Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance

by Cullen, Sharon

  “This is not an appropriate discussion, Claire.”

  “Kissing me senseless is appropriate, but discussing card games is not? I don’t understand your rules.”

  “My kiss made you senseless?” There was male pride in his tone and a satisfied glint in his eye.

  They reached her bedchamber door and she turned to him. Her gaze was directly aligned with his lips and she stared at them, wanting them on hers again. Hers and no one else’s.

  Really, Claire. This is beyond absurd.

  “You know it did.”

  “I know nothing of the sort, my lady.”

  She put her hands on his chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath the waistcoat, and the flex of those muscles when she touched him. His eyes darkened then narrowed in suspicion. He moved away and she leaned heavily on the door, her feet numb, her hands trembling from touching him and her lips eager for another of his kisses. Yet she saw the look of longing he’d given that card game and knew that he would go down there after he deposited her in her room. She knew what happened during those games. Women were present. More drink. More women. Did he kiss them as he kissed her? Were they rendered senseless after his kisses as she was?

  She didn’t want him making other women senseless. Hot anger stirred inside her, fueled by the wine rushing through her blood. She stepped forward, her hands going to his chest again for support and because she needed to feel the solid thump of his heart. A heart that was thumping a little more energetically than it had been before.

  “You asked me what I’m going to do when I get to Italy. Do you really want to know?” In the distant part of her brain, the sober Claire yelled to keep quiet, but the inebriated Claire ignored her.

  “I’m not sure anymore.” His voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating through her hands.

  She leaned closer until her lips could easily brush against his if she chose to do so. Or if he chose.

  “I’m going to find an Italian lover,” she whispered.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nathan stomped down the steps. An Italian lover, indeed. What the hell did she mean by that? It had to be the wine talking. Sweet Claire Hartford who barely knew how to kiss was not going to Venice to find herself an Italian lover. That was preposterous.

  With a nod at the participants, Nathan fell into a chair at the gaming table and scooped up the cards they tossed to him. He really hadn’t been thinking of joining the game. Well, mayhap he had. But he’d told himself he wouldn’t, until Claire whispered, oh so sweetly in his ear, that she was in pursuit of an Italian lover.

  His hands shook and he cursed himself while signaling for another whiskey. His hands shouldn’t shake. He shouldn’t care why Claire was going to Italy. What he should do was concentrate on his own reason for traveling to Italy. The letters. The questions he needed answered.

  He played his last card and lost. Resigned, he watched the winner scoop up the money. When the dealer raised his brow in a silent question, Nathan nodded to deal him in again. He rubbed his chest where her hands had rested and his heart still thumped wildly. It’d taken every bit of self-control not to lean down and kiss her. She’d certainly looked at him like she wanted him to kiss her, with those wide, green eyes and her pink lips parted just so.

  He groaned and organized his cards, trying to concentrate on the game, but no matter how hard he tried to think about the cards, he thought about Claire harder.

  He’d practically shoved her into her room and slammed the door after her for fear he’d follow and give her what those jade green eyes were begging him to give her. However, for all his nefarious ways, Nathan wasn’t about to take advantage of a woman who had too much to drink.

  His gaze wandered to the stairs. Was she undressing right now? Quickly he looked back at his cards, plucked one from his hand and tossed it on the table. He lost that round as well. And the next.

  He ordered another drink and nodded that he was in for another game. The dealer smirked. Nathan ignored him. His leg bounced restlessly while his mind went back to that moment in the carriage when he’d kissed her so thoroughly. What had she said? Ah, yes. She’d told him he’d kissed her senseless. Pride welled within him but that only increased the restlessness, for there were other ways he wanted to render her senseless than with a mere kiss.

  He gathered his cards but didn’t really see them as he tossed out another. He won that hand, but just barely. Gathering his money, he glanced around the common room. It was late, not many were about. Just the diehard card players and a few serious drinkers. Everyone else had gone to bed for the night, leaving the lone proprietor wiping the bar with a dingy rag as he yawned widely.

  Nathan’s gaze stopped on one individual slumped over his tankard of ale, a cap pulled low over his brow as he stared at the rough wooden plank of the bar. Something about the man appeared to be familiar. The cap. The slumped shoulders. The ragged great coat of indeterminate coloring.

  “Your play, guv.”

  Nathan randomly picked a card from his hand and tossed it on the pile. The man at the bar took another sip, keeping his face in profile. Upon closer examination it appeared he wasn’t a man at all but rather a lad close to manhood yet not quite there. Nathan turned back to the game.

  He lost again. He really should quit for the night. He was already down one hundred pounds. Long ago he’d learned to walk away when the cards weren’t in his favor, and tonight was definitely one of those nights. He shook his head at the dealer, gathered what was left of his blunt and stood.

  His muscles ached from the long carriage ride and from sitting at the gaming table for so long. He glanced at the steps leading to the sleeping chambers. Claire should have been asleep hours ago. The restlessness that had plagued him all evening had him turning away from the steps for fear he’d lose his head and enter her chamber instead of his. Thoughts of sleeping with her in his arms, as he’d done the night before, were almost too tempting to resist.

  He turned back to study the lad at the bar, but he was gone.

  With determined strides Nathan made his way to the door and out into the bracing spring night. There he was, leaning against the building and looking up at the clouds obscuring the moon.

  Nathan stayed to the shadows, observing, his heart beating a bit harder than usual. The lad definitely looked familiar but why would he show himself in plain sight at the same inn that Nathan and Claire were staying? That didn’t make sense.

  The cramped muscles in Nathan’s shoulders began to relax as the lad moved around the corner. Something inside Nathan told him to follow. He kept to the shadows, watching each step. When he rounded the corner, he found his query staring up at the second floor of the inn. When Nathan’s gaze followed, his blood turned cold, for the lad was staring at Claire’s window. It could be coincidence. Or it couldn’t be. Nathan wasn’t taking any chances. He stepped from the shadows.

  The lad spun around, looked at Nathan in alarm and froze. Nathan approached but the lad was suddenly released from his paralysis and took off running toward the line of trees just to the east of the inn.

  Nathan ran after him but the darkness and the uneven terrain kept him from pursuing. He could hear the lad’s booted feet hit the packed dirt, but Nathan was unable to follow. He stopped, looked deep into the shadows, then back at the quiet, darkened inn. With a curse, he made his way back to it and entered.

  The card game was still going strong. A lone man sat at the bar but didn’t look up when Nathan entered. Nathan took the steps to the upper rooms two at a time, his breathing ragged from running and the unexpected fear that suddenly overtook him. He’d hoped they’d shaken the reprobate in Paris, but that had been a foolish hope. Now, more than ever, he was convinced the boy had something to do with the letters sent to Nathan.

  He reached for the door handle of Claire’s bedchamber but stopped before he touched it. What was he going to do? Barge in and tell her someone was following them? He didn’t want to frighten her.

  So what? Did he plan
on sitting in her room all night, watching her sleep? He snorted in derision knowing that he couldn’t walk in there and simply sit while she slept. No, he’d be in that bed with her.

  He hadn’t been this randy since he discovered the joys that women could bring to his body. But the thought of relieving his rampant desire with a local whore didn’t appeal to him, so instead he leaned against the wall and slid down until he was sitting with his knees bent. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, his body clenching in a vicious need that he felt sure wasn’t going to abate anytime soon.

  “Get up.”

  Claire blinked owlishly into the darkness. Nay, not darkness. Someone held a candle that glowed like the brightness of seven suns and pierced her skull with the intensity of a hundred knitting needles.

  Her head pounded and each movement made her curdled stomach heave.

  The masculine voice had her squinting past the flame. “Wha—Lord Blythe?” She scrambled to a sitting position, yanking the bedclothes over her nightdress, her stomach protesting the sudden movement. “This is … What are …”

  He tossed clothing at her. A petticoat hit her in the face. She batted it away but it was quickly followed by her stays. She hurriedly buried those beneath the bedclothes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re leaving.” He swiped his hand toward the door. “I’ve brought a maid to help you.”

  The poor girl’s back was pressed against the wall, her eyes wide, her mouth open in what could only be termed as shock.

  “Leaving? But …” She looked toward the window. Her stomach lurched and she had to swallow to keep from casting up her accounts. “It’s not even daylight.”

  Blythe approached the bed, the candle still in his hand. Macabre shadows danced across his face, lending him a ghoulish appearance.

  “I’m leaving in a quarter of an hour. If you’re not downstairs by then … Just be ready by then.” He spun around and marched to the door, opened it and shut it behind him.

  Claire stared at the closed door, then looked at the maid who hadn’t moved.

  She smiled weakly at the poor girl. “He doesn’t mean that.” Yet, she wasn’t so sure. Something had happened to put him in such a foul mood. Had he lost at cards last night? If so, it served him right and he had no reason to take it out on her. Except, she didn’t believe he’d be in such rare form simply from losing a few hands of cards. Unless it was more than a few hands. Unless …

  Oh, dear Lord. Unless he’d gambled away all the money from the sale of her jewels.

  She moved to climb out of the bed but had to stop because her head was spinning and her stomach was churning in counterpoint. She groaned, closed her eyes and swallowed a few times. She would never make it on the long carriage ride to Switzerland in this condition. Oh, she should never have had so many glasses of wine. It was all Blythe’s fault. She told him to stop filling her wineglass.

  “It’s not like he forced the wine down your throat,” she muttered.

  “Excusez-moi?” The maid slid one foot forward and joined it with the other, looking tentatively at the door Blythe just exited.

  Claire waved her hand in the air. Even that small action had her stomach protesting.

  “Oh, dear.” She swallowed some more but it was no use. She lunged for the chamber pot and cast up her accounts. She sat back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and closed her eyes in mortification, seriously considering taking him up on his offer to return her to England. Instead she climbed to her feet and stood on unsteady legs while the maid dressed her and she tried not to move overmuch for fear of upsetting her stomach again.

  Claire emerged from the inn one minute before the deadline he’d set. She was refreshing with her red hair pulled back and simply tied at the base of her neck with a ribbon that matched her lavender gown. He immediately thought of the words she’d whispered in his ear before he sent her off to bed. The thought of her, so young and so fresh, moving into the arms of an Italian lover soured his stomach and his disposition.

  I’m going to find an Italian lover.

  Not if he had anything to say about it.

  While sitting against her door through what was left of the long night, he seriously contemplated turning around and taking her back to England even if he had to travel on the ship with her. The only reason he didn’t was because he had no assurances that once he left her, she wouldn’t turn around and find an alternate way to Italy in pursuit of this elusive, mysterious lover. No. It was best that he was with her. To keep an eye on her. Just like he told Sebastian he would.

  He pulled his angry thoughts away from Italian lovers to concentrate on the woman walking toward him. She hadn’t found that lover yet and if he had anything to do with it, she never would.

  She moved slowly, as if she would shatter if she didn’t place her feet exactly right. Her eyes were narrowed and her face was so pale that he took a few steps toward her in fear that she wouldn’t make it to the carriage.

  Obviously the numerous glasses of wine she consumed last night were a few too many.

  “Lady Chesterman.” He held out his hand to help her into the carriage.

  She glared at him, ignored his outstretched hand, gathered her skirts and climbed in.

  Ah, so it’s to be one of those days.

  With a sigh, he climbed in behind her to find that she’d fallen onto the seat and half lay, half sat on it, her head resting against the back, her hand over her stomach, her legs splayed in a very unladylike fashion.

  “It will take most of the day to reach the border,” he said as he settled in.

  “Hmm.”

  He lapsed into silence, amused even though he knew he should be contrite. After all, he’d been the one to repeatedly fill her glass.

  Did she remember standing outside her door and lifting her head to him, practically begging him for a kiss? Did she remember telling him she was searching for an Italian lover? His smile slipped at the thought and his gut clenched in a feeling that wasn’t at all familiar.

  The coach lurched forward and Claire groaned, throwing her arm over her eyes.

  This was going to be a long day.

  After a few moments, she lifted her arm and glared at him with only one eye open. “Lord Blythe, not to be rude, but you stink.”

  He grinned. “My apologies, my lady.”

  What color remained in her face drained and she swallowed. He knew the signs well, having suffered them himself more than a few times. Thankfully she regained control of her wayward stomach and closed her eyes again. They rode in silence a bit, the carriage jostling her about. He couldn’t bear to hear her moans and had to force himself to keep to his side of the carriage.

  A long ride on a sour stomach was most unpleasant. Maybe he should have let her sleep it off at the inn. He could have sat outside her door and waited for her stomach to settle. After all, he spent the majority of the night there, guarding it against the reprobate he’d chased off.

  He sighed and turned his gaze from her but found that he couldn’t look away for long. As many times as he’d been in her situation and knew it wouldn’t last long, her pale face worried him. Bloody hell, he should have ignored her manipulations and taken her to Calais as he originally intended.

  Instead he’d acquiesced with little argument because, damn it, the thought of traveling to Venice with her was too enticing. Regardless of the impropriety. And he wasn’t entirely certain she was bluffing either.

  She whimpered. Dismissing the voice in his head that insisted he stay where he was, Nathan slid across the carriage and sat next to her, gathering her into his arms and resting her head on his lap. Another impropriety that she would no doubt squawk about.

  Instead of squawking, she sighed and settled her head onto his thigh, as he looked down on her in horror. She was … Her head was … Sensing a female nearer than one had been in a while, his manhood sprang to attention. Her hand moved to his knee, then traveled up his leg to settle close to her face—
and entirely too close to his cock.

  He watched her hand, alternately hoping it would move closer and praying it would stay where it was. Good Lord, what a predicament he was in. His cock ached with a need that went far past anything he’d experienced before. He was in pain, damn it, and the worst part about it was that she didn’t want him in return. Instead she wanted some nameless, faceless lover from Italy.

  With a groan, Nathan laid his head against the seat and closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation of her slight form curled up next to him, of her head pressed against his thigh, of her even breathing and, even though she drank half a bottle of wine the night before and, by all rights, shouldn’t smell like a garden, the floral scent of her.

  He was doomed. Lost. And yet at the moment he couldn’t find the outrage in that thought. Later he would, no doubt.

  He sat like that for what seemed like days, his body on fire with need until it nearly consumed him. For a long time he simply stared at her, his hand finding the mass of red hair warm to the touch. He lifted his hand, letting the soft strands sift through his fingers, mesmerized by the variations of red. He’d never known red came in so many different colors. From gold to russet, light blond to hot fire. So many deviations, just like Claire herself.

  Claire lurched off the seat, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Jolted into action, Nathan quickly rapped on the ceiling then lunged for the door, opening it before the carriage stopped.

  He lifted Claire out and set her on the side of the road where she dropped to her knees and cast up her accounts. Nathan knelt beside her and gathered her hair to keep it out of the way.

  When she was finished, she sat back, her face so pale that Nathan’s heartbeat spiked. Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and she swayed, closing her eyes.

  “My apologies.”

  He wanted to gather her to him and hug her, but feared too much jostling would cause another attack. “No need to apologize. I well understand what you’re feeling.”