking laugh forced its way from her throat as she dropped her head into her hands. He would always see the world—and her—as something to bend to his will. But not this time, and for her, never again.

  Their life together was over before it
began, and the sooner he learned that lesson the better.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Simon couldn’t find words ugly enough to describe his mood. His thoughts had been racketing through his brain like a shuttle on a loom since the moment he stormed out of his aunts’ townhouse. He had mentally replayed his fight with Sophie a dozen times as he sought to make sense of her odd and frustrating behaviour. At the end of a long day, he felt not a whit closer to ascertaining the root of the problem. Worse still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in trouble and needed him.

  Sophie still loved him—of that he was certain. She wouldn’t have surrendered in that blaze of passion if she didn’t. Not Puck. She was innocence and honesty personified, and incapable of hiding her true feelings.

  The heated images of her slender body splayed up against the wall, melting like honey under his rough caresses, drove him away from his desk. She had met his lovemaking with a sweet intensity, but he had acted the brute with her, once again. No wonder she wouldn’t speak to him. He had obviously gone stark raving mad, at least when it came to her.

  He dropped into the leather club chair by his desk—the very one she had sprawled in so sensuously the other night. Everything he saw or touched reminded him of Sophie. Life without her was fast becoming intolerable, and now he didn’t have the faintest clue how to get her back. He hadn’t felt this helpless since the day his grandfather ordered him home from Cambridge all those years ago.

  A knock pounded on the front door of his lodgings. He sighed, rubbing the aching muscles in the back of his neck. With any luck, the caller would be visiting another lodger. The last thing he needed was an evening of idle chitchat with one of his Bath acquaintances.

  A tap sounded on the door to his apartments. He blew out a soft curse as he rose to answer it.

  “You have a visitor, m’lord,” said the porter. He paused portentously. “A lady.”

  “Who is it?”

  “She wouldn’t say, m’lord. And she’s wearing a veil.”

  Sophie. Thank God she’d finally come to her senses. “Show her up.”

  He tugged his cravat, easing the pressure of the starched linen. If he hadn’t been so bloody thankful she was going to relent, he would have been tempted to throttle her for putting him through such misery.

  A petite woman, dressed in a grey velvet pelisse and swathed in a black veil, stepped into the room. French perfume assailed his nostrils, twisting his insides with frustration and disappointment.

  Bathsheba threw back her veil. Her face was composed, but her eyes glittered with a hectic, almost wild, excitement.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Bathsheba?”

  She glided over to the club chair, pulling off her gloves as she sank gracefully down onto the leather seat. Simon had to clench his fists against his sides to stop himself from yanking her from the chair.

  “Do sit down, Simon. You’ll give me a crick in my neck.”

  He remained standing. “Whatever it is, get on with it.”

  Her lips turned down in a seductive, practiced pout. “So cold. I suppose it’s only to be expected after what happened today.” She paused, as if waiting for him to respond.

  Christ. He was sick of her manipulation. How could he have ever preferred her to Sophie?

  “All right, I’ll bite. What happened today?”

  She looked genuinely startled. “Oh. I’ve come to offer my condolences. I understand your betrothal to Miss Stanton has come to an end. I’m not surprised, of course. It was a colossal mistake, and I’m so grateful you’ve come to your senses.”

  Her words hit him with the force of a blow. “Who told you that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Your sources are wrong. My engagement to Sophie stands.”

  “But I got a note—” She cut off the words on a slight hiss.

  He strode over and pulled her from the chair. She gasped, eyes going wide, but didn’t struggle to break free.

  “Who sent you the note?”

  Bathsheba’s eyes shifted away. Anger rose, tight and fierce in his chest, as the morning’s events suddenly began to make sense.

  “Sophie,” he rasped. “Why would she write to you?”

  She swallowed, as if her throat had suddenly gone dry. “A piece of information reached my ears this morning. A very damaging piece of information. I knew Miss Stanton would want to know.”

  Simon let her go so abruptly that she dropped back into the club chair. But she didn’t stay there, instead rising to follow him to the window.

  “Simon, I did this for you. Sophie will bring you nothing but gossip and scandal. The poor thing can’t help it—she simply has no discipline. But what she’s done now…everything that came before pales in comparison.”

  He stared blindly into the street below, fighting back the tempest of fury that threatened to cloud his brain. Who had seen them last night? Had someone followed him down to The Silver Oak? He’d been so careful to shield Sophie from—

  Watley.

  He had been at The Pelican last night with a noisy group of young bucks. Simon had been tempted to challenge the bastard on the spot for the liberties he’d taken with Sophie, but Russell had been waiting.

  “What did Watley tell you?”

  He felt, rather than saw, her start. She hid her emotions well, but her reaction told him he’d guessed correctly.

  “That Miss Stanton was seen at The Silver Oak tavern with one of Lady Eleanor’s footmen. Consorting with thieves and prostitutes. And that you dragged her away,” she answered in a quiet voice.

  “No one will believe it,” he said hoarsely. Neither of them had to say what it was. Her meaning was perfectly clear.

  “Simon, the ton will attack a woman for daring to walk past White’s in the middle of the day. What do you think they’ll do to Sophie if word of this gets out? They may not believe everything, but they’ll believe enough. Her reputation already hangs by a thread after her antics these last few weeks. Do you want to ruin her for good? If you truly care, you’ll do what you must to protect her.”

  A wheedling tone crept into her voice. “But I can help you. Let me talk to Watley. I’m sure I can convince him to hold his tongue.”

  “And what must I give in exchange for your help?”

  A small hand crept up his sleeve. Through the haze of his anger, he noticed her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

  “I want you to come back to me, Simon. I want you to marry me. You’ve forgotten how good we were together, but I can remind you. We were made for each other…you’ll see.” Her voice dropped to a seductive whisper. “Let me show you.”

  A shudder coursed through his body. He shook her arm off and moved to the other side of his desk.

  “You’re mad, Bathsheba. I’ll never marry you. And I will marry Sophie.”

  Something much like panic distorted her beautiful features. But after a moment her iron will reasserted itself.

  “Are you willing to face that kind of scandal? All for that ridiculous chit? I always believed you had more sense than that. What will your aunts say?” Her treacherous gaze narrowed, sharp with speculation. “And what of General Stanton? How do you think he’ll feel when he discovers you refused to quell the gossip about his granddaughter?”

  He took a step forward. “Do not try to blackmail me, Bathsheba. Things will go very badly for you if you do.”

  Her eyes flared with anger, but underneath it lurked fear. The emotions poured from her petite frame, boiling through the air like a swarm of furious bees.

  “Don’t reject me, Simon. I vow you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. And so will Sophie.”

  He stared at her, dumbfounded and full of helpless rage. Bathsheba had him by the throat, and she knew it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It had been five days since Lady Randolph walked into the parlor at St. James’s Square and blown Sophie’s life to smithereens. That, and the encounter with Simon, had been earth-shatter
ingly awful, but it had seemed then that things couldn’t get worse. Clearly the worst was just getting started.

  Lady Eleanor swept into the drawing room, a startling sight in a puce-colored dress and a gigantic matching turban.

  “No long faces, Sophia,” she boomed. “I won’t have it. We’ll march in, heads high, and the devil take the lot of them.”

  “A few long faces are certainly in order, Eleanor,” chided Lady Jane as she retied the sash on Sophie’s gown. “After what the poor child’s suffered these last few days, I can’t imagine why you’re forcing her to go through with this charade.”

  They fell silent. The tempest had broken over their heads, as swift and deadly as a winter storm at sea. Lady Randolph had not kept her promise. A few days ago, word of Sophie’s adventures at The Silver Oak had begun filtering throughout the Bath company. The gossip had accelerated with lightning speed—totally inaccurate, of course, and surprisingly vicious—and nothing her godmothers said to their friends made any difference. They, too, were affected, as morning visits and dinner invitations dwindled to a trickle.

  Even worse, Simon wasn’t there to defend them. He had departed from Bath the day Sophie broke their engagement, with no indication when he would return.

  Lady Eleanor cleared her throat. “We’re going because Stantons don’t run and hide, that’s why.”

  “This Stanton would be happy to run and hide, rather than suffer death by ton,” muttered Sophie.

  She’d resisted her godmother’s plan to attend the ball at the Assembly Rooms this evening, knowing it would only provide more fodder for the gossips. Aunt Eleanor had been implacable, however, insisting that family honor dictated no other course. Sophie had finally given in. Her godmother would likely drag her there by her topknot if she didn’t fall into line.

  “Besides,” added the old woman, “Robert and Annabel are going. We can’t leave them to face all this rot without our support. You’ve got to do it for the family, Sophia. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of—unless you count your sentimental notions about life as shameful, which I certainly don’t. Face down the old cats one last time, then you can leave for your grandfather’s estate with a clear conscience.”