Her Errant Earl

by Scarlett Scott

  “Disappointment, I suppose.” She gulped her champagne as he closed the distance between them. He was so near she could see the dark stubble on his defined jaw.

  “You’re certainly too young for disappointment.” He ran a finger from her elbow to her wrist, stopping to tangle his fingers with hers. “Who would dare to disappoint you?”

  “My husband,” she whispered, her mouth going dry. Though truth be told, she was far more disappointed in herself than she was in the marquis. After all, she had known he married her for her dowry in the same way she had married him for his title. It was simply that she had not anticipated his utter defection and her resulting misery. But there was little need to divulge her inner sins and secrets to the man before her now. This was to be a lighthearted affair. A means to an end.

  “He must be an utter bastard to cause you so much distress.”

  She laughed without mirth. “I would simply say he is a rather cold and heartless man.” Yes indeed, that described Sandhurst perfectly.

  He squeezed her fingers. “I’m sorry, my dear.”

  “You are not the man who owes me an apology.” The old sadness bloomed in her heart as she thought of Jonathan and all she’d left behind. “But I suppose I’ll never have one from him.” The best she could expect from him was anger. Perhaps a blinding fury. She meant to cuckold him before all of London, to leave no doubt in the minds of the entire ton. Only then could she be free. This man could help her. She felt certain of it.

  “Do you love him?” he asked, startling her.

  His query threw her. People of their class so rarely married for love. She did not love her husband, but she had certainly married him with a hopeful heart. Her mother had assured her that many modern marriages began with respect and led to tender affections after time and diligence. She had hoped to foster a relationship of kindness between herself and her husband, at the very least. Instead, their relationship simply consisted of silence. But it was odd for the man before her to have even pondered such a question.

  “Of course not,” she said at last. “What of you and your very dear friend? Do you love her?”

  “I did for many years,” he said, the admission seemingly torn from him. “Now, I’m not certain what I feel any longer. A need for change, certainly.”

  She saw them for what they were then, a man and woman who had somehow run across each other’s paths at the same ball, both of them lost. Searching. She longed to escape from the gilded prison in which she now found herself. He longed for something. Perhaps distraction. A lover. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that the fear in her had at long last subsided. She stood ready, poised to grab the reins of her life and steer herself in a different direction.

  “What sort of change do you seek?” she asked, watching him above the rim of her flute.

  His sinful mouth curved in a half smile. “I think perhaps it’s you.”

  She nearly choked on her mouthful of champagne. “Me?”

  “Oh yes,” he told her in that seductive, deep voice of his. His green eyes were fierce and direct on her, trapping her gaze so she couldn’t look anywhere else. There was no denying his sensual promise. “You.”

  Get Her Lovestruck Lord here.

  If you enjoy steamy Regency and Victorian romance, don’t miss the Heart’s Temptation series. Read on for an excerpt of Book One, A Mad Passion.

  A lost love...

  Seven years ago, the Marquis of Thornton broke Cleo’s heart, and she hasn’t forgotten or forgiven him. But when she finds him standing before her at a country house party, as devastatingly handsome as ever, old temptations prove difficult to resist. One stolen kiss is all it takes.

  A proper gentleman...

  Thornton buried his past and his feelings for Cleo long ago. He’s worked diligently to become a respected politician with a reputation above reproach. The only trouble in his otherwise perfect life is that he can’t resist the maddening beauty he never stopped wanting, no matter how devastating the cost.

  A mad passion...

  Cleo is hopelessly trapped in a loveless marriage, and Thornton is on the cusp of making an advantageous match to further his political ambitions. The more time they spend in each other’s arms, the more they court scandal and ruin. Theirs is a love that was never meant to be. Or is it?

  “A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion.”– Oscar Wilde

  Wilton House, September 1880

  leo, Countess Scarbrough, decided there had never been a more ideal moment to feign illness. The very last thing she wanted to do was traipse through wet grass at a country house party while her dress improver threatened to crush her. Not to mention the disagreeable prospect of being forced to endure the man before her. What had her hostess been thinking to pair them together? Did she not know of their history? A treasure hunt indeed.

  Seven years and the Marquis of Thornton hadn’t changed a whit, damn him. Tall and commanding, he was arrogance personified standing amidst the other glittering lords and ladies. Oh, perhaps his shoulders had broadened and she noted fine lines ’round his intelligent gray eyes. But not even a kiss of silver strands earned from his demanding career in politics marred the glorious black hair. It was most disappointing. After all, there had been whispers following the Prime Minister’s successful Midlothian Campaign that a worn-out Thornton would retire from politics and his unofficial position as Gladstone’s personal aid altogether. But as far as she could discern, the man staring down upon her was the same insufferably handsome man who had betrayed her. Was it so much to ask that he’d at least become plump about the middle?

  Truly. A treasure hunt? Gads and to think this was the most anticipated house party of the year. “I’m afraid I must retire to my chamber,” she announced to him. “I have a megrim.”

  Just as she began to breathe easier, Thornton ruined her reprieve. His sullen mouth quirked into a disengaged smile. “I’ll escort you.”

  “You needn’t trouble yourself.” She hadn’t meant for him to play the role of gentleman. She just wanted to be rid of him.

  Thornton’s face was an impenetrable mask. “It’s no trouble.”

  “Indeed.” Dismay sank through her like a stone. There was no way to extricate herself without being quite obvious he still set her at sixes and sevens. “Lead the way.”

  He offered his arm and she took it, aware that in her eagerness to escape him, she had just entrapped herself more fully. Instead of staying in the safe, boring company of the other revelers, she was leaving them at her back. Perhaps a treasure hunt would not have been so terrible a fate.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them, with Cleo aware the young man who had dizzied her with stolen kisses had aged into a cool, imperturbable stranger. For all the passion he showed now, she could have been a buttered parsnip on his plate.

  She told herself she didn’t give a straw for him, that walking a short distance just this once would have no effect on her. Even if he did smell somehow delectable and not at all as some gentlemen did of tobacco and horse. No. His was a masculine, alluring scent of sandalwood and spice. And his arm beneath her hand felt as strongly corded with muscle as it looked under his coat.

  “You have changed little, Lady Scarbrough,” Thornton offered at last when they were well away from the others, en route to Wilton House’s imposing façade. “Lovely as ever.”

  “You are remarkably civil, my lord,” she returned, not patient enough for a meaningless, pleasant exchange. She didn’t wish to cry friends with him. There was too much between them.

  His jaw stiffened and she knew she’d finally irked him. “Did you think to find me otherwise?”

  “Our last parting was an ugly one.” Perverse, perhaps, but she wanted to remind him, couldn’t bridle her tongue. She longed to grab handfuls of his fine coat and shake him. What right did he have to appear so smug, so handsome? To be so self-assured, refined, magnetic?

  “I had forgotten.” Thornton’s tone, like the sky above them, r
emained light, nonchalant.

  “Forgotten?” The nerve of the man! He had acted the part of lovelorn suitor well enough back then.

  “It was, what, all of ten years past, no?”

  “Seven,” she corrected before she could think better of it.

  He smiled down at her as if he were a kindly uncle regarding a pitiable orphaned niece. “Remarkable memory, Lady Scarbrough.”

  “One would think your memory too would recall such an occasion, even given your advanced age.”

  “How so?” He sounded bored, deliberately overlooking her jibe at his age which was, if she were honest, only thirty to her five and twenty. “We never would have suited.” His gray eyes melted into hers, his grim mouth tipping upward in what would have been a grin on any other man. Thornton didn’t grin. He smoldered.

  Drat her stays. Too tight, too tight. She couldn’t catch a breath. Did he mean to be cruel? Cleo knew a great deal about not suiting. She and Scarbrough had been at it nearly since the first night they’d spent as man and wife. He had crushed her, hurt her, grunted over her and gone to his mistress.

  “Of course we wouldn’t suit,” she agreed. Still, inwardly she had to admit there had been many nights in her early marriage where she had lain awake, listening for Scarbrough’s footfalls, wondering if she hadn’t chosen a Sisyphean fate.

  They entered Wilton House and began the lengthy tromp to its Tudor revival styled wing where many of the guests had been situated. Thornton placed a warm hand over hers. He gazed down at her with a solemn expression, some of the arrogance gone from his features. “I had not realized you would be in attendance, Lady Scarbrough.”

  “Nor I you.” She was uncertain of what, if any, portent hid in his words. Was he suggesting he was not as immune as he pretended? She wished he had not insisted upon escorting her.

  As they drew near the main hall, a great commotion arose. Previously invisible servants sprang forth, bustling with activity. A new guest had arrived and Cleo recognized the strident voice calling out orders. Thornton’s hand stiffened over hers and his strides increased. She swore she overheard him mumble something like ‘not yet, damn it’, but couldn’t be sure. To test him, she stopped. Her heavy skirts swished front then back, pulling her so she swayed into him.

  Cleo cast him a sidelong glance. “My lord, I do believe your mother is about to grace us with her rarified presence.”

  He growled, losing some of his polish like a candlestick too long overlooked by the rag. “Nonsense. We mustn’t tarry. You’ve the headache.” He punctuated his words with a sharp, insolent yank on her arm to get her moving.

  She beamed. “I find it begins to dissipate.”

  The dowager Marchioness of Thornton had a certain reputation. She was a lioness with an iron spine, an undeterred sense of her own importance and enough consequence to cut anyone she liked. Cleo knew the dowager despised her. She wouldn’t dare linger to incur her wrath were it not so painfully obvious the good woman’s own son was desperate to avoid her. And deuce it, she wanted to see Thornton squirm.

  “Truly, I would not importune you by forcing you to wait in the hall amidst the chill air,” he said, quite stuffy now, no longer bothering to tug her but pulling her down the hall as if he were a mule and she his plow.

  The shrill voice of her ladyship could be heard admonishing the staff for their posture. Thornton’s pace increased, directing them into the wrong wing. She was about to protest when the dowager called after him. It seemed the saint still feared his mother.

  “Goddamn.” Without a moment of hesitation, he opened the nearest door, stepped inside and pulled her through with him.

  Cleo let out a disgruntled ‘oof’ as she sank into the confines of whatever chamber Thornton had chosen as their hiding place. The door clicked closed and darkness descended in the cramped quarters.

  “Thornton,” trilled the marchioness, her voice growing closer.

  “Your—” Cleo began speaking, but Thornton’s hand over her mouth muffled the remainder of her words. She inhaled, startled by the solid presence of his large body so close behind her. Her bustle crushed against him.

  “Hush, please. I haven’t the patience for my mother today.”

  He meant to avoid the dragon for the entire day? Did he really think it possible? She shifted, discomfited by his nearness. Goodness, the little room was stifling. Her stays pinched her again. Did he need to smell so divine?

  “Argnnnthhwt,” she replied.

  She needed air. The cramped quarters dizzied her. Certainly it wasn’t the proximity of her person to Thornton that played mayhem with her senses. Absolutely not. The ridiculous man simply had to take his hand from her mouth. Why, he was nearly cutting off her air. She could scarcely breathe.

  Thornton didn’t seem likely to oblige her, so she resorted to tactics learned from growing up with a handful of sisters who were each more than a handful themselves. She decided not to play fair and licked his palm. It was a mistake, a terrible one and not just because it was unladylike but because he tasted salty and sweet. He tasted rather like something she might want to nibble. So she did the unpardonable. She licked him again.

  “Christ.” To her mingled relief and disappointment, he removed his hand. “Say a word and I’ll throttle you.”

  Footsteps sounded in the hall just beyond the closed door. If Cleo had been tempted to end their ruse before, her sudden reaction to Thornton rattled her too much to do so now. She kept mum.

  “Perhaps you are mistaken?” Thornton’s sister, Lady Bella ventured, sounding meek.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Bella,” the dowager snapped. “I know my own son when I see him. All your novels are making you addle-pated. How many times must I implore you to assert yourself at more improving endeavors like needlepoint? Women should not be burdened by knowledge. Our constitutions are too delicate.”

  Cleo couldn’t quite stifle a snicker. The situation had all the elements of a comedy. All that yet remained was for the dowager to yank open the door so Cleo and Thornton would come tumbling out.

  “You smell of lavender,” he muttered in her ear, an accusation.

  So what if she did? It was a lovely, heady scent blended specifically for her. Lavender and rose geranium, to be precise. “Hold your breath,” she retorted, “if you find it so objectionable.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then what is the problem, Thornton?”

  “I find it delicious.”

  Delicious. It was a word of possibility, of improbability, improper and yet somehow…seductive. Enticing. Yes, dear heaven, the man enticed her. She leaned into his solid presence, her neck seeking. Even better, her neck’s sensitive skin found his hungry mouth.

  He tasted her, licking her skin, nipping in gentle bites, trying, it would seem, to consume her like a fine dessert. His hands anchored her waist. Thornton pulled her back against him, all semblance of hauteur gone. Her dress improver cut viciously into her sides.

  She didn’t care. She forgot about his mother. Their quarrel and complicated past flitted from her mind. Cleo reached behind her with her right arm and sank her fingers into his hair. He stilled, then tore his lips from her neck. Neither of them moved. Their breaths blended. Thornton’s hands splayed over her bodice, possessive and firm.

  “This is very likely a mistake,” he murmured.

  “Very likely so,” she agreed and then pressed her mouth to his.

  He kissed her as she hadn’t been kissed in years. Strike that. He kissed her as she hadn’t been kissed in her lifetime, deep and hard and consuming. He kissed her like he wanted to claim her, mark her. And she kissed him back with all the passion she hadn’t realized she possessed. Dear heavens, this was not the political saint who took her mouth with such force but the sinner she’d once known. Had she thought him cold?

  Thornton twisted her until her back slammed against the door with a thud. His tongue swept into her mouth. Her hands gripped his strong shoulders, pulling him closer. An answering ache bloss
omed within her. Somehow, he found his way under her skirts, grasping her left leg at the knee and hooking it around his lean hip. Deliberate fingers trailed up her thigh beneath three layers of fabric, finding bare skin. He skimmed over lacy drawers, dipping inside to tease her.

  When he sank two fingers inside her, she gasped, yanking back into the door again. It rattled. Voices murmured from far away in the hall. “Thornton,” she whispered. “We should stop.”

  He dropped a hot kiss on her neck, then another. “Absolutely. This is folly.”

  Then he belied his words by shifting her so her body pressed against his instead of the door. She no longer cared why they should stop. Her good intentions dissipated. Her bodice suddenly seemed less snug and she realized he had undone a few buttons. Heavens. The icy man of moments ago bore no resemblance to the man setting her body aflame. Scarbrough had never touched her this way, had never made her feel giddy and tingly, as if she might fly up into the clouds.

  Scarbrough. Just the thought of her husband stiffened her spine. Hadn’t she always sworn to herself she would not be like him? Here she was, nearly making love in who knew what manner of chamber with Thornton, a man she didn’t even find pleasant. The man, to be specific, who had betrayed and abandoned her. How could she be so wanton and foolish to forget what he’d done for a few moments of pleasure?

  She pushed him away, breathing heavy, heart heavy. “We must stop.”

  “Why must we?” He caressed her arms, wanting to seduce her again.

  “My husband.”

  “I don’t hear him outside the door.”

  “Nor do I, but I am not a society wife even if my conduct with you suggests otherwise. I do not make love with men in closets at country house parties. I don’t fall to his level.”

  “Madam, your husband is a louse. You could not fall to his level were you to roll in the hay with every groom in our hostess’ stable and then run naked through the drawing room.”