by Laura Landon
“Who are you?” he asked, pinning her with his foreboding glare.
“My name is—”
He held up his hand to stop her. “I know your name! I want to know who you are!”
Jessica wanted to tell him it did no good to yell at someone who was deaf. Instead, she concentrated on his lips. He talked so fast it took all her ability to keep up with him.
A vein stood out on the side of his neck, and the muscles in his jaw worked furiously He swiped a hand over his jaw in frustration while he waited for her to explain.
She took a fortifying breath. “My father was the late Sir Henry Stanton. His—”
“Bloody hell.”
Jessica stopped short. His blackened gaze focused on her face, impaling her with a frown so ferocious it caught the breath in her lungs.
“Who did you say was your father?”
“Sir Henry Stanton. He founded Stanton Shipping and Stanton Mining.” Jessica studied the questioning look in his eyes. Something she said caused an obvious reaction. “Both companies seem to have been quite successful. Perhaps you knew of him?”
“Yes,” he answered, but there was animosity written on his face. “Then that would make you Baron Tanhill’s…” He stopped as if he could not finish the sentence.
“Stepsister,” she answered, watching for a sign of recognition. She didn’t have long to wait.
“That’s impossible. Henry Stanton had no daughter. I may be drunk, but I’m not so sotted that I wouldn’t remember if Stanton had a daughter.”
Jessica clenched her fists together in her lap and held tight. “He did.”
His eyes narrowed, the glare in them as black as midnight, as deadly as a double-edged rapier. “If your father was Henry Stanton,” he said, making it clear he did not believe her, “I met him once when I was younger. He did not mention you.”
“He wouldn’t,” she answered. “Because of my…my deafness, my father did not ever talk of me. He was very protective. He thought it best to shelter me from the public.”
The effort to remain focused on him was difficult as his black gaze stared at her with blatant disbelief—and revulsion. It was not surprising that he saw her as society would. Lacking. Not quite whole.
The earl tipped the bottle to his mouth again and paced the length of the room. His lips moved and his hands fisted at his side. Heaven help her. He was talking.
“Excuse me, my lord,” she interrupted. “I don’t know what you’re saying unless you look at me.”
He stopped his pacing and stared at her, then looked at the chair that sat opposite her. When he reached the chair, he sank onto the cushion.
The negative impact of what she’d just told him was evident. The extent of her disability was a huge barrier.
For a long moment he kept his gaze lowered. When he raised his head, his black glare riveted her with his anger. “Why are you here?”
“According to my father’s will, I will soon come into a great deal of money. For the last ten years, I was convinced my stepbrother, Baron Tanhill, was dead. He led all of us to believe he was, but I recently discovered that he is alive.”
The earl’s lips twisted sardonically. “Yes, he is very much alive.”
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, I know him.” He took another swallow from his bottle. “That does not work to your advantage,” he said when he lowered the bottle.
“I know,” she whispered. “No one who ever met my stepbrother had a favorable impression of him. No one who ever dealt with him didn’t come away from the experience without fearing him.
“Perhaps now you can understand why it’s important that I marry before he comes back. Why I need to separate myself from him.” She paused. “It’s only your name I require, Lord Northcote. Nothing more.”
“But if I give you my name, won’t you lose your wealth to me?”
“I don’t care about the money, sir.”
“Ha!”
The earl threw his head back and laughed. His reaction startled her.
“You surely don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” His dark gaze focused on her more intently. “I assure you, woman, I am not that big a fool. There is not a female alive who does not care about money. As you have probably heard, I am an expert on that subject.”
“Actually, I have no idea what events in your past helped to form your ideas concerning female greed, nor do I care. Whatever reassurance you need, I will give it to you. The money is not important to me. The amount you saw on that paper will be yours once we marry. It’s only your name I require.”
He studied her more closely. “Why me? Why did you choose me?”
She held her ground. “I saw the way you intimidated all of society when you appeared at Lady Stratmore’s ball. There was not one person there who was not in awe of you—and even a bit fearful.”
The earl rubbed his fingers against his forehead as if that could ease his weariness. He looked so very tired. As if someone had placed the weight of the world upon his shoulders a very long time ago and had neglected to come back to help him carry it.
“I want you to leave. I’m far from sober, and I don’t believe one word—”
“No. I will not go. At least not until you agree to consider my proposal.” She could not back down until she’d given this her total effort. Somehow she had to convince him that saving his inheritance would be worth being married to her. “My father left me a great amount of wealth. It could all be yours. You would not lose Ravenscroft. You would not lose—”
“Damn you, woman. Stop your lies. I would rather watch every stone and timber of Ravenscroft fall down at my feet than marry you.”
Jessica closed her eyes and fisted her hands in her lap. She should have known he wouldn’t want her. After all, what man would want to have a wife who was deaf?
“Nor do I believe you are Baron Tanhill’s stepsister. You probably don’t have one pound to your name, other than the money someone sent you to offer me.”
Jessica shook her head. “The money is mine. I am offering it to you in exchange for your name.”
He bolted from the chair and crossed the space that separated them in one easy stride. Anger was blatant on his face, fury raging in his eyes. He did not believe her. In fact, he thought she’d been sent by someone who wanted to trick him.
He leaned down and pinned her shoulder against the back of the tall chair with his strong, muscular hand. The rugged contours of his face were so close she could see the black flecks in his eyes, his broad chest so near she could breathe in the masculine smell of the outdoors mixed with the strong tinge of liquor. Her flesh burned where he touched her. She was not at all used to such a feeling, and she knew she was in over her depths.
“Who sent you here tonight?”
“No one, Lord Northcote. I came on my own.”
The smile on his face contained no friendship, but seemed an open wager of war.
The breath caught in her throat when he lifted his hand from the back of her chair to her neck. His touch sent a fiery warmth surging through her.
“So tell me,” he said, moving his fingers. “Did you think when I stared into your big, sad eyes I would simply swallow my pride and hold out my hand for you to give me the money? Or did you expect to win me over first with your pretty looks and feminine charm so I would fall to my knees and believe your lies without question?”
“No,” she said, hoping she’d said the word aloud. “I have not lied to you.”
The lazy circles his thumb made at the base of her throat stopped. He arched his brows high on his forehead. Straight white teeth shone in contrast to the golden bronze of his handsome face, and she felt a strange stirring she didn’t understand.
“You expect me to believe that until recently, you were completely unaware of your father’s substantial wealth. That until recently you did not know your own stepbrother was alive?” He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand. “I think not, woman.”
“It’s true
.” Her voice shook at the warm touch of his hand. “If you don’t believe me, ask His Grace, the Duke of Collingsworth. I know you are friends. He will tell you.”
He pulled his hand away from her as if her words had scalded him. He backed away as if each step near her was too close.
The air around them hung in complete stillness. The look on his face was a mask of incredulity.
“What does Collingsworth have to do with this?”
“Nothing. He will only verify that what I said is true.”
Jessica looked into his face, trying to make out what he was thinking, but found his stony expression unreadable.
“He will verify your lies because he was the one who sent you with the money. Was it also his idea to offer marriage? Or was that your own?”
She shook her head, unable to say any words to defend herself.
He leaned forward and braced his arms against the back of the chair that separated them. “Did you honestly think I would marry you? Did you honestly think I was that desperate?”
Jessica flinched as if she’d been slapped. She should not have come here. She should have known better than to put her life and her future into the hands of a perfect stranger. She should have known it would be impossible for him to overlook her imperfection.
He took a step around to the side of the chair. “Did you truly think I would believe that you would willingly give up your wealth?”
“It did not occur to me you would not. I thought you would accept my offer because you were as desperate for my money as I was for your name.”
His eyes narrowed. “Was becoming a countess that important to you?”
His accusation was like another slap across the face. He did not believe her. He was not going to help her. She should have known he wouldn’t. An earl wouldn’t want someone so flawed for his wife, even if she possessed such a huge sum of money.
His rejection destroyed her last hope of protecting herself from her stepbrother. Jessica reached for her reticule and rose to her feet.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.”
“No.”
The earl’s command halted the breath in her chest.
“Come here.”
She didn’t move.
“I said, come here.”
Jessica took one shaky step toward him, then another. He would not see he had defeated her.
“Why did you come here tonight?” he voiced when she was close enough that he could touch her. “Weren’t you the least bit frightened?” He reached out his hands and grasped her arms in a viselike grip and hauled her up against his chest. “After all, they say I killed my father because he wasted my inheritance.”
What had she been thinking, coming to such a man? The Earl of Northcote had proved to be a more formidable match than she thought. He was angry and provoked, and the dark, hazy look in his eyes told her he was not thinking as a sober man. His unsteady movements and disheveled look only made him appear more menacing.
She tried to turn her gaze away from him but could not keep her eyes off the spot where his white lawn shirt gaped at his neck, revealing deeply tanned skin and wisps of black hair exposed beneath the loose lacing. He pulled her closer, and she braced her hands against his chest. Her fingers touched the corded muscles that ran across his shoulders and rippled beneath the soft material.
She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of his daunting masculinity. How naive to think she could convince a man capable of striking terror into all of London’s nobility to consider giving her his name. How foolhardy to think she could survive a confrontation with one of the fiercest men in all of England. How impossible to think the Earl of Northcote would ever want to marry a woman so flawed.
She opened her eyes and stared into the blazing heat hidden behind his hooded frown. Her heart raced at a speed so incredible she feared it would leap from her breast. She had never been this close to a man before. Had never been touched by a man before.
“I think you don’t realize how much more I could have demanded from you than just your money, woman.”
He pulled her closer to him and brought her up against his chest.
Crashing into his body was like being thrown against a brick wall. He was hard and immovable.
To make sure she couldn’t move, he wrapped a massive arm around her waist and clamped her against him. Then he cupped her cheek with his other hand. His thumb rubbed against her flesh, and she burned like he’d set her on fire.
“Is gaining a title worth the cost you would have had to pay?”
Her denial died in her throat.
His hands moved to her shoulders, his hold on her solid and firm. One roughened fingertip rubbed lazy little circles against the hollow spot at the base of her throat and then moved upward, stroking the callused pad of his thumb back and forth over her lips.
Jessica grasped his forearm and pushed at his arm to release his hold on her.
She needed to be free. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe. His harsh, demanding touch confused her.
His fingers moved over her skin, creating a heat she could not understand. It wasn’t right for him to touch her with such familiarity, and yet, a part of her wanted to keep his warmth and strength next to her.
She wasn’t nearly as frightened as she should be. She wasn’t nearly as embarrassed as she should be.
His fingers brushed against the sensitive skin at the back of her neck, then purposefully slid across her shoulders, then lower to her waist, and lower to the small of her back, and lower to—
She was on fire.
“Please, stop.”
Jessica thought she’d spoken the words out loud, but she wasn’t sure. She was sure of nothing right now. Her mind was a whirlwind of confusion that roared in her head until she couldn’t think.
He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand and lowered his head until he was inches from her face. “Surely you don’t want me to stop, Miss Stanton. After all, didn’t you come here tonight—alone, at this hour—to offer yourself to me? Isn’t this what you really came here for?”
She shook her head and gasped for air. “No. I came to offer you the money you need to save your inheritance. I want your name.”
“That’s all, Miss Stanton? You want nothing more?”
“I…I…”
“You’re not sure?”
He brought his face closer until his lips almost touched hers. Jessica could no longer see his lips to tell if he was talking. She did not want him to talk. She wanted him to…
He touched his lips to hers with such desperation it weakened her. His touch was not soft and gentle, but harsh and unyielding.
A thousand spikes of molten heat surged to every part of her body, then spiraled to one spot low in her stomach and swirled as a whirlpool even lower.
Never had she felt more afraid. Or confused.
Or as safe.
The last thing Simon had intended was to kiss her. Even as he reached for her, he had no idea why he was doing something so stupid. But when his lips touched hers, he could no more stop himself than he could stop the wind from blowing or the sun from rising. He was obviously drunker than he thought.
At first his only intent had been to frighten her into admitting she’d been following James’s order to offer him the money he needed to save Ravenscroft. To admit she’d seen marriage to him as an opportunity to gain a title, and she’d made up her own rules as she went along.
That was before he’d kissed her.
Their first kiss had been short and harsh and unemotional. He’d hauled her up against him and ground his lips against her as if she were an overused doxy he’d found at a wayside inn. He’d wanted to make a point. Nothing more.
But when she looked up at him, her gaze portrayed such pleading and confusion that everything about her surpassed the realm of his understanding. She’d trembled at his touch as if she truly was an innocent. From that moment on he’d wanted nothing more than to believe that
she was.
The rush of air that slammed against his chest was a hundred times more violent than he’d ever felt when he’d kissed a woman before. The heat where her delicate form pressed against him seared his flesh a thousand times hotter than he ever remembered being burned by a woman before. The need to deepen his kisses became an unconquerable force, a million times greater than anything he had ever experienced before.
Her lips at first remained tight and lifeless. As if she didn’t know what to do. As if she truly hadn’t expected him to kiss her. But as his mouth moved against hers she softened and accepted—almost welcomed—his assault.
At the first pressure of his mouth, she pressed her fisted hands against his chest, pushing him away. Finally, with a tiny moan and a sigh of resignation, she opened her clenched fists. Then, she touched him—tentatively at first, then with a much greater strength.
He drew his fingers through her hair, loosening the pins and letting her lustrous brown tresses fall to her waist. He tipped her head to the side to gain easier access to her mouth and tasted her hungrily.
Bloody hell. He couldn’t get enough of her.
This was not supposed to happen.
He wrapped one arm around her back and held her tight. With his other hand, he cupped her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth, like never-worn velvet. Again and again he drank from her sweetness. Sipping and tasting and relishing the feel of her against him. He needed to have more of her.
With slow deliberation, he moved his thumb along her jaw, stopping just beneath her bottom lip. He applied the slightest pressure, and she opened to him as if she’d waited a lifetime for him to discover her.
His tongue entered her honey-warmed cavern, searching for the treasure hidden there. She stiffened in his arms and pulled away, her small hands pushing against his shoulders.
He couldn’t allow them to be separated and cradled the back of her head to hold her close. She muttered a quiet moan and pushed her fists against his chest once, twice, then stopped.
