Never Dare a Wicked Earl

by Renee Ann Miller

  She touched her earlobe where Westfield had nibbled it. She would have sworn he’d whispered, “How lovely you are.”

  A jolt of pleasure shot through her. How silly to be so easily flattered. The man held a title. He would not want her for anything more than a dalliance.

  “Miss?”

  “I’m sorry, Alice. No, he doesn’t frighten me,” she lied. “He is a man, nothing more, and I have another position should he decide to dismiss me.” Doubtful he would. He was determined to win the dare. “I apologize for asking you to bring him his breakfast.”

  Alice giggled. “I didn’t mind. I think he’s the handsomest gentleman I ever seen. And those broad shoulders.” The maid appeared wistful and ready to swoon.

  An odd feeling settled in the pit of Sophia’s stomach. Did Westfield mingle inappropriately with all his female employees? “Alice, he doesn’t . . .”

  “Doesn’t what?” Two red flags suddenly colored the maid’s fair cheeks. “Oh, no, miss!” Alice shook her head. “He don’t dally with the staff. Not his lordship. One of the downstairs maids kept batting her lashes at him. Sent her packing, he did. And Mrs. Beecham sets the girls straight right away, she does.”

  Sophia released a taut breath and opened the door. So he’d told her the truth. He’d meant nothing more than to distract her.

  Oh, she was such a nitwit!

  * * *

  An hour later, Hayden tried not to scowl as Sophia entered the morning room with Lady Olivia trailing her as if she held a ham bone before the dog’s snout.

  He set the morning paper onto the round dining table and peered at the wall clock. Damn, how dare she disregard his authority and take such an inordinate amount of time. “Why didn’t you bring my breakfast?”

  She motioned to the crutches leaning behind his chair. “I have told you, gallivanting about will only delay your healing.”

  “We appear to be having two separate conversations, Sophia.”

  The room grew quiet. Lady Olivia whimpered, did an about-face, and bounded from the room, her tail drooping between her hind legs. Sophia raised her shapely eyebrows—a silent insinuation that seemed to say even the dog doesn’t wish to be here. He motioned to the chair to his right.

  The stubborn woman didn’t budge. Was she so averse to conversing with him? “Sophia, please be seated.”

  With innate grace, she sat and primly folded her hands in her lap.

  He cleared his throat. “I apologize for my earlier transgressions.”

  Her lashes lowered a fraction. “I apologize, as well. I behaved in a most unprofessional manner. Really beyond the pale. I beg your forgiveness.”

  Forgiveness? If she only knew how he’d enjoyed the encounter.

  As if she intended on standing, she shifted in the chair.

  Was she leaving already? Holding up a staying hand, he asked, “Are you going upstairs to pen another letter?”

  Every day, without fail, she wrote a missive while she sat in the corner of his bedchamber. “I thought you would feel more comfortable penning it here, so I had a writing slope brought in.”

  “I have already sent Dr. Trimble a note this morning.”

  “Ah, so it is Trimble with whom you correspond?” He fought the urge to snarl at the mention of the physician’s name.

  “I keep him abreast of how you are faring. My missives consist of the visual appearance of your injury, along with notes on the amount of discomfort you are feeling, and your progression toward healing. Initially I reported on your temperament, but I have forgone that part of the report.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You are always of the same temperament in the mornings.”

  “Are you implying I am anything but charming when I awake?”

  “Certainly not.” Her dark eyes smiled, and she snagged her bottom lip between her teeth like a child caught lying to an elder. As if realizing it, she soothed the bruised skin with the tip of her tongue, glistening the plump surface.

  Their earlier kiss flashed in his mind’s eye. He recalled the slide of Sophia’s tongue sensuously stroking his and the taste of her cinnamon warmth. His manhood grew heavy.

  Damnation. The woman was a minion sent by Satan to plague him. He tensed, and the muscles in his neck bunched painfully. He craned his head sideways and lifted a hand to knead the knot.

  “Are you experiencing discomfort?” She stood.

  “No, it’s nothing.”

  “If you’ll allow me, I believe I can help alleviate your pain.”

  He wanted to laugh. She certainly could.

  “I used to massage my grandfather’s back.” She moved behind him and set the heels of her palms into his shoulders. “You’re tense. Relax.”

  Relax? His manhood was hard, and he was fantasizing about making love to her on the table. He needed a distraction. “Tell me about your childhood.”

  Her warm fingers trailed soothing touches over his neck and shoulders. “Surely, you do not wish me to bore you?”

  “Sophia, you have a tedious propensity to answer a question with one of your own.”

  “I had a pleasant childhood.”

  Something about the tone of her voice said differently.

  “Was the work your grandfather performed laborious?” He didn’t believe so. The way she carried herself didn’t reflect an impoverished upbringing, but she’d been brought low if now required to tend to louts like him and runny-nosed children.

  “No.” She didn’t elaborate.

  For several glorious minutes, her deft hands meticulously worked over every inch of his shoulder and neck muscles until his pain vanished.

  “Better?” she asked.

  “Yes, much.” He fought the urge to reach out and pull her down onto his lap and taste her mouth again. Idiot.

  “I have a salve I could apply if you wish?”

  He cringed. His nanny had had a penchant for salves. Ointments with the consistency of cow dung that hadn’t smelled much better. He shook his head, his gaze on those lovely long fingers. Did she massage Trimble’s neck? A nerve in Hayden’s jaw twitched.

  “Papa!” Celia burst through the doorway with Lady Olivia. “It’s snowing.” She ran to the bank of windows, and both she and the dog peered outside. Lady Olivia’s tail wagged enthusiastically, and her panting breath clouded the panes of glass.

  Giggling, Celia nudged the dog’s massive nose away, and mopped the sleeve of her lavender-colored dress against the glass. “Come look, Sophia! They are the largest snowflakes I’ve ever seen and falling so fast the ground is all but covered.”

  Sophia looked at Hayden.

  “By all means,” he said, motioning to the windows.

  With exuberant strides, Sophia crossed the room. It was impossible to miss the earnest smile she gave Celia, or how Sophia’s face lit up when she gazed outside.

  “Can I go out and play in it?” Celia ran over to him. When he didn’t immediately respond, she pressed her small hands together as if praying.

  He placed a palm on his robe where it covered his injured thigh. “I can’t walk in it, but perhaps we can convince your aunt Edith to take you for a carriage ride.”

  She frowned. “No, Papa, Aunt Edith told me she is to visit Lady Marley today.”

  Sophia was still gazing out the window. “Sophia, are you partial to snow?” he asked.

  “I am,” she replied.

  Before Hayden could utter another word, Celia ran to her. “Would you care to go ramble about in it?”

  “If your father approves, I would be delighted.”

  Celia didn’t wait for his response, but grabbed Sophia’s hand and pulled her toward the door. “Of course he approves.”

  Smiling, Sophia glanced over her shoulder at him.

  He mouthed the words, Thank you.

  At the doorway, Celia came to an abrupt stop. “Do you have a muff, Sophia?”

  “No. But my gloves shall be fine.”

  “I think I saw one in Grandmama’s trunk in th
e attic.”

  Hayden cringed. Though Celia was fascinated with the musty items in the attic, he doubted Sophia would wish to don them. “Dear, I’m sure Sophia’s gloves will do nicely.”

  The child nibbled on the corner of her lower lip. “Papa,” she said, her voice low, “why are none of Mama’s trunks in the attic?”

  His heart skipped a beat. How could he tell Celia her mama had never set foot in this house? No, that wasn’t true. Hard to forget how she’d called here after his father’s funeral. How he’d refused to see her, and then left for the Continent.

  What a fool he’d been.

  If only she’d brought Celia with her. If he’d seen the child’s face and her resemblance to his family . . . Ifs. His past remained full of ifs and second guesses. He blinked at the sudden sting in his eyes.

  “Papa?” the child prompted, drawing him from his thoughts.

  “Celia,” Sophia said as if she knew the child might be hurt by the truth, “I’d love to wear your grandmama’s muff. But we should get it now, for if we dawdle the snow may stop, and we will not get to taste the flakes as they fall.”

  The pensive look on Celia’s face vanished. “Taste the flakes?”

  “Have you never opened your mouth to let the flakes land upon your tongue?”

  “No, but I would like to. We shall see you later, Papa. We must hurry, if we are to taste the falling snow!”

  * * *

  On the fourth floor, Celia dashed to a door adjacent to the maids’ quarters and opened it. “This is the way to the attic.”

  Sophia surveyed the dim and narrow stairs. The speed of her heart escalated. She didn’t care to venture any place rodents favored nesting. At least, Albert was back in Celia’s room.

  “There are lots of treasures up here,” Celia said, smiling over her shoulder as she climbed the steps.

  Not wishing to disappoint the child, Sophia took a deep breath, lifted her hem, and followed. In the attic three oversize dormers stood watch over Brook Street. Their glass cast wide slashing bands of sunlight across most of the contents and the rough honey-colored beams and floor.

  Celia skipped toward several wooden trunks and knelt on a tattered linen pillow that rested on the floor near the smallest one. “These are my grandmama’s. I’m sure I saw a muff in here.”

  Heart still beating fast, Sophia scanned the floor as she moved to stand next to the trunk.

  Celia unlatched the brass lock and eagerly flipped open the lid, revealing a myriad of feathered and beribboned fripperies. As Celia eagerly tossed items to and fro, Sophia looked around the space. Besides the trunks, there was also a pair of ornate boulle tables with intricate marquetry and a gold rococo mirror adorned with ornate shells, its reflective surface marred by a thick skin of dust. Near the corner were several paintings tossed about. The fronts of their canvases faced the wall.

  A bolt of anger shot through her. Paintings were the sweat and blood of the artist. Something to be cherished, and if not to one’s liking, they were to be passed on to someone who could appreciate them—not left in such uncharitable surroundings.

  With hesitant steps, Sophia walked over to them. She flipped the first canvas around—a painting of Westfield in his youth, his eyes downcast as he peered at a hound. She examined it further. No, the breeches and intricately tied cravat dated the boy to an earlier time.

  “That’s my grandpapa,” Celia said, standing, a fur muff held in her hands. “He resembles Papa, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Sophia replied.

  “All those paintings are of him.” Celia motioned to them with a sweep of her hand.

  Sophia reached forward to turn the next portrait around, but stopped when she caught sight of a massive gilded frame leaning in the corner, nearly indiscernible in the shadows.

  The canvas was torn. No, not torn, but slashed as if someone had purposely destroyed it.

  Celia stepped next to her. “It used to hang in Papa’s study above the mantel.”

  Sophia ran her hand over the shredded canvas. The old earl’s face was unrecognizable as it hung in tattered strips from the carved frame. This was no accident. Someone had been angry. Enraged. “What happened?” she asked, turning to Celia.

  As if transfixed, Celia stared at the painting. Then she lifted the muff. “Here, I found it. This should keep your hands warm.” She stepped toward the stairs.

  Sophia stared at the tattered portrait a moment longer before following Celia.

  The child stepped onto the first tread and glanced back. “Papa did it.” Absently Celia ran her hand over the muff. “He had just brought me here to live in this house. He was yelling, and I came downstairs and saw him in the study. When Mrs. Beecham saw me, she brought me back to the nursery. Told me not to be frightened. She said my papa was a good man and he’d be right as ninepence in the morning.” She took a deep breath. “He doesn’t know I saw him.” She nibbled on the nail of her index finger. “You won’t tell him I remember?”

  What had the old earl done to cause his son to be so enraged? Sophia placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “No, Celia, I would not tell him unless you wished it. And I am sorry I asked about the painting. It wasn’t my place to do so.”

  Celia looked at her. Then, as children are apt to do, she appeared to forget what they’d been discussing, and she raced down the stairs, calling back, “We should hurry.”

  * * *

  With a grunt of disgust, Hayden tossed the latest edition of the Morning Post atop the slew of other dailies and periodicals strewn across the table in the morning room. It appeared the public had not yet lost its taste for tawdry details about his shooting. He was still front-page news in both the Times and the Illustrated London News, while Punch featured a less than favorable cartoon, portraying him as a wolfish caricature being shot by a caped woman who looked like an innocent rendition of a nursery rhyme character.

  Adele innocent? What a bloody joke. On their last assignation, the hellcat had produced a set of handcuffs and a whip she wished to use on him. He’d snatched the leather strap from her hand, opened the window, and flung it out, sending her into a tizzy.

  Outraged, she’d come after him hissing and clawing and drawing blood. Before he’d known what he was about, he grabbed the handcuffs from her, tossed her on the bed, and shackled one of her wrists to the headboard. By the time he’d finished, Adele had been purring and rubbing herself against him like an alley cat stroking a fishmonger’s leg. But instead of giving her the rutting she’d desired, he’d slipped from the bed, tossed her the key, and told her it was over between them.

  As he reached the door, Adele’s amorous mood had turned caustic, and she’d suggested he perform several physically impossible acts upon himself.

  Footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.

  “Is there anything you require?” Hawthorne asked, stepping into the room.

  Hayden gathered the newspapers up and handed them to the butler. “Yes, toss these in the grate.” He didn’t wish either Celia or Sophia to see the caricature.

  As Hawthorne rolled up each newspaper and set them on the hot coals, Hayden pondered why Sophia’s good opinion mattered. Taking a deep breath, he braced a hand on the table and stood. He grabbed his crutches and hobbled out of the room.

  He entered his ground-floor study and slumped into the large leather chair behind the desk. The sound of laughter and barking drifted through the windows. What in blazes were Sophia and Celia up to in the garden?

  The sounds quieted.

  “Hawthorne!”

  The butler appeared in the doorway. “Yes?”

  With his chin, Hayden motioned to the window. “What’s going on out there?”

  “It is snowing, my lord.”

  “Good God, man, I’m not blind. What I wish to know is what are Lady Celia and Miss Camden doing?”

  Hawthorne moved to the windows. The joyous sound of laughter returned. The butler smiled. “I believe they are making snow angels.”

  “
Snow angels?”

  “You are not familiar with them?” Hawthorne’s tone implied one who lacked such knowledge lived a deprived life.

  Hayden gritted his teeth and held his tongue.

  The butler scratched the back of his head. “It’s when one lies on the snow and . . .” He flapped his arms by his sides.

  The man looked mad. Hayden frowned.

  “You see,” Hawthorne continued, “when you move your arms against the snow it looks like an angel’s wings.” The man grinned as if pleased with his explanation.

  After lifting himself up onto his crutches, Hayden moved to the window. Both Celia and Sophia were lying on their backs in the snow, waving their arms back and forth as insanely as Hawthorne had.

  They stood, and he noted the angel-like impression they’d made in the light snow. Celia’s cheeks glowed and utter jubilance radiated across her young face. Laughing gaily, she grabbed Sophia’s hands and spun her in a circle while the dog barked at them.

  Sophia’s hat fell, and her long, heavy hair tumbled loose to sail in the air behind her. Hawthorne moved to stand next to him. As the butler gazed outside an expression of infatuation flickered across his face.

  “Hawthorne, stop drooling. You look like an overheated dog.”

  “I do not drool, my lord.” Hawthorne stiffened, grabbed the edge of his waistcoat, and tugged it down.

  Hayden stared at Celia. How happy she looked. Damnation, he needed to find her a new governess, someone like Sophia. He shook his head. When had Sophia Camden turned from adversary and imposition to something cherished—something he wanted?

  At that moment, Sophia turned to the window as if she sensed he watched her. She shaded her eyes with her hand and smiled.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  He turned away. She was not for him. She was naïve and proper, while he was soiled and debauched.

  * * *

  Like the last few mornings, Hayden awoke expecting to see Sophia’s delicate face peering at him. He glanced about his bedchamber. Where was she?

  Not wishing to analyze his disappointment, he shoved it aside and rubbed at the coarse morning bristle on his jaw. He reached for his crutches and blinked at the empty space.