by Gina Lamm
“My father was not an easy man, but he impressed upon me the need for circumspection, for gentlemanly behavior.” Patrick reached into his pocket and pulled his watch free, rubbing the face with his thumb absently. “I have lived my life by that code for as long as I can remember. But don’t you see, Ella? It has all gone wrong.”
He dropped the watch back into his pocket and stepped close to her.
“Ever since that night I found you, I have fought myself, and it is wrong. My name is being bandied about in the papers as all of society thinks me to be an abductor of young women, but the truth of it is, there is a young woman right here that I find myself enamored of.”
Ella’s heart beat faster, but she was scared to say anything that might interrupt the most honest speech she’d ever heard come from Patrick’s lips. So she stood there, silent as a statue, waiting for him to finish.
His palm slid up her neck, stopping as he cupped her cheek. She looked up into his eyes, afraid to breathe.
“Ella,” he said, bringing his other hand up to her face. “I have wanted you like I never have another.”
“And I want you,” she finally whispered back. “So what is our problem?”
He moved closer even as he whispered, “This is wrong. We come from different… We cannot…”
But apparently they could, because he kissed her then, and Ella’s confusion fled in the heat of their passion.
It didn’t matter. The reasons why they couldn’t didn’t matter then.
All Ella knew was she wanted him, he wanted her, and together they were magic.
It was all that mattered.
* * *
He’d lost all sense. That was the only thing Patrick could think as he bent down and crushed his lips against Ella’s. Her hungry body pressed against him, the skin of her cheeks soft and hot against his palms.
The delicious fog of lust descended on him, and he was no longer a gentleman bedeviled by his position, by his feelings for a woman wholly unsuitable, one not even from his own century. Now he was a creature of pure instinct as he indulged his hungry hands and let them feel their way over her beautiful body.
The first thing he did was untie that silly shawl. The delicate lace that had lain over her lovely bosom showcased more than it hid. But now that it was gone, there was only the soft skin of her chest beneath his hands.
Lovely, that.
As his fingers found her nipple through the fabric of her gown, she gasped into his mouth, and he took the opportunity to enter her mouth with his tongue. She tasted sweet. He possessed her hungrily, his sweeps and advances meeting salvo after salvo with her own, as if she burned for him as much as he for her.
He could not wait. He would not. Gripping the skirt of her dress, he lifted his head just long enough to pull the offending garment from her body and toss it aside.
“Patrick, what are you doing?” Her surprised gasp echoed in the breakfast room.
“I cannot wait,” he said, repeating the motion with her shift, then removing her drawers. She stood there in naught but stockings and slippers, and never had a sight so delicious been seen in the morning glow of the breakfast room.
“But what if someone comes in?”
“They won’t.”
And he was reasonably certain that was the truth. Iain had left at first light, Cook was off to market with Mrs. Templeton in tow, and Sharpwicke was down in the stables on an errand Patrick himself had set him to. The footman was the only variable, and if the boy had any sense, he’d not step foot in this room.
Patrick prided himself on having a staff with great sense.
Ella shifted her weight, and Patrick groaned at the beautiful sight. Her skin looked golden in the morning light, her dusky nipples jutting out proudly. Her hands at her sides, her chin held high, she said not a word. She looked like a pagan goddess. Well, a pagan goddess in slightly saggy stockings and slippers.
She was perfect.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her again, this time making full use of her nudity as his hands roamed her skin. That curve of her hip, the full flesh of her buttocks… He kneaded and squeezed and pressed her hard against him. There never was such a beautiful feeling as Ella’s naked body, he decided as he cupped her breast and kissed her harder. Never.
Lifting her, he set her on the table well to the side of her mostly untouched plate. Eggs on her naked back would hardly be an aphrodisiac—although if the aching hardness at his groin was any indication, it wouldn’t be a deterrent either.
“Are you going to get naked too?” She propped herself up on one elbow, smiling at him. Her coiffure was sagging on one side, the tail end of one green ribbon dusting her cheek. She’d never looked more decadent—or more lovely.
“I’d like nothing more,” Patrick said with a grin of his own. He pulled his coat free, pressing a kiss to her bare belly as he did so. She laughed, a joyous sound that warmed him all the way to his toes. But as his fingers worked on the buttons of his waistcoat, his kisses trailed a bit lower, toward the nest of curls at the base of her belly, and her laughs turned to hungry moans.
Jerking the waistcoat off, he tossed it aside. Ella reached up and began to destroy the delicate knot he’d created in his cravat that morning, and he worked at the buttons of his breeches. Soon, he would be as nude as her, and then he’d stand between her beautiful thighs and press into her welcoming warmth…
They both froze as a loud pounding started at the front door.
“Fairhaven! I know you are here, you damned cur!”
“Crap,” Ella said, her eyes wide as she scrambled to sit up. Patrick jerked his breeches back into position, anxious fingers fumbling on the buttons.
“Fairhaven! I demand you face me!”
“It’s Brownstone,” Patrick said grimly as he helped Ella to her feet. “Hide. I must speak with him.”
“But, Patrick, he might—”
“He will behave as a gentleman, trust me. Hide.” Patrick pressed a quick kiss to Ella’s forehead just as hasty footsteps sounded outside the room.
The footman’s voice was almost a squeak as Patrick’s hand closed over the breakfast room’s door handle. “My lord Brownstone! Hello, I must see if the earl is at home—”
“Of course he’s home, you little pup, and now he shall answer to me for ruining my daughter.”
As Patrick pulled open the door, a red-faced Lord Brownstone nearly plowed into him.
The baron was a full head shorter than Patrick, but he was almost as round as he was tall. His bald pate was mottled red with temper, his cheeks trembling with rage as he glared up at Patrick and brandished a wicked-looking pistol.
“You sniveling blackguard! My precious daughter is here in your home. Do not dare deny it!”
“It is lovely to see you as well, my lord Brownstone,” Patrick said mildly. “Do come in.”
“Don’t play the fool with me, boy. She is here and I shall find her, make no mistake!”
The baron shoved by Patrick and stalked into the breakfast room. Patrick’s heart sped with alarm.
“Brownstone, you are overset. Amelia is not here, and she has never been. Come with me into the sitting room and have a glass of brandy. We can discuss Amelia’s possible whereabouts and—”
“The hell you say. If she is not here”—the baron bent by Ella’s plate and Patrick’s blood went icy—“then what the devil is this?”
Ella’s dress dangled from the baron’s meaty fist.
Patrick’s mind flew, trying to calculate a response far enough from the truth to protect Ella’s reputation but close enough to be believable.
“I’ll find her,” the baron growled, bending low. Patrick moved between the man and the table to block his view, but he wasn’t quick enough. A pale foot moved past the edge as Ella drew back.
At the baron’s strangled gasp, Patr
ick turned just in time to see a naked streak of womanhood dashing from the room.
“You disreputable swine!” Crushing the gown in his grip, Lord Brownstone flew around the table and stopped directly in front of the younger man, pointing the gun at his chest. “I don’t care if you are a bloody earl. You’ll wed her immediately, you despoiler of virgins!”
“But…but that’s not Amelia!”
“Do not worry, my girl,” the baron yelled, shaking the gown toward the ceiling. “He shall marry you. I’ll arrange for the special license at once. No daughter of mine will be dishonored in such a way!”
“It’s not Amelia, Lord Brownstone. That isn’t your daughter. It’s—”
The baron stalked from the room, and in his place appeared three burly footmen wearing the Brownstone livery. They glowered down at Patrick, obviously meaning to keep him from doing a runner in the baron’s absence. In a state of pure shock, Patrick sank down into his chair.
What the devil had just happened?
Twenty-Three
“Crap,” Ella said to herself as she flew up the stairs like her bare ass was on fire. “Crap, crap, crap!”
The baron was yelling something after her, but her heart was pounding so hard in her ears, she really couldn’t have said what it was.
Slamming Patrick’s bedroom door shut behind her, she leaned against the cold wood and tried to catch her breath.
“Good God,” she breathed, letting her head thump back against the door. “This is a nightmare.”
She didn’t have long, she knew that. She had to get dressed and get back down there, show the baron that Patrick hadn’t done anything wrong, that Amelia wasn’t here, and that there was nothing to be pissed at Patrick for. Well, nothing more than typical male pigheadedness, she conceded as she pulled on a pink, sprigged muslin gown. This one fit much better in the chest, but the neckline was still kind of low. It didn’t matter. She was covered now, at least.
The thought of her streaker imitation caused her cheeks to heat, but she shoved the embarrassment down and adjusted the pins in her hair. It didn’t matter how many strangers had seen her bare ass. Patrick was in trouble, and it was up to her to get him out of it.
The door squeaked open softly, and Ella stilled her breath as she listened at the crack. Nothing. The house was as silent as a grave. Maybe that wasn’t the best choice of words—Ella shivered as she thought of the way the baron had brandished that pistol. She’d watched from underneath the table until the baron had bent down. Then she’d panicked and bolted.
Typical Ella.
She kept to the side of the staircase, hoping to avoid any squeaks her weight might cause. As she neared the ground floor, she bit her lip and concentrated.
Soft voices drifted from the breakfast room. Male voices. Had Patrick managed to calm the old man down? God, she hoped so. But as she rounded the foyer’s corner and neared the cracked-open door, her hopes plummeted.
“His lordship will return with the bishop momentarily,” an unfamiliar, rough voice was saying. “He’ll issue the license, and the wedding will be performed at the church immediately thereafter.”
“I do not understand,” a female voice replied. Ella sagged with momentary relief. It was Mrs. Templeton. “Why must they wed?”
“Ahem, well, you see,” the footman blustered. If things hadn’t been so dire, Ella might have laughed at the man’s discomfort.
“We were caught in a compromising position,” Patrick’s weary voice interjected. “But the baron is mistakenly assuming that the female in my home is Miss Brownstone. When he returns and sees that Amelia is not here, things may be quite different.”
“I see,” Mrs. Templeton said in a thoughtful tone.
Ella’s chest heavy, her guts in knots, she turned and tiptoed her way back upstairs. This was bad. This was really, really bad. The baron thought that he’d found his daughter and that she’d be getting married in just a few minutes. How pissed would he be when he found out that it was Ella, and not Amelia, that Patrick had compromised?
Compromised. She snorted inside the privacy of Patrick’s bedroom. It sounded like she was a gallon of milk that someone had forgotten to put in the fridge after breakfast.
Putting the irritation aside, Ella started to pace in front of the dark ashes of the hearth. The sun was shining over the fields. It was a beautiful late spring day, flowers and green grass all waving and cheery in the light breeze. Too bad the day didn’t match the mood. Trouble was everywhere, and she had no idea how to get them out of it.
Plan, Briley, come on. What in here could you use as a weapon?
She rifled through drawers, looked in cupboards and beneath the bed. She came up with a heavy metal poker from the fireplace and a wicked-looking razor from Patrick’s washstand. Not a bad arsenal, if she said so herself. She gripped her weapons, drummed up her courage, and headed for the door.
She’d save him this time around.
But before she could leave the room, a knock came at the door.
“Miss Briley? Oh, Miss Briley, do let me in. It’s Mrs. Templeton.”
Relief rushed through Ella’s veins, and she dropped the poker to yank the door open.
“Mrs. Templeton, it’s so good to see you.”
The housekeeper’s face had gone bone white, and Ella glanced down. Oh yeah. Probably a bad idea to point the scary blade at her ally. Quickly hiding the razor behind her back, Ella opened the door wider to let the housekeeper in.
“Sorry about that. I was just trying to figure out how to free Patrick.”
“I believe it is too late for that,” the housekeeper said, wringing her hands as she entered the room. Ella clicked the door shut behind her. “There are three of those footmen, and the baron will return in but a moment. The Bishop of Cheltenham is at Brownstone’s home, so he will not be long in fetching him.”
“Oh crap,” Ella said, because there didn’t seem to be anything else to say. Biting her lip, she set the razor down on the bedside table.
Mrs. Templeton rushed to her, gripping the younger woman’s hands in her own. “They said you were caught in a compromising position, miss. Now, think very carefully. What sort of thing were you doing? Perhaps the baron misunderstood the situation?”
“Ah.” Seriously? Was she really going to have to tell Mrs. Templeton everything? “Well, it was pretty compromising.”
“There are many things that could be misunderstood. Perhaps your lack of a chaperone? Was he kissing your hand, perhaps, or kneeling to pick up a dropped kerchief?”
“Listen, just trust me. It was completely, totally compromising.”
Mrs. Templeton shook her head. “Miss, I know that you care for his lordship, but if you do not wish to marry him this very morning, you will allow me to assist you.”
“I was naked. In the breakfast room.”
The housekeeper’s jaw dropped and her gasp was loud in the quiet of the room.
“Yeah. I don’t think I could get much more compromised,” Ella mumbled toward her slippers. “But listen, once the baron figures out I’m not Amelia, he won’t care about how compromised I am, right? He doesn’t know me; he doesn’t have any kind of responsibility toward me. All he wants is to find his daughter, so once he knows she’s not here, he’ll leave, right?”
Mrs. Templeton didn’t look hopeful. “You may be right, my dear, but I should not pin too much hope on it. Lord Brownstone is still, after all, a gentleman. And like the earl, who admittedly has been more lax lately, he would not sit by and allow a young lady’s reputation to be besmirched.”
“But I don’t have a reputation! I’m not even from here. Nobody cares about me!”
Ella’s desperate declaration only raised Mrs. Templeton’s eyebrows.
“If you think that, my girl, you do not know my Lord Fairhaven very well at all. Now, come. Whatever happens, I cannot allow you
to go downstairs in front of the bishop and a baron, looking like squirrels have been nesting in your hair. Sit down here.”
So Ella sat. Mrs. Templeton began to pull all the pins from Ella’s hair and start her hairdo over.
And the whole time, Ella’s stomach turned slow flips. She didn’t know what was about to happen, but it was certainly going to be interesting. Probably explosive, even.
For some reason, she felt like her whole life was about to change again. And she didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified about that.
* * *
Patrick, now wearing both his waistcoat and jacket, properly buttoned, and his expertly, if hastily, knotted cravat, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The light coming from the east-facing windows of the drawing room was quite bright now, this late in the morning, but he could not be pleased by the cheeriness of the day.
The cold barrel of a pistol was set snugly against his ribs.
“I have told you, my lord, you are mistaken. Amelia is not here.” Patrick kept his voice pitched low, in deference to the bishop across the room, who was quaffing quite a large glass of claret for this early in the day.
“And I told you, my boy, that I know what I saw. My poor gel, quite naked she was too. You disgusting debaucher.”
The nose of the gun nudged against him harder, and Patrick swallowed.
“There was indeed a young lady, but it was most assuredly not Miss Brownstone.”
“Bishop,” the baron bellowed. “Let us begin this now. Where is that woman…what was her name?”
“Mrs. Templeton,” Patrick said dryly.
“Mrs. Templeton, bring the bride here at once.” The baron’s small eyes glittered, with glee or anger Patrick couldn’t be sure. “This cur will pay for his fleshly crimes now.”
Patrick gripped his hands harder behind his back, always mindful of the gun pressing into his side. He could disarm the old man quite easily, and depending on his reaction at seeing Ella, Patrick might need to with all haste. He rehearsed the maneuver in his mind—a quick sidestep, elbow to the baron’s soft belly, grab the wrist, twist…
