The Seduction of an Earl

by Linda Rae Sande

  “Of course.” He turned from having winked at his wife to regard Henry, his brows furrowing. “Why do you ask?” he wondered, his question drawn out as if he was suspicious of Henry’s motive for asking.

  “The Marquess of Devonville claims Aldenwood is predicting a colder than usual growing season ...”

  “Because?” George drained his champagne, his manner even more serious.

  Suddenly embarrassed at having brought up the topic, Henry was about to ask that the viscount forget the question when he realized George really wanted to know.

  “He paid witness to a volcano erupting somewhere near Australia. Apparently, the ... volcanic ash and ... debris, dust, whatnot ... from that explosion and some others that happened before that one ... it’s all still in the air, blocking some of the sun’s heat from reaching land. Aldenwood has said the summer won’t be warm enough for crops to grow and there will likely be a famine as a result.”

  “Jesus,” George breathed, his eyes focused internally. He shook his head. “You would think, that as an owner of three coal mines, I might welcome the opportunity to sell more coal in the summer,” he commented with a hint of wonder in his voice, “But if there is a famine as a result of crop failures, no one will be able to afford coal, much less any food that is available. The prices would be too high.” He rolled his eyes before turning them onto Henry. He studied the earl’s face. “Do you ... believe the prediction?” he asked, his brows furrowing.

  Henry shrugged, not wanting to seem gullible. What if Aldenwood was wrong and the growing season was like any other? He would look like a fool if he spent too much preparing for a possible shortage of food for his tenants.

  But what if Aldenwood wasn’t wrong?

  “I think I must,” Henry said with a sigh. “At least, I must prepare as if the growing season will be poor. To do otherwise condemns my tenants to possible hardship in the fall and winter.”

  Nodding, George seemed to agree. “What will you do?”

  Pressing his lips into a thin line, Henry took a deep breath. “I have already planned irrigation ditches to drain excess water from the fields and provide a means to irrigate when it is dry. I have two large fields scheduled to be fallow. If I build greenhouses on them, at least there will be a way to ensure some food.”

  Biting his lower lip, George raised his gaze to one of the chandeliers overhead. “A capital idea,” he said with a bit of awe. “I believe I shall do the same. If it comes to pass that the weather is fine, then I shall always have a greenhouse in which to grow flowers for my wife,” he reasoned, his attention once again on the auburn-haired beauty who stood with Lady Hannah.

  Henry’s eyes followed George’s, but his gaze rested on Hannah. “You have a very beautiful wife,” Henry remarked as they helped themselves to more drinks from a passing footman.

  “Thank you,” George replied, his attention finally returning to Henry when he’d caught Lady Bostwick’s eye and winked in her direction. “I fell in love with her six months, two weeks and four days ago,” he spoke in reverent tones. “And I thank my lucky star every day. She almost ended up married to a pompous ass of an earl hell-bent on ruining her father,” he spoke as his eyebrow cocked up in a manner suggesting he was not the woman’s first choice as a husband.

  A bit surprised by George’s comment, Henry wondered how the man had managed to usurp an earl in Lady Elizabeth’s estimation. He was a viscount, after all, and Henry rather doubted he was due to inherit an earldom. “If I may say so, she seems to show a great deal of affection toward you,” Henry commented, his own gaze turning to Hannah’s figure. When she bent over just a bit to hear something another chit was saying, the shape of her bottom was suddenly silhouetted in the fabric of her gown. Henry had to suppress a groan and bite the inside of his cheek to tamp down what was about to come up.

  “You may say so,” George replied happily. “There is much to be said for marrying for love. We of the ton seem to have it all wrong, sometimes. Unions of convenience must be ... unsatisfying in so many ways. And the children born from them cannot be happy knowing their parents are spending their lives bed hopping. No, I am quite happy with my wife.”

  The lifted eyebrow as he mentioned this last bit made it quite clear to Henry that Lady Bostwick’s beauty was not the only reason George was happy. He thought of Sarah and how strained their relationship had become over the past few months. “May I ask as to ... how it is you stay happy with one another?” he ventured, casting another quick glance in the direction of Lady Hannah, as if to make sure he was keeping track of her whereabouts. The orchestra had started to play another tune, but it was a prelude to the dancing music, so no couples yet formed on the floor.

  George was smiling. He had seen Henry look after Hannah several times during their conversation. “We share a bed. Every night,” he replied quietly. “We make love as often as possible and wherever we wish. I bring her a gift every fortnight or so, although she does not ask for baubles or gold. We take a drive in a park once a day, even if it’s raining. And I allow her to run her charity, although I have seen to it she has trustworthy men on her staff and protection on the days when she is in the office and I cannot not be with her.” After a moment, he added, “Oh, and we tell one another of our love and adoration at least once a day.”

  The viscount’s prescription for a happy marriage was both a surprise and a source of embarrassment for Henry. The earl struggled to prevent the blush he knew was suffusing his face. “So obvious and yet ...” He tried to find a suitable word to use to indicate the rarity of what George described. He felt suddenly emboldened by the information, knowing he could probably renew his relationship with Sarah if he were to employ the same approach with her.

  “Unfamiliar to so many,” the viscount finished for him. He nodded toward where the women were still conversing with friends. “When will you be marrying Lady Hannah?”

  Henry blinked at the bold question, surprised enough that he thought to admonish George. He was suddenly embarrassed by his thoughts of Sarah when the young woman he intended to ask to be his wife stood so near. But the man had been blunt enough with him that he should not have been surprised by the question. “I only asked permission to court her this morning,” Henry answered with a shrug. At George’s impish grin, he added, “I was considering as soon as this evening,” he admitted then, wondering if it was entirely too early. “Is that entirely too early?” he asked in a teasing voice.

  Smiling, George shook his head. “Her father wants to see her settled so he can see to his own life,” he said as he motioned for them to retrieve the women. “He has been calling on a widow for a fortnight,” he added, a glint of humor reaching his eyes, as if the idea of the marquess calling on a widow was somehow scandalous.

  “Lady Winslow?” Henry guessed, remembering how the marquess had hurried to the woman’s side when they first arrived.

  George was smiling. “Yes.” He sidled up to his wife and placed a kiss on her ear. “My love, it is time to dance,” he said in a voice loud enough for the young matrons in the group to hear. A round of embarrassed titters erupted from the women. Henry took the opportunity to offer his arm to Hannah. After a startled pause, she put her own on it, said her pardons to those whose eyes had lit up with curiosity, and left the group with her escort.

  “Take a turn with me?” Henry suggested, deciding he would ask for Hannah’s hand once they were beyond the ballroom.

  “Of course,” Hannah said with a smile, her dimple appearing briefly. They walked in silence for several moments as the orchestra completed its prelude and began tuning for the dance music. “It appeared as if you had an opportunity to speak with Lord Bostwick,” she half-questioned, noting the crowd had increased to nearly fill the ballroom. Lady Attenborough had every right to be proud of hosting a crush this early in the Season.

  “I did. He is a very interesting man,” Henry commented. The viscount had given him much to consider, and despite his not asking for direct advice, Hen
ry felt he knew what he had to do when he returned to Oxfordshire.

  When the couple was opposite a set of open French doors, Henry motioned toward them. “Would you like to take a turn in the gardens?”

  Hannah regarded him with a lifted eyebrow. Did he intend to kiss her so early in the evening? The ball had barely begun! “Certainly,” she agreed, allowing him to lead her onto the flagstone terrace. The pace he’d set in the ballroom remained the same once they were out of doors. Despite the days being chillier than usual, the night air felt comfortable enough for a walk.

  “Are you warm enough?” Henry asked, glad there were paper lanterns to light the path from the terrace into the gardens below and off to the side of the estate.

  “Yes, thank you,” Hannah replied, her nostrils filling with the scent of newly turned earth and the few blossoms that had managed to bloom in the cooler weather.

  Henry glanced about, certain no one else had taken their leave of the house. “I wish to thank you for securing an invitation for me to attend this evening,” he managed to get out, his nervousness increasing with each step they took.

  “It was no trouble,” Hannah replied, sensing his growing unease. “I was surprised the Attenboroughs knew you. Why didn’t you mention it earlier?” she wondered, curious as to why he would keep his history with the elderly couple a secret.

  “I didn’t know. I ... I didn’t recognize the name when you mentioned it, and it wasn’t until Lady Attenborough looked at me with such delight that I figured out she must have known me when I was a child.” The path continued around some dormant rose bushes and under an arched trellis. Within moments, they were out of sight of the ballroom. “George was quite right when he mentioned you looked like Sleeping Beauty this evening.” He felt more than heard Hannah’s gasp of surprise. “From the moment I first saw you, I thought you looked like a fairy princess.”

  Hannah gave him a tentative smile, her gaze on his profile quickly turning away when he glanced over at her. “Just so you are aware, I am not endowed with any magical powers,” she said, hoping to deflect whatever platitudes he was about to say regarding her appearance.

  “Oh, I disagree.”

  Hannah paused in mid-step, forcing Henry to turn and stand in front of her. “Indeed?” she replied uncertainly. She couldn’t decide whether to offer him a smile at his tease or keep her face impassive. Whatever did he mean by such a comment? The flutterbies had suddenly returned to her belly. She could feel her breasts swelling against her corset, her nipples responding as if his fingers had delved past the edge of her bodice and touched them.

  “You have bewitched me since our time in the parlor this morning,” he countered quietly, not wanting to admit she had done so the night before while playing with her giant dog. “I ... I know I only just asked you if I might court you, but now I wish to ask you for your hand in marriage. Lady Hannah, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” He lowered himself to one knee during his question while he removed his new ruby signet ring from a waistcoat pocket. Holding up the ring, he was disappointed it wouldn’t be visible in the dim light of the lanterns.

  Hannah stood very still, her heart beating so fast she was sure he could hear it. “Oh, Gisborn,” she breathed. This was so unexpected! She thought he’d brought her out to the garden to kiss her – not to propose! But how to answer? Certainly she always intended to say, ‘yes’ to a proposal as romantic as this one. “I ... I ...” Placing an open hand against her bosom, she lowered her face to his. “Yes,” she said with a nod. And then her lips were on his, inviting him to kiss her as he rose from this knees and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. His lips never left hers, their hold gentle but possessive, his tongue tasting the champagne and a hint of strawberries that lingered in her mouth. A moment more and Hannah’s fingers were at the nape of his neck. As Henry’s hands slid from her shoulders to her waist, his thumbs brushed along the sides of her breasts, sending shivers of pleasure though her very core, their intensity so surprising and so delightful her mouth broke with his for a moment so she could breathe. And then they were kissing once again.

  “If there was a vicar in attendance, I would insist he marry us this instant,” Henry spoke against her lips, thinking he could remove her gown and bed her within the hour. For a moment, he was stunned to hear the words, stunned he had been the one to say them. But lust was a powerful feeling. That’s all it was, he told himself. He loved someone else, although damn him to hell, he couldn’t think of her name.

  Gratified he would say such a thing, Hannah feigned surprise, her mouth molding to his until she had to break from him. “Must we wait three weeks?” she countered, surprised she would sound so impatient, so wanton. Banns needed to be read, after all. A wedding had to be planned. But she was wishing he would move his hands back to the sides of her breasts. What had happened a moment ago? The sensation had been so delicious, so amazing. But his hands had moved to below her waist, sliding over the curve of her bottom and the back of her thigh. How scandalous this was! If she didn’t stop it, he might have her gown pushed up her legs, his hands directly on her heated skin, sliding up her thigh, up to that place where she was turning into molten lava.

  Henry’s quick shake of his head could be felt though his kiss. A guttural sound erupted from him. “No. I obtained a special license today,” he spoke, again with his lips still against hers.

  The information seemed to bring Hannah back to reality. “Today?” she murmured, her lips rejoining his in a mutual feast.

  “Hmm,” he replied, finally trailing his kisses down her throat and to her collarbone. “I had to,” he murmured. “Bewitched, I tell you,” he spoke into the hollow of her throat.

  Hannah giggled at the tickling sensation his lips created against the spot where her pulse raged, her head thrown back as she cradled his head in her hands. She could never have imagined such pleasures from kissing. And if this was how Henry kissed, how would he behave in their marriage bed? Something skittered beneath her skin, sending a wave of pleasure through her. Awareness of everything around her was suddenly sharp, her senses awakened with his every kiss, his every caress. “Gisborn!” she whispered, suddenly aware they were no longer alone. When he didn’t stop his gentle nips and kisses, she moved one hand to the side of his face and chin and lifted his head away from her.

  He groaned his disappointment and then was suddenly standing straight, a look of guilt etched on his features as he pulled his hands from around Hannah’s body and took one of her hands in his.

  George and Elizabeth stood only a few feet away, their bodies pressed against one another as they, too, kissed behind the hedgerow. And although they seemed involved enough in one another to not take notice of Hannah and Henry, George suddenly pulled his head away from his wife’s kiss, turned, and nodded in their direction. “If best wishes are in order, then please accept them,” he whispered hoarsely, before returning his amorous attentions to his wife.

  Glad for the darkness hiding her reddening face, Hannah suppressed the urge to giggle. She instead lay her head against Henry’s chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you, George,” she murmured.

  Stunned at being caught, and even more surprised by the viscount’s reaction, Henry lowered his lips to kiss the top of Hannah’s curls. “My lady, I do believe you owe me this dance,” he said.

  The Marquess of Devonville awoke to an unfamiliar sensation. And a familiar scent. Lilac. Cherice Dubois, Lady Winslow, was using her tongue to amazing affect on one of his nipples. Could the woman be ready for him again ... already? I’m too old for this, he thought as he felt the fingers of one of her hands splay over his chest and travel ever so lightly down his torso, their nails occasionally scraping his skin and sending shock waves of pleasure coursing through him. He was surprised when her fingers curled around his hardening shaft. Or, perhaps not, he amended his thought, realizing he was already recovered enough to bury his manhood in her warm, welcoming sheath at least one more time. Just the though
t of spending every night with Cherice was enough to make him ready for her.

  The younger widow was obviously not shy in the bedroom, a trait he wondered about when he first called on her. She’d only been out of widow’s weeds for a fortnight. He’d kept track of when Winslow had died, timing his visit to ensure he would be the first, and with luck, the only gentleman caller she would entertain. She offered tea and he accepted. He offered a ride in the park and she accepted. She wondered if he would be at the ball. He said he would be; he lived across the street and could hardly decline the invitation. She said she would save him a dance. He asked for all of them. She smiled at him, her gaze quite telling through her long, dark lashes. “All of them?” she had repeated, her large, green eyes suggesting a demure demeanor.

  And then the minx had agreed! So much for her being demure.

  Had anyone taken notice of them, at least when they weren’t hiding behind a potted palm or a hedgerow in the garden, they would have been quite convinced Lady Winslow would soon be the Marchioness of Devonville. Much like the two in question were convinced Lady Hannah was about to become the Countess of Gisborn when they were on their way to hide behind a hedgerow and noticed the Earl of Gisborn kneeling before Devonville’s daughter.

  Devonville hadn’t watched beyond the moment he saw Hannah give her obvious answer of ‘yes,’ but Lady Winslow had sighed with such heartfelt joy, Devonville wondered if it had been a mistake not to ask for her hand at that very moment. But the marquess wanted his daughter settled before he remarried, and Cherice seemed more interested in a tête-à-tête that involved more kissing than conversation. He had to accommodate her, of course, even if Lord and Lady Bostwick had decided to carry on their mutual affection only a few feet away.