An Earl Like No Other

by Wilma Counts

  “A wedding journey to the continent sounds heavenly,” Charlotte cooed. “Do you not agree, Lord Kenrick?”

  Robert, sitting on the other side of the table and two seats down, must have heard this bit of discussion, for he raised an eyebrow. Jeremy was glad etiquette prevented Robert’s commenting, for his brother’s gaze held a distinct glint of amusement. Jeremy was himself slightly uncomfortable, slightly amused, and slightly annoyed at this conversational gambit.

  He cleared his throat, then shrugged and said, “In general, I feel sure ladies take far more interest in such matters than gentlemen do.”

  Robert grinned and nodded, the movement barely more than a tic.

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Hartwick said. “Mr. Hartwick would far rather talk of a hunting or fishing trip. I actually accompanied him one year to Scotland and found it a most enjoyable holiday.”

  Jeremy was grateful for the shift in topic.

  Later, as the gentlemen were rejoining the ladies in the drawing room, Jeremy found himself and Mortimer momentarily separated from the others.

  “A word, Kenrick.”

  “Sir?”

  “I am mindful of the setback that fire dealt you, and I am not unsympathetic to your plight, but I feel I must tell you that I can allow no further extensions on the debt owed me.” Mortimer’s tone was firm, his expression hard.

  “I believe the final date on the legal documents is still nearly three months away,” Jeremy said evenly.

  “Ten weeks,” Mortimer said, “but in light of the sum you are likely to have had from selling your wool—”

  Jeremy interrupted and struggled to maintain his even tone. “No doubt you know to the last farthing what we realized from the remaining wool.”

  “Yes, I do. I also know about those ships that went down in the Indian Ocean. I merely wanted to remind you that my offer some weeks ago still stands. I urge you to take it.” Mortimer smiled, a baring of teeth with no warmth. “Otherwise, my lord, you will find yourself with an empty title and nothing else.”

  Jeremy was furious, but held his anger in check. Was there nothing of Kenrick affairs this man did not have a greedy eye fixed upon? Did he even have a spy in Lawyer Phillips’s office? “This is hardly the time or place for this discussion, sir.”

  “Right. We should join the others.”

  As they entered the drawing room, Mortimer clapped a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and said in a loud, jovial voice, “I’m glad we understand each other, Lord Kenrick.”

  Jeremy clenched his teeth and moved away to join a group that included not only his brother, but also Charlotte Mortimer.

  “What was that all about?” Robert asked quietly.

  “Tell you later,” Jeremy said.

  Miss Mortimer laid a possessive hand on Jeremy’s arm. “Oh, my lord, your brother was just telling us of the Richmond ball prior to that awful last battle with Napoleon.”

  “Was he now?” Jeremy stared at her hand, then lifted his gaze to hers. She quickly removed her hand, but her eyes held the same glint of control and triumph he had discerned in her father’s. You have not cornered this rat yet, Jeremy thought. Aloud, he said to Robert, “I think we should say our good nights. We must not tire Aunt Elinor.”

  “Oh, right,” Robert said.

  In the carriage, Jeremy relaxed and chatted amiably with Robert and their aunt. He did not want to worry Aunt Elinor with the details of Mortimer’s not-so-subtle hold on the earldom.

  “I saw you talking with Hartwick and Brewster,” Jeremy said to Robert. “Did they have anything to offer on the fire?”

  “A great deal of sympathy, but no solid information,” Robert said.

  “Mrs. Dennison was telling me the Thompson boy has returned from soldiering on the continent,” Lady Elinor said. “He used to be sweet on Delia Dennison.” She laughed. “I think Mrs. Dennison wanted me to pass that tidbit along to you, Robert.”

  “Hmm,” Robert responded noncommittally.

  “Thompson used to work a Kenrick farm, but he is now on one of Mortimer’s holdings,” Jeremy explained to Robert.

  “I remember them,” Robert said. “Big family. Seven or eight children. Billy Thompson was—is—my age. He has a twin sister. Wilhelmina. Mina. Is she still in the neighborhood, Aunt?”

  “Oh, no,” Lady Elinor replied. “She left several months after her brother went off to the army. Just after we lost Charles and Edgar. They say she is in service in London.”

  “I always thought Mina and Frank Sutton were headed for parson’s mousetrap,” Robert mused.

  “Frank Sutton married the Elmore girl two years ago. They have a baby boy,” said Lady Elinor.

  “You don’t say.” Robert stifled a yawn.

  It occurred to Jeremy yet again that, despite her disability, his aunt missed very little of life around her.

  When they arrived at the Hall, Robert saw Lady Elinor into the care of her maid, then sought his own bedchamber.

  Having removed his boots and stripped down to his shirt and trousers, Jeremy decided to check on Cassie. Since the fire, he was very conscious of how close he had come to losing her and the need to just see her was often overwhelming. He put on slippers and climbed the stairs to the nursery wing. Through the open door of his daughter’s room, a lamp in the hallway allowed sufficient light for him to see that Cassie slept soundly.

  He was not surprised to see the kitten quite at home on his daughter’s bed. He caressed Cassie’s cheek and pulled the covers tighter around her.

  “I see you have firmly established your place in this part of the realm,” he said softly, holding the kitten in his cupped hands. It gazed at him solemnly and licked his hand with its small pink, surprisingly rough tongue. Jeremy settled the kitten back on the bed and left.

  In the hall, movement two doors down caught his attention.

  “Oh. ’Tis you, my lord,” Mrs. Arthur said in a low voice as she tied the belt of her robe. “I thought I heard something—”

  “I am sorry to have disturbed you.” He drank in the sight of her and marveled that this woman, in a high-necked nightdress and a nondescript brown robe, elicited a far more profound response from his body than abundant cleavage in colorful silk had earlier in the evening.

  “I—I was not asleep. Just reading,” she said and he could see through the open door of her room a brightly-lit lamp at her bedside and an open book facedown on the nightstand. He also noticed a half-full glass of what looked like amber sherry.

  She was, of course, not wearing that infernal mobcap at this hour. “Your hair—” He reached to touch it, then thought better of doing so and dropped his hand.

  She gave a nervous laugh and swiped a hand over her head and along her neck. His gaze followed her hand.

  “Luckily it will grow back,” she said. “At least I needn’t plait it every night now.”

  “A silver lining behind every cloud, eh?”

  She shrugged, but made no move to end the encounter. Wanting to prolong it, he asked, “And your hands? Are they healed now?”

  “Nearly.” She held them out and turned them this way and that. “Some redness. I wear gloves for most tasks.”

  “Allow me.” He took her hands gently in his own and steered her across the threshold toward the better light on her nightstand. “They seem to have healed nicely. With luck, there will be little scarring.”

  He raised his gaze to hers and seeing a corresponding degree of sheer need in her eyes, he gave up control, put his arms around her, and lowered his mouth to hers. With no pretense of reticence, she moved closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. The kiss was deep, searching—an urgent plea—no, demand—for more from both. His hands caressed her back and urged her closer to his own hard need. She tasted and smelled of the sweet sherry.

  Finally, he lifted his lips from hers, but still held her close. His hands, it seemed, moved of their own volition over the curves of her back and sides, disarranging her robe. He heard a sharp intake of her breath as he re
ached inside the robe to caress a round breast; he moaned softly when he felt a rigid nipple through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

  “Kate?” His voice a husky whisper, he realized fleetingly that this was the first time he had ever spoken her name aloud. It felt right. Natural.

  Again, there was no pretense, only raw need in her response, “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  He was pleased that he had not lost all sense of the situation, for he did have enough presence of mind to close the door to her room before they lost themselves in feverishly disrobing each other.

  He paused, put a bit of space between them, and drew in a sharp breath.

  “What?” She sounded, alarmed, perhaps embarrassed.

  “I knew there was real beauty beneath that infernal mobcap and housekeeper apron, but you—you—”

  “Yes?” She sounded coy, teasing now.

  “—are breathtakingly lovely, my dear—as I am sure you must know.”

  He drew her close again, his hands cradling her head as he kissed her eyes, her nose, the soft tenderness beneath her ears, then settled his lips on hers. He ran his hands through her hair, marveling at its silkiness and fresh lemony smell even as he recalled the smell of fire-damaged hair when he had lain beside her that night after the fire.

  He nudged her onto the bed, where he was delighted to find no coyness at all. With a great deal of stroking, caressing, nonsensical words, and soft laughter, they brought each other to the brink of ecstatic pleasure. Then she lay beneath him, eagerly welcoming. In her eyes he beheld desire to match his own and he reveled in holding her gaze as he entered. She locked her legs around his and slowly, relishing every nuance of feeling, then with wild urgency, together they surged over the brink.

  Afterwards, Jeremy lay at her side, idly caressing her naked body, kissing her neck and shoulder. She lay still, silent, but he could tell by contented sighs and small, accommodating movements that she was fully alert.

  “Kate?” He nuzzled her neck.

  “My lord?”

  He chuckled. “In light of what we just did, I think you might use my name. Jeremy.”

  “Jeremy.” She said it softly as though she were experimenting with the taste. Then she turned to look at him and spoke more firmly. “Jeremy. You—you know this was not a good idea.”

  “I enjoyed it immensely. I think you did too.”

  She giggled. “You say that like we just indulged in a—a strawberry pie.”

  “Strawberry pie is my favorite dessert.” His voice was more seductive and his caresses more restive as he gently, subtly persuaded her into full cooperation with what he had in mind—well, what his body craved again. Pleased that his physical desire for her aroused a corresponding need in her, he also recognized a deeper, spiritual element—something to be treasured, to be cherished as he gave himself entirely in this ultimate act of sharing.

  Again she lay quiet at his side. After a long moment of languorous contentment, he said, “Next time we do this in my room—where the bed is larger. Beds in the nursery wing were not designed for this.”

  She sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. She gave him a direct look tinged with sadness. “Jeremy, there can be no ‘next time.’ ”

  “What are you saying? Of course there can.”

  She spoke slowly. “I . . . I think neither of us is the sort to indulge in—in reckless behavior.”

  “Look. We—you and I—have something wonderful here. Something to treasure. I care for you and I think you care for me. We can be married within the month—sooner, with a special license.”

  “M—married?” She sounded shocked. “We cannot marry.”

  “Why not?”

  “An earl would not marry his housekeeper.”

  “This one would.”

  “There would be a horrible scandal. All your plans for the earldom . . . And—and—there are other considerations.”

  “Scandal be damned. It would blow over,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He paused. “ ‘Other considerations’? Like what? We are both free. Oh. Oh. You mean Robert. Oh, God! What have I done?”

  “Robert?”

  Ignoring what seemed like genuine surprise in her tone, he plunged on. “Robert and you. I knew there was something between you. And now we—I have—Ah, God forgive me!”

  She jumped from the bed and stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “You think—You actually think,” she fairly sputtered, “that I would—that what just happened—Robert? Preposterous! Robert is my friend. A very dear friend. What a very high opinion you must have of me if you think I would—”

  He wanted to laugh at the incongruity of her upbraiding him as she stood there stark naked, but then his sense of shame at having wronged his brother and his own temper rising in reaction to her scolding got the better of him.

  “You must admit that it is a perfectly logical assumption.”

  “A logical—Oh! This is too much.”

  He too jumped from the bed and, mindful of her still tender hands, grabbed her by her upper arms. “A logical assumption,” he said through gritted teeth. “But be that as it may—we should marry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, for one thing, I will not have a child of mine born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

  She jerked away from him. “Well, why don’t we just wait to see if that is even a possibility?” Her tone was icily sweet as she wrapped the robe around her, then stood frowning at him, gripping the folds of the garment at her chin.

  “Fine,” he muttered. He pulled on his trousers and reached for his shirt. “We shall discuss this in the morning.”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “Oh, yes it will.” He knew he was being childish in this need to have the last word, but damn it . . .

  Kate heard the door click shut behind him, then slumped to the bed and let the tears flow. Panic seized her. “Oh, my God. I’ve ruined everything. Ned. We will have to leave. But where will we go? Where?”

  She fumed and fretted in this manner for some minutes, then allowed common sense to assert itself. After all, Jeremy had said nothing of her leaving. In fact, he had mentioned marriage. What he had not mentioned was love. She knew from personal experience that the time-honored institution of marriage was difficult enough when two people loved and cherished each other. Of course, many a marriage was contracted on other principles, but she had no interest in finding out what it would be like without those key ingredients.

  Besides, he merely wanted to ensure that his child would not be born a bastard. Even as this idea popped into her musings, she knew she was being unfair. He had been gentle and caring in his lovemaking. On some level, he genuinely cared for her—he had said as much, had he not? And was a child not a valid consideration? Of course it was. She squared her shoulders and dried her tears. Good grief. A single sexual encounter needn’t necessarily result in a pregnancy. Two, her conscience chided—and all it takes is one.

  For a while she let herself relive those glorious moments: his hands, his lips exploring her body; her eager responses. She blushed at remembering her own passion, that urgent need to connect with this particular man, to be connected to him in the most primal way. In that respect, you are little better than those randy widows soldiers used to make such fun of, she chastised herself.

  Why had she let this happen?

  Part of the answer was that she had given in to her desire for him—for Jeremy. In doing so, had she now jeopardized Ned’s welfare? The more complicated answer to the question of why, the more honest, more complete answer, was that she loved him. She cherished and respected his integrity, his loyalty, his gentle humor, his love for his daughter, his fondness for her son, his determination to do right by the people of Kenrick. Yes, she loved him. Hopelessly—for her very presence in his life was likely to bring disaster on him. Was she, in fact, about to invite calamity into the lives of the two people she loved most?

  After a nearly sleepless night, Jeremy put
aside not only his nervousness about meeting with Kate again, but his need to discuss the situation with Robert, and tried to immerse himself in estate business. He sat at his desk, not seeing the papers before him when Robert came in. Avoiding what was uppermost in his mind, he told Robert about his brief encounter with Mortimer, then turned to examining the books in light of the sale of the wool.

  Jeremy ran a hand through his hair. “It cannot be done. I see no way to save us now.”

  “We’ve yet to hear about those remaining ships,” Robert said. “They may still arrive to save our bacon.”

  “We cannot count on that happening. Mortimer is right: Those ships too are likely at the bottom of the Indian Ocean. Moreover, we have no idea what—if any—profit we may realize if they do make it to the London docks.”

  “There’s still the money from my grandmother and from the sale of my commission.”

  “No!” Jeremy said sharply, then immediately softened his tone. “We’ve been over this before, Robert. If we go under, that is all you will have to start over with.”

  “And you will have nothing.”

  “I’ll be able to return to America. Astor will take me on again. Maybe you will want to join us.”

  “Maybe. . . . Well, promise me this: If my money will make the difference—help us keep Kenrick—not just the name, but all of it—you will take it and never look back. After all, we agreed on a real partnership.”

  “Deal,” Jeremy said. “If. It is a huge gamble, though” He ran his hand through his hair again. “God, how I hate this uncertainty.”

  Now the uncertainty extended to Kate. He knew little of her ties in England. Would he be able to persuade her to join him if he returned to America?

  After surveying all Kenrick’s enterprises some weeks ago, the Chilton brothers had agreed that Robert would be the new Kenrick steward. In addition to a modest salary, he would have a percentage of overall profits—if there were any. In effect, the brothers had drawn up a partnership. Jeremy had insisted on their drafting a legal document. And so they had. Robert had collected the papers from Phillips a few days ago—along with a still hopeful letter that in effect said “no news is good news” regarding their investment in cargo ships.