Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  “A-a-accosting you?” she sputtered. “Sir, are you implying I leapt on you, then shamelessly placed your hands on my person?”

  “Did you?”

  “You know I did not.” She wiggled her body as though something uncomfortable probed her. Consternation flashed across her face.

  Damn and blast. His manhood remained engorged. What was wrong with him?

  Sophia blanched and scurried off him as though she sunbathed on a patch of stinging nettles in the nude. She straightened her dress and hat before blowing a midnight-colored tendril off her cheek.

  “I believe you were dreaming, and I can only assume what or whom it was about.” Her voice had regained its rigid composure.

  “Do not fancy it was you.”

  “I didn’t presume it was me. I envisioned some full-bosomed tart with a copious amount of air between her ears. In other words, a vacuous nitwit with no better sense than an ant!”

  He arched a brow. “She sounds more appealing than an impertinent prude any man of good sensibility would avoid like the bubonic plague.”

  “Prude? Why, you abominable man.” Sophia squared her shoulders, spun away, and stormed toward the door, mumbling about how she’d have to be deficient in the brain to endure him one minute longer.

  Is she leaving? Hayden’s pulse quickened.

  “Are you resigning your post, Sophia? I knew a mere slip of a woman like you could never outwit me.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks and stood still, her back to him. Then, without a word, she exited the room.

  * * *

  Sophia knew she should have headed right for the front door, hailed a hansom cab, and never looked back. Yet she found herself in the kitchen asking the French chef for Westfield’s dinner tray.

  For a moment, she stared at the freshly prepared pot of coffee and contemplated adding rhubarb root to it. A good purgative that would leave Westfield in discomfort for the duration of the day was what he deserved.

  A wave of shame washed over her. Nurses didn’t add laxatives to their patients’ coffee, no matter how infuriating they were.

  She heaved a heavy sigh.

  “Is his lordship in zee foul mood?” Monsieur Laurent asked.

  “Your question, monsieur, implies his lordship has other moods.”

  The chef guffawed before returning to the task of readying the tray.

  Sophia ran a surreptitious hand over her bum. She could still feel where Westfield’s large palm had scorched her skin as if cast of iron and as hot as a branding stick. And she most certainly remembered the feel of that hardened appendage pressing against her. The man had set every nerve in her body aflame. It had taken tremendous fortitude to act unaffected.

  Thank God he’d thought her put off. Better than if he had realized the truth—which was she’d wanted him to kiss her, while her hands had itched to touch him. Well, up until she felt his erection. Then she’d become frightened by the dampness growing between her legs. Prude indeed!

  She must be addled. Westfield was nothing but a shameless roué with a wicked mind, a foul mouth, and an overly large male organ between his legs.

  He’d probably been dreaming of some young, naïve debutante or thinking about winning that blasted dare. He didn’t care one whit about her. A woman would have to be a dolt to want him. Her cheeks warmed, and she glanced at Monsieur Laurent, who stared at her, a smile plastered upon his face as if he could read her mind.

  * * *

  A half hour later, Hayden’s mood perked up at the sound of someone moving around in the adjacent room. Had Sophia returned? From where he sat on the sofa in the sitting room, he craned his neck, hoping to get a glimpse of her.

  Damnation. Can’t see a blasted thing. He grabbed his crutches and hobbled into his bedchamber. The tightness in his chest ricocheted back when Mathews stepped out of the dressing room.

  “Good evening, my lord. Is there something you need?”

  “Yes, I wish to get dressed. I’m going out.” If Sophia had left he would find her and apologize.

  The valet gaped. “Miss Camden will not be pleased.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Of course. She’s in the kitchen.”

  “Thank God,” Hayden mumbled, relief coursing through him.

  “What, my lord?”

  “Nothing. I—”

  Sophia entered the room holding his dinner tray. Ignoring Hayden, she smiled at the valet and handed him the silver tray. “Mr. Mathews, will you give this to his lordship?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Thank you.” Without glancing at Hayden, she glided out of the room. Was it his imagination or had the temperature taken an arctic tumble?

  Mathews chuckled.

  “What do you find so humorous?” Hayden snapped.

  “I’m not sure what game you and Miss Camden are engaged in, but I think she is not easily defeated.”

  The problem was, Hayden wasn’t sure he wanted to defeat her. She intrigued him. Baffled him. He rubbed the knot forming in his neck.

  “Should I bring the tray into the sitting room?” Mathews asked.

  He was bloody tired of being confined to his rooms. He knotted the sash on his robe. “No, I’m going downstairs. To the dining room.”

  Mathews gasped. “I don’t think it wise, sir.”

  Ignoring the man, Hayden moved through the doorway and down the corridor to the stairs, his crutches thumping against the wooden floor. Mathews followed.

  Hayden stared at the long flight of steps. His shoulders tensed. Descending them would be a bit tricky. He motioned the valet to precede him. “Go on, Mathews. I’ll be down in a minute.” If I don’t break my neck.

  Shaking his head, Mathews carried the tray down the stairs. After the man turned the bend at the first-floor landing and disappeared from sight, Hayden leaned one of the crutches on the wall. It would be wiser to maneuver the steps with one crutch propped under his arm and his free hand grasping the rail.

  He took the first step, then the second. By the time he reached the first-floor landing, a stinging warmth seared his injured thigh. He eyed the long upholstered bench built into the wall. Blowing out a heavy breath, he lowered himself onto the cushion, and rubbed his leg.

  The clicking of shoes dashing across the tiled floor of the corridor one flight below reached his ears. Someone was running. Sophia. He was going to sack Mathews—the bloody Benedict Arnold.

  With her skirts lifted high in her hands, exposing the trim turn of her ankles, Sophia darted up the steps. Her cheeks were high in color. “You foolish man. What are you about?”

  “Has anyone ever told you how lovely you look when irate?”

  Her blush deepened. “You’re impossible.” She knelt before him and lifted his robe and nightshirt. Her fingers skimmed up his thigh, causing wicked thoughts to drift in his mind.

  “You’re lucky you’re not bleeding.” She stood and scowled at him.

  “I’m going to the dining room.”

  “No, you are not . . .” Suddenly she paled. “Oh, my!” She gave her skirts a violent shake. Then, with her almond eyes as wide as saucers, she frantically swept her hands over the wool of her gown and the skirt of her pinafore, smacking it as though it were on fire.

  What in the blazes? He stood and clasped her flailing hands. “Sophia?”

  A horrified expression flashed across her face. She scanned the floor and stepped closer to him.

  “What did you see?” he asked.

  “I believe Albert or possibly some c-cousin of his.”

  “Albert? Celia’s mouse?”

  She snagged her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded.

  How did a little rodent frighten her when she didn’t appear the least bit intimidated by a man such as him? “He scares you?”

  She gave an indignant huff. “He climbed up my skirt!”

  Stupid mouse. If he were Albert, he would have climbed under her skirt so he might see if her legs were truly as long as they’d appeared
in his dream. “He is a very tiny mouse.”

  “You mock me.” Her exotic eyes shone with moisture and her long inky lashes were damp. She blinked, and a lone tear made a slow descent down her flushed right cheek.

  He ran his hand down her arm. “Sophia, Albert will not hurt you. Most likely he has already made his way back to Celia’s room.”

  Nodding, she closed her eyes, and two more tears trailed down her face.

  He’d never enjoyed seeing those he loved cry, but why the sight of Sophia weeping distressed him, he couldn’t say. He wanted to comfort her, to dry her tears, and embrace her while running a soothing hand down her back.

  You’re a fool, old boy! She’d probably give him a scathing setdown, plant a facer on the bridge of his nose, and storm away, squashing Albert in the process. Especially after his earlier escapade. Yet he could not completely stifle his impulse, and he brushed the moistness away with his thumbs.

  Sophia opened her dark, watery eyes and stared at him.

  God, she was lovely. Too lovely. “Now, I’m sure Albert has . . .” His voice trailed off as the renegade mouse dashed out from under the bench to the longcase clock in the corner.

  She followed the movement of his eyes and turned.

  “Sophia,” he snapped, drawing her gaze back to his, and then he did the unthinkable—he cupped her face and pressed his lips to hers, for surely it was the only way to distract her.

  It was a soft kiss, chaste by his standards, a light brushing of their lips. Nothing more than a prelude, but it engaged him. How strange. He increased the pressure. She stiffened as if she would jerk away, but then her lips moved ever so gently beneath his. He lingered a fraction longer, then pulled back.

  He waited for her indignation and her firm right hook, but when her long lashes fluttered open, she said not a word. She looked even more bewildered than he felt. A monumental feat, considering the rapid beat of his heart.

  Before he knew what he was about, he cupped the back of her head and drew her lips once more to his.

  When Sophia uttered a small gasp, he slipped his tongue into the warmth of her mouth. She tasted like cinnamon. Spicy and sweet.

  She made a startled noise—soft and low, an indication of her inexperience. A forgotten feeling heated his insides, leaving him uncomfortable, unsure. He started to pull back, but at that precise moment, she slid her tongue against his. Desire pooled in his belly. He drew her closer, so near he could feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest.

  Sophia’s delicate hands skimmed over his upper arms.

  He kissed her cheek, the line of her jaw, and the sensitive place just below her ear. Her head tipped sideways, a silent acquiescence, and he caressed her silky skin with his mouth before he caught her delicate earlobe between his teeth.

  “Ah, how lovely you are,” he whispered.

  Her breathing hitched, she slipped a hand to the back of his neck, and her fingers flexed against his nape as he kissed her lips again.

  She’d be ruined if found kissing him. The servants would whisper. Reluctantly he stepped back. Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at him as if she’d just awoken from a dream. How long had it been since a woman gazed at him like this? A woman who didn’t understand what lust could do to her, a woman untutored.

  “My apologies, Sophia. It appears I’m not prepared to handle a damsel in distress. I wished to distract you, and I took it a bit too far.”

  Her brows drew together. “Distract me?” She blinked, and then she gave a small laugh.

  It wasn’t the normal reaction women gave him after he’d thoroughly kissed them, but Sophia was nothing like the women he normally kissed.

  “I thank you for the diversion. It was unnecessary, yet interesting.” She scanned the floor.

  He stared at her. She acted as if they’d shared tea and crumpets. And not even tasty crumpets, but dried, overcooked crumpets that crumbled in one’s hands and tasted only marginally better than sawdust. “That is all you wish to say?”

  “Should I say more?” Before he could reply, she added, “Well, if I must, I will say as a distraction, your kisses were adequate, but most uncalled for.”

  “Adequate?”

  She tugged on her pinafore, straightening its waistband, and nodded.

  Why, she was the most accursed woman he had ever encountered (excluding Adele, for no one could surpass that madwoman). But Sophia Camden ran a near second. He resisted the urge to drag her onto the long bench and show her just how adequate he could be. Instead, he smiled. “For a woman who was kissed only adequately, you made an excessive amount of noise.”

  She blanched. “Noise?”

  “You mewled so loud, I thought I was with a cat.”

  Her cheeks colored.

  “Go get Hawthorne, Sophia.” He said her Christian name with a low, intimate timbre that emphasized the degree of familiarity they’d attained. “He needs to have a footman capture that wayward mouse, for I do not wish to distract you again. My day is already filled with an excess of tedium.”

  Her fingers twitched like she itched to slap him, but then she smiled. “Yes, tedium and mediocrity are so hard to endure.” And with that said, she spun around and strode down the stairs, holding her skirts off the ground.

  Hayden slumped onto the bench. Damnation! Why had he kissed her? Not once, but twice. He raked his fingers through his hair. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit why he’d kissed her the second time. Because during their first kiss, that light brushing of their lips, he’d not thought of his dead wife. And that surpassed his realm of understanding, since after leaving Laura, eight years ago, he’d compared every woman to her.

  When he’d kissed Sophia, only the softness of her lips, the scent of her skin, and making love to her consumed him. And he’d not made love since he’d moved to London. No, he engaged in fast and furious copulation that chased away his memories—those demons that controlled his behavior. But with Sophia, he’d felt no frenzied need, just a peaceful feeling of completeness. And after he’d relinquished her lips and gazed into her eyes, he’d known he would kiss her again because once the contact had been broken, he’d grown bereft and more alone than ever. Until he kissed her once more and became lost in her taste and scent and found something akin to solace.

  Chapter Eight

  Sophia signed her name to the bottom of her letter to Mrs. Nettles. Great-Uncle Charles’s housekeeper had shown her kindness when she’d lived with him, and she and the woman corresponded often. Whereas her contact with Great-Uncle was minimal, though he did send the occasional summons demanding she return home and cease her folly to become a physician.

  Every so often, he sent a gift. Parasols with terse notes to stay out of the sun. Bottles of Lawson’s Facial Bleaching Cream—a caustic mixture of arsenic and lead. Presents that were cruel, more than kind.

  She’d lived under Great-Uncle’s roof for nine years, but he remained a stranger to her. He’d rarely conversed with either her or her sister, Maria, unless he’d wished to disparage them or their mother, or take a leather strap to their knuckles until he drew blood.

  Her headstrong sister, angered by their circumstances, tried to punish him the only way she’d known how, by eloping with a man she knew he’d not approve of. A gardener.

  Maria’s actions only reaffirmed Charles’s opinion that their mother’s foreign blood rendered them common. And what had her sister gained? A tombstone at Kensal Green, along with poor little Georgiana, who now lay in the plot next to her mother.

  Sophia blinked away her tears. Thinking of them made her melancholy. She’d raised her niece after Maria’s death, but failed to keep the child safe. Perhaps if she’d known about infections then, Georgiana would be alive and well.

  A soft knock sounded on Sophia’s bedchamber door. She folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket. “Yes, come in.”

  Alice entered. “Miss, his lordship is asking for you.”

  She should have realized Westfield would n
ot allow her to play the coward and hide today. She’d avoided him last night. Only checked on him once and not conversed while she’d examined his wound.

  “Did you bring him his breakfast tray, Alice?”

  “Nearly dropped it, I did, when he demanded to know where you were. Sounded as angry as a gent who’s had his pockets pinched. He’s downstairs. Wishes you to meet him in the morning room.”

  So, the silly man had ventured down the steps again. Infuriating scoundrel.

  Alice walked over to the mahogany dresser and sniffed at a bar of scented soap. “It’s got lavender in it, right, miss?”

  “You may have it.”

  The maid’s eyes grew round. “Truly?”

  “Yes.” The least she could do, having subjected the poor girl to an irate Westfield.

  Smiling, Alice took another audible whiff before she slipped the soap into the front pocket of her white apron. “Thank you.”

  Sophia opened the large armoire and removed her navy wool cape.

  “You going out, miss?” Disbelief heightened the younger woman’s voice.

  Sophia nodded and slipped the garment over her shoulders. “I wish to take the air.”

  “But his lordship?”

  “He’ll have to wait.”

  Alice gaped. “Aren’t you frightened of him?”

  Yes, but not in the way Alice thought. Sophia feared she’d make a complete cake of herself where Westfield was concerned. She touched her lips and remembered the press of his warm mouth caressing hers. He was more than adequate at distraction. A few minutes longer and she might have begged him to relieve the desire growing within her. Worse, she’d dreamt of him last night. His mouth on hers. His hands skimming up her body.

  What was wrong with her? She’d conducted the whole of her life properly. When younger, she’d wished to make her parents and grandfather proud. In Northumberland, she’d wanted to disabuse Great-Uncle Charles of his opinion of her limited worth. And here, in London, she’d garnered a modicum of respect for her abilities and intelligence while living a quiet, respectable life. Nevertheless, she appeared capable of tossing it all aside to experience a bit of wickedness with a rogue.