Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Probably not," he agreed, a faint smile in his eyes. "I was a disgrace. During lessons, your father often referred to you as a model of saintly decorum. I hated you sight unseen."

  It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Hoping that it would irritate him, Clare said sweetly, "And to me, he said that you were the cleverest boy he had ever taught, and that you had a good heart in spite of your wildness."

  "Your father's judgment leaves much to be desired," the earl said, his momentary levity vanishing. "As the preacher's daughter, I assume you are seeking funds for some boring, worthy cause. Apply to my steward in the future rather than bothering me. Good day, Miss Morgan."

  He was starting to turn away when she said quickly, "What I wish to discuss is not a matter for your steward."

  His mobile lips twisted. "But you do want something, don't you? Everyone does."

  He strolled to a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled a glass that he had been carrying. "Whatever it is, you won't get it from me. Noblesse oblige was my grandfather's province. Kindly leave while the atmosphere is still civil."

  She realized uneasily that he was well on his way to being drunk. Well, she had dealt with drunks before. "Lord Aberdare, people in Penreith are suffering, and you are the only man in a position to make a difference. It will cost you very little in time or money..."

  "I don't care how little is involved," he said forcefully. "I don't want anything to do with the village, or the people who live in it! Is that clear? Now get the hell out."

  Clare felt her stubbornness rising. "I am not asking for your help, my lord, I am demanding it," she snapped. "Shall I explain now, or should I wait until you're sober?"

  He regarded her with amazement. "If anyone here is drunk, it would appear to be you. If you think your sex will protect you from physical force, you're wrong. Will you go quietly, or am I going to have to carry you out?" He moved toward her with purposeful strides, his white, open-throated shirt emphasizing the intimidating breadth of his shoulders.

  Resisting the impulse to back away, Clare reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out the small book that was her only hope. Opening the volume to the handwritten inscription, she held it up for him to see. "Do you remember this?"

  The message was a simple one. Reverend Morgan—I hope that some day I will be able to repay all you have done for me. Affectionately, Nicholas Davies.

  The schoolboy scrawl stopped the earl as if he had been struck. His wintry gaze shifted from the book to Clare's face. "You play to win, don't you? However, you're holding the wrong hand. Any obligation I might feel would be toward your father. If he wants favors, he should ask for them in person."

  "He can't," she said baldly. "He died two years ago."

  After an awkward silence, the earl said, "I'm sorry, Miss Morgan. Your father was probably the only truly good man I've ever known."

  "Your grandfather was also a good man. He did a great deal for the people of Penreith. The poor fund, the chapel..."

  Before Clare could list other examples of the late earl's charity, Nicholas interrupted her. "Spare me. I know that my grandfather dearly loved setting a moral example for the lower orders, but that holds no appeal for me."

  "At least he took his responsibilities seriously," she retorted. "You haven't done a thing for the estate or the village since you inherited."

  "A record I have every intention of maintaining." He finished his drink and set the glass down with a clink. "Neither your father's good example nor the old earl's moralizing succeeded in transforming me into a gentleman. I don't give a damn about anyone or anything, and I prefer it that way."

  She stared at him, shocked. "How can you say such a thing? No one is that callous."

  "Ah, Miss Morgan, your innocence is touching." He leaned against the edge of the table and folded his arms across his broad chest, looking as diabolical as his nickname. "You had better leave before I shatter any more of your illusions."

  "Don't you care that your neighbors are suffering?"

  "In a word, no. The Bible says that the poor will always be with us, and if Jesus couldn't change that, I certainly can't." He gave her a mocking smile. "With the possible exception of your father, I've never met a man of conspicuous charity who didn't have base motives. Most who make a show of generosity do it because they crave the gratitude of their inferiors and the satisfactions of self-righteousness. At least I, in my honest selfishness, am not a hypocrite."

  "A hypocrite can do good even if his motives are unworthy, which makes him more valuable than someone with your brand of honesty," she said dryly. "But as you wish. Since you don't believe in charity, what do you care about? If money is what warms your heart, there is profit to be made in Penreith."

  He shook his head. "Sorry, I don't care much about money, either. I already have more than I could spend in ten lifetimes."

  "How nice for you," she muttered under her breath. She wished that she could turn and walk out, but to do so would be to admit defeat, and she had never been good at that. Thinking that there had to be some way to reach him, she asked, "What would it take to change your mind?"

  "My help is not available for any price you would be willing or able to pay."

  "Try me."

  Attention caught, he scanned her from head to foot with insulting frankness. "Is that an offer?"

  He had meant to shock her, and he had succeeded; she turned a hot, humiliated red. But she did not avert her eyes. "If I said yes, would that persuade you to help Penrieth?"

  He regarded her with astonishment. "My God, you would actually let me ruin you if that would advance your schemes?"

  "If I was sure it would work, yes," she said recklessly. "My virtue and a few minutes of suffering would be a small price to pay when set against starving families and the lives that will be lost when the Penreith mine explodes."

  A flicker of interest showed in his eyes, and for a moment he seemed on the verge of asking her to elaborate. Then his expression blanked again. "Though it's an interesting offer, bedding a female who would carry on like Joan of Arc going to the stake doesn't appeal to me."

  She arched her brows. "I thought that rakes enjoyed seducing the innocent."

  "Personally, I've always found innocence boring. Give me a woman of experience any time."

  Ignoring his comment, she said thoughtfully, "I can see that a plain woman would not tempt you, but surely beauty would overcome your boredom. There are several very lovely girls in the village. Shall I see if one of them would be willing to sacrifice her virtue in a good cause?"

  In one swift movement, he stepped close and caught her face between his hands. There was brandy on his breath and his hands seemed unnaturally warm, almost scalding where they touched. She flinched, then forced herself to stand utterly still as he scrutinized her face with eyes that seemed capable of seeing the dark secrets of her soul. When she was certain that she could bear his perusal no longer, he said slowly, "You are nowhere near as plain as you pretend to be."

  His hands dropped, leaving her shaken.

  To her relief, he moved away and retrieved his glass, then poured more brandy. "Miss Morgan, I don't need money, I can find all of the women I want without your inept help, and I have no desire to destroy my hard-earned reputation by becoming associated with good works. Now will you leave peacefully, or must I use force?"

  She was tempted to turn and flee. Instead she said doggedly, "You still haven't named a price for your aid. There must be something. Tell me, and perhaps I can meet it."

  With a sigh, he dropped onto the sofa and studied her from a safe distance. Clare Morgan was small and rather slight of build, but she forcefully occupied the space where she stood. A formidable young woman. Her abilities had probably been honed while organizing her otherworldly lather.

  Though no one would call her a beauty, she was not unattractive in spite of her best efforts at severity. Her simple garments emphasized the neatness of her figure, and skinning her dark hair back had the paradoxical
effect of making her intensely blue eyes seem enormous. Her fair skin had the alluring smoothness of sun-warmed silk; his fingers still tingled from feeling the pulse of blood in her temples.

  No, not a beauty, but memorable, and not only for her stubbornness. Though she was a damned nuisance, he had to admire her courage in coming here. God knew what stories circulated about him in the valley, but the locals probably saw him as a major menace to body and soul. Yet here she was, with her passionate caring and her bold demands. However, her timing was dismal, for she was trying to involve him with a place and people that he had already decided he must forsake.

  A pity he hadn't started on the brandy earlier. If he had, he might have been safely unconscious by the time his unwelcome visitor had arrived. Even if he forcibly ejected her, she would likely continue her campaign to enlist his aid, since she seemed convinced that he was Penrieth's only hope. He began speculating about what she wanted of him, then stopped when he caught himself doing it. The last thing he wanted was involvement. Far better to bend his brandy-hazed brain to the question of how to convince her that her mission was hopeless.

  But what the devil could be done with a woman who was willing to endure a fate worse than death in pursuit of her goals? What could he ask that would be so shocking that she would flatly refuse to consider doing it?

  The answer came to him with the simplicity of perfection. Like her father, she would be a Methodist, part of a close community of sober, virtuous believers. Her status, her whole identity, would depend on how her fellows saw her.

  Triumphantly he settled back and prepared to rid himself of Clare Morgan. "I've a price, but it's one you won't pay."

  Warily she said, "What is it?"

  "Don't worry—your grudgingly offered virtue is safe. Taking it would be tedious for me, and you'd probably enjoy becoming a martyr to my wicked lusts. What I want instead"—he paused for a deep swallow of brandy—"is your reputation."

  Chapter 2

  "My reputation?" Clare said blankly. "What on earth do you mean by that?"

  Looking vastly pleased with himself, the earl said, "If you will live with me for, say, three months, I will help your village to the best of my abilities."

  She felt a clutch of fear. In spite of her bold words, she had never imagined that he might have a shred of interest in her. "In spite of the boredom you would have to endure," she said with defensive sarcasm, "you want me to become your mistress?"

  "Not unless you do so willingly, which I don't expect to happen—you seem far too rigid to allow yourself to enjoy the sins of the flesh." His gaze moved over her again, this time with cool speculation. "Though if you changed your mind during the three months, I would be delighted to accommodate you. I've never had a virtuous Methodist schoolmistress. Would bedding one bring me closer to heaven?"

  "You are outrageous!"

  "Thank you. I try." He swallowed another mouthful of brandy. "To return to the subject at hand, though you would live here in a way that would make you appear to be my mistress, you would not actually have to lie with me."

  "What would be the point of such a charade?" she asked, relieved but bewildered.

  "I want to see how far you are willing to go to get what you want. If you accept my proposition, your precious village may benefit, but you'll never be able to lift your head there again, for your reputation will be destroyed. Would success be worth such a price? Would your neighbors forgive your fall from grace even though they benefited by it? An interesting question, but if I were you, I wouldn't trust too much in their good will."

  Finally comprehending, she said tightly, "This is only a meaningless game to you, isn't it?"

  "Games are never meaningless. Of course, they do require rules. What should the rules be here?" His brows drew together. "Let's see... The basic terms would be my help in return for your presence under my roof, and ostensibly in my bed. A successful seduction would be in the nature of a side bet—a bonus that would be enjoyed by both of us. In order to give me a sporting chance at seducing you, I would be permitted to kiss you once a day, in a place and time of my choosing. Any love play beyond that would be by mutual consent.

  "However, after that one kiss, you would have the right to say no, and I could not touch you again until the next day. After three months you would go home, while I would continue my aid as long as it was needed." He frowned. "Dangerous—if I let you draw me into your schemes, I might not be free of the valley for the rest of my life. Still, it's only fair that I risk something significant, since you will lose so much if you accept my proposal."

  "The whole idea is absurd!"

  He gave her a look of cherubic innocence. "On the contrary, I think it would be quite amusing—I'm almost sorry that you won't agree. But the price is too high, isn't it? Your virginity could be sacrificed with no one the wiser, but reputation is a fragile, public commodity, easily lost, impossible to regain." He made a graceful, dismissive gesture with his free hand. "Now that I have established the limits of your desire for martyrdom, I shall ask you once more to leave. I assume you will not trouble me again."

  He had the wickedly self-satisfied expression of a Gypsy horsetrader who had just sold a broken-winded beast for five times its value. The sight caused Clare's temper to flare violently out of control. He was so arrogant, so uncaring, so utterly sure that he had bested her....

  Too furious to care about consequences, she snapped, "Very well, my lord. I accept your proposal. My reputation in return for your help."

  For a moment there was stunned silence. Then he sat bolt upright on the sofa. "You can't mean that! You would incur the scorn of your friends and neighbors, possibly be forced to leave Penreith, certainly lose your teaching position. Would it be worth sacrificing the life you've known for the fleeting pleasure of confounding me?"

  "The reason I am agreeing to your proposal is to help my friends, though I won't deny that it pleases me to puncture your arrogance," she said coldly. "Moreover, I think you are wrong—a reputation that has been twenty-six years in the making may be less fragile than you think. I will tell my friends exactly what I am doing, and why, and hope that they will trust me to behave as I should. If my faith is misplaced and this game of yours costs me the life I have known..." She hesitated, then shrugged, her lips thin. "So be it."

  Helplessly he said, "What would your father have said?"

  The power had shifted to Clare, and it was a heady feeling. "What he always said. That it is a Christian's duty to serve others even if the personal cost is high, and that behavior is a matter between oneself and God."

  "If you do this, you will regret it," he said with conviction.

  "Perhaps, but if I don't, I will regret my cowardice more." Her eyes narrowed. "Is the great sportsman suddenly afraid to play a game he designed himself?"

  Almost before she finished speaking, he was off the sofa and halfway across the room. He halted a yard away, his black eyes glittering. "Very well, Miss Morgan. Or no, I suppose I must call you Clare, since you are very nearly my mistress. You will get what you wanted. Take the rest of the day to settle your affairs in the village. I shall expect you here tomorrow morning." His gaze raked over her, this time critically. "Don't bother to bring much clothing. I'll be taking you to London, where you can be properly outfitted."

  "London? Your obligations are here." Though it felt like appalling impertinence, she forced herself to add, "Nicholas."

  "Don't worry," he said shortly. "I shall fulfill my part of the bargain."

  "But don't you want to know what needs to be done?"

  "There will be time enough for that tomorrow." Relaxed again, he took a lazy step that brought them so close they were almost touching.

  Clare's heart accelerated as she wondered if he intended to collect his first kiss. His overpowering nearness cut through the wrath that had sustained her so far. Uneasily she said, "I'll be off now. I've much to do."

  "Not quite yet." He gave her a slow, dangerous smile. "We shall be seeing a great
deal of each other over the next three months. Isn't it time to begin developing a closer acquaintance?"

  He started to raise his hands, and she almost jumped out of her skin. Pausing, he said softly, "Perhaps your reputation is capable of surviving three months under my roof, but will you yourself be able to endure it?"

  She licked suddenly dry lips, then colored when she saw him watching her slight, nervous movement. Trying to sound confident, she said, "I can endure whatever I must."

  "I'm sure you can," he agreed. "My aim will be to teach you to enjoy it."

  To her surprise, he didn't try to kiss her. Instead, he lifted his hands to her head and began drawing the pins from her hair. She became painfully aware of his intense, unnerving masculinity; of his deft fingers, and the triangle of tanned skin visible at the open throat of his shirt. Underlying the tang of brandy, he had a scent that made her think of piney forests and wild, fresh wind from the sea.

  Pulse hammering, she held very still as the thick coils of her hair suddenly spilled free in an unruly torrent that fell past her waist. He lifted a handful of hair and let it drift through his fingers like thistledown. "It's never been cut?" When she shook her head, he murmured, "Lovely. Dark chocolate with a hint of red cinnamon. Is the rest of you like this, Clare—primly controlled, yet with hidden fire?"

  Completely demoralized, she said hastily, "I'll see you tomorrow, my lord."

  When she tried to twist away, he caught her wrist. Before she could panic, he lifted her hand and pressed the hair pins into her palm, then released her. "Until tomorrow."

  Placing his hand in the small of her back, he guided her to the door. Before opening it, he looked down into her face, his mood shifting from teasing to complete seriousness. "If you decide not to go through with this, I won't think less of you."

  Was he reading her mind, or did he merely understand human nature too well? Clare opened the door and bolted from the room. Fortunately, Williams was not around to see her disheveled hair and flaming cheeks. If he did, he would surely think...