Kiss the Earl

by Gina Lamm

  “But, Patrick, you can’t. It wasn’t your fault—she’s lying!” Ella gripped Patrick’s lapels, her knuckles white with tension. “Once we get to Town, you’ve got to get her to tell the truth.”

  “Ella, don’t you see? She cannot admit her guilt at this stage, not if she wants to marry her vicar.” Patrick cupped Ella’s cheek. “This is the only way she can get what she wants. I am sure she will try to keep her father from killing me, but we cannot be certain that she will succeed.”

  “This is my fault,” Ella said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “If I hadn’t been here, then you could have married her, and you wouldn’t have to duel.”

  “It is not your fault at all, sweet Ella,” Patrick said, his voice thick with some emotion Ella couldn’t name. “Please, do not cry for me.”

  Ella wasn’t sure if she raised up on her toes first or if Patrick tilted her face up to his first, but either way, they were kissing each other desperately, as if it were the last kiss they’d ever share on earth.

  * * *

  Though it had only been days since he’d known the splendor of her kiss, it seemed like he’d been waiting forever. Her mouth was so incredible, lips soft and parted and yearning for his invasion. He threaded his fingers through the hair at her nape, pulling her mouth slantwise across his own, granting him deeper access. She melted against him, all resistance gone. She tasted sweet, of the port she’d drunk, mingled with the salt of her tears.

  God, he’d give anything to prevent her from crying again. It seemed that all he did was cause her pain.

  She tore her mouth from his even as she wound her arms around him. “Patrick,” she said on a breath. “Please, don’t go. Not tonight.”

  All the reasons he should go were still the same. Nothing had changed, not really. But Ella’s sweet, warm body was pressed tightly to his, her fingers digging into the muscles of his upper back. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, smelling the lavender soap she’d used before dinner. But it was more than that. It was Ella, and she wanted him.

  How could he say no?

  “I will stay if you wish it,” he whispered, lifting her chin with a single finger. “But I cannot promise we will remain clothed.”

  Her lids fluttered shut, sooty lashes beckoning him. “That’s okay. I want to be with you tonight, Patrick. Just tonight, let’s pretend none of this matters.”

  He would give anything to make that true for her, for them both. But for now, pretending was the only way, and so he did it.

  Pulling the pins from her hair, he watched as the silky black waterfall tumbled around her shoulders. Her eyes, still moist with tears, looked all the bluer for their wetness. He stepped back, holding her arms out to the sides, just looking his fill.

  “You are beautiful, Ella.”

  She blushed. “I’m not. I’m average at best, and I’m awkward and shy and—”

  “Shhh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Please do not speak of yourself that way. I am telling you how I see you, and Ella, you are beautiful in my eyes.”

  She bit her lip as if she wanted to protest but had thought better of it.

  “Excellent,” Patrick said with a smile.

  He made short work of the buttons that marched down her front. Lifting the dress over her head, he tossed it aside. The shift quickly followed, then stockings, and soon she was completely nude in front of him. The sight reminded him of that all-too-brief encounter on the breakfast table, and he sighed in regret.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I had imagined painting these with orange marmalade.” He flicked her nipple gently, and she gasped. “But I did not get the chance.”

  “Maybe later,” she said, but they both knew that it was unlikely. Their time was borrowed and growing shorter by the second.

  As if reminded of that grim fact, Patrick leaned down and kissed her again, this time a passionate onslaught intended to leave her breathless. He made love to her mouth, pressing his clothed body against her nudity, his hands roaming over her, claiming her as his tongue did the same. She gasped, arching her back and moaning as he continued his passionate torture.

  It wasn’t enough. Lust was surging through his blood, burning him from the inside out, hardening his rod, and clouding his brain. He needed to be naked with her, covering her, pressing into her.

  Now, his subconscious seemed to growl, and he was all too happy to obey.

  Ripping his mouth from hers, he made short work of the buttons of his waistcoat. Ella helped, eagerly destroying the beautiful knot of his cravat, popping buttons from his fine lawn shirt, tossing clothing hither and yon, and pressing kisses to the exposed flesh of his chest.

  And once he was as naked as she, he pressed her back, onto the bed, cradling her head in his arm.

  “Ella,” he said, running his hand down her delicious body, through the valley between her breasts, over the slight rise of her belly, lower to tangle in the soft, damp curls that covered her, “you have a beautiful body.”

  “So do you,” she said, mimicking his hand’s path as she traced his muscled abdomen down to his groin. She wrapped her fingers around his erection just as he parted her curls and pressed his index finger against her intimately.

  She gripped him, her hand hot and smooth as she began a slow, sensuous stroke of his rod. Breathing harder, he copied her movements in a leisurely swirl around her throbbing nub. Catching one pink lip between her teeth, Ella’s eyelids lowered as her hips lifted against him.

  “You like this,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but he pressed harder when she didn’t answer him. She gasped, and there was an answering tightening grip on his rod. He bit back his own groan.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but a low moan was all she could manage. Taking pity on them both, Patrick removed his hand and stretched out atop her, kissing her deeply as he nestled between the warmth of her thighs. Her breasts were swelled against him, nipples tight and poking against his chest. Pressing her down into the mattress, he let her have his weight, the blunt head of him bumping up against her wet heat.

  Matching his tongue stroke for stroke, her moans intensified as her caresses became more frenzied. Her nails raked down his back as her hips twisted and writhed. Her body wanted his, and he was withholding it. They should not be here, together in this way, but nothing short of the inn burning to cinders around them could induce him to stop now. His own passion was building, his body urging him to seek her heat.

  “Are you ready?” He had just enough mind left to ask her.

  “Please, Patrick, I need you inside me now.” She tossed her head back and forth, black hair tangling with her movements. “Please!”

  He would not deny either of them any longer. With one last kiss to her lips, he surged forward, seating himself within her with a single, deep thrust. She cried out in surprise and, he hoped, passion.

  Stilling himself there, he looked down. Ella stared at him, wide-eyed and wanting.

  “We are one,” he said simply, and then began moving inside her.

  Slowly at first, he sank into her wet heat, then more quickly as she began to rise against him, her passionate cries spurring him deeper, faster into her. Her legs wrapping around his hips, she pulled him deep, her sheath gripping him like she never wanted to let him go. And when her movements became frantic, her cries more plaintive and desperate, he reached between them and found her, flicking and caressing her nub until she shuddered around him, her rhythm breaking as she found her release.

  Her swollen, spasming heat around his erection was too much. Pressing into her as deeply as he could, Patrick found his own release with a hoarse shout, pouring his seed into Ella’s welcoming body.

  They lay there, spent, damp bodies cradled close, for a very long time. And when Patrick would have eased from her arms, she only tightened her grip.

  “Stay,” she said. “Please. Y
ou promised.”

  He nodded and lifted the covers over them both.

  Tomorrow would very likely see the baron discovering Amelia’s tale, and it may very well be his last day on earth. He could not imagine a better way to begin his final day alive than waking in Ella’s arms.

  As he closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, he found himself praying that somehow, someway, this would not be the last time.

  Twenty-Nine

  The closer they got to London, the more Ella’s stomach tightened, the clammier her skin felt, and the harder she clenched her teeth. It was drizzling rain, so both Patrick and Lord Brownstone were riding inside the carriage with her. If not for the certainty that things could possibly blow up at any moment, Ella would have really enjoyed sitting this close to Patrick, watching the scenery go by from the dry warmth of the carriage. But now? It was all she could do to keep a blank expression on her face.

  Waking up naked in Patrick’s arms had been so incredible. He’d smiled and kissed her, and she hadn’t even worried about morning breath or feeling awkward or anything. She just kissed him back, and they made love as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was, except for the fact that they were heading straight for trouble.

  “There we are,” the baron said, smiling broadly as the carriage bumped down the cobbled street. Ella looked out the window. The buildings had gotten much closer together over the last mile or so, and now they were crammed together like people on a subway car during rush hour. A few brave souls hustled down the lane while others crowded beneath overhangs, waiting for a break in the rain. “No place like London, is there, m’lad?”

  “Indeed not,” Patrick murmured politely.

  Ella shot him a hard glance. He’d been as quiet as Elspeth on the hunt for toes all morning. Even after they’d made love, he’d pressed a final kiss on Ella’s lips, dressed quickly, and left the room without a word.

  Not that she knew what to say to him in any case. Trouble was coming, and damn his freaking noble, gentlemanly nature, he’d play by his society’s asinine rules and probably get himself killed.

  Ella set her jaw. Not if she had anything to say about it. She might only be his temporary wife, but she loved him, and she wasn’t about to let him throw his life away over something so trivial.

  “I instructed the driver to convey us to your home first,” Patrick said to the baron. Ella perked up as she listened. “I had hoped to speak with Amelia and assure myself of her well-being.”

  And hopefully convince her not to lie about Patrick anymore, Ella added silently.

  “Of course, of course. She’ll want to meet your new bride, as well, clap eyes on the girl who stole a march on her, what?” The baron guffawed, but Ella frowned.

  “What exactly do you mean by that, my lord?”

  Patrick poked her leg in a clear warning, but she ignored him. “I thought Amelia and Patrick were just friends?”

  “Of course they are, my dear Lady Fairhaven, and I meant you no disrespect. But my Amelia has always been fond of Patrick, quite admired him, she did. Despite his recent lack of circumspection”—the baron looked hard at Patrick, but the earl didn’t blink—“I believe he and Amelia would have made an excellent match of it.”

  “But the point is now moot, is it not, my lord?” Patrick reached over and deliberately took Ella’s hand in his.

  “Quite.” The baron’s forehead creased thoughtfully as he stared at their joined hands.

  As fast as she politely could, Ella pulled away from Patrick’s grip, pretending to need to adjust the buttons on her cloak. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to hold his hand; she did. But the way the baron was looking at them, and the way Patrick was acting, just didn’t make her feel good. It was almost like she’d swallowed a handful of bumblebees and was uneasily waiting for the searing pain to sting her insides.

  Wrapping her arms across her middle, Ella sank back against the cushioned seat and wished all this was over.

  Only a few minutes later, the carriage lurched to a stop in front of a large brick home. Lord Brownstone’s London manor. A footman opened the carriage door, and all three passengers disembarked, Ella helped to the ground by a stone-faced Patrick. As he pulled her hand through the crook of his arm, Ella stood on her tiptoes and whispered, “Don’t you dare let her lie about you, Patrick. Promise me.”

  Just inside the front door, Patrick stopped and looked at her. The baron was chatting with his butler as he removed his hat and coat, so they were unobserved.

  “I will do what I must,” he said, and pressed the briefest of kisses to her stunned lips.

  It wasn’t the promise she wanted, and it wasn’t even close to enough. But Ella didn’t have a chance to argue about it, because just then a beautiful young woman appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Ella’s heart sank. It wasn’t that the girl was beautiful, even though she was, all reddish-auburn hair and perfect, porcelain skin. It wasn’t even her perfect figure—slender-waisted with full, high breasts—and graceful movements as she descended the stairs. The reason Ella’s mouth went dry and she felt like throwing up was the look on Patrick’s face as he laid eyes on Amelia. The brittle mask was gone, and in its place was a smile so bright it almost hurt Ella’s eyes.

  No. It hurt her heart.

  Patrick had never looked at Ella like that, and he never would. At that moment, Ella was desperately glad she’d never told Patrick how much she loved him. Because he would never feel the same way about her. That was obvious, because right now, his whole heart was there in his eyes.

  And it was all for Amelia.

  “Poppet,” the baron rushed forward to greet his daughter, who’d just reached the ground floor. “Where the devil have you been?”

  “You’ve led us all a merry chase, Amelia,” Patrick said, still with that beautiful smile. Ella’s fists tightened. She didn’t know who she wanted to slug more, Patrick or Amelia, whose doll-perfect features were stained from an obvious recent bout of tears.

  “How dare you, sir.” Amelia glared at Patrick. He lost his smile then, but Ella couldn’t be happy about it.

  Here we go. Shit’s hitting the fan.

  “Showing your face in my father’s home after what you have done? The unmitigated gall!”

  “What do you mean, poppet? What has he done?”

  Amelia pointed a trembling finger at Patrick. “This man compromised me. He promised me marriage, took me from my home, and then left me before wedding me.” And then she covered her face and “cried,” great big alligator sobs shaking her shoulders.

  Ella’s jaw sagged in shock. Had that girl seriously just thrown her so-called best friend under the bus, just like that?

  “You damned bounder!” The baron’s face went mottled red with rage. “You lied to me!”

  “No, Amelia’s the liar here!” Ella couldn’t stay quiet a second longer; now that the shock had receded, pure anger had flooded into its place. “Patrick didn’t compromise her and I know it, because he’s been with me this whole time.”

  Amelia looked up, face curiously dry considering the histrionics she’d just enacted. “Who are you?”

  Ella marched straight up to the taller woman and looked her dead in the eyes.

  “I’m Lady Fairhaven, and you’re messing with the wrong woman’s husband.”

  * * *

  Fearing what Ella would do, Patrick grabbed his wife’s arm and pulled her away from Amelia, whose face had gone chalk white.

  “What did she just say?”

  “You heard me,” Ella snarled like a demon beast straight from the fires of hell. She pulled against Patrick’s grip, trying to get closer to Amelia. But Patrick knew better than to release his wife. “You’re lying, and you need to ’fess up right now.”

  “Ella, enough. Allow me to handle this.”

  Ella whirled on him, her blu
e eyes alight with temper. “Then handle it, Patrick. Don’t just stand there and let her lie about you!”

  His own patience at an end, Patrick turned to Amelia. “I am sorry, but…” He stopped at the pleading in his friend’s eyes.

  God, what a mess. Could he really destroy Amelia’s chance at happiness? This was what he’d agreed to… It seemed so long ago now. But things were so different. It wasn’t just his reputation. Things had changed.

  But a gentleman didn’t break his promises. He’d learned that long ago.

  His mind made up, he looked beside him. “Ella, return to the carriage.”

  His wife’s mouth opened in shock. “Patrick, what—”

  “The carriage. Now.”

  His tone brooked no argument. With one last dirty look at Amelia, then Patrick, Ella glided from the foyer with all the grace and hauteur of a queen. Once the door had closed behind her and the footman who accompanied her, Patrick turned to the baron.

  With a silent prayer for forgiveness for the lies he was about to tell, Patrick spoke. “Amelia is quite ruined. And I am responsible.”

  The baron gasped. “The devil you say.”

  “No, it is true. And I cannot marry her, because I am already wed.”

  Although he was expecting it, the force of the baron’s blow was substantial enough to knock him backward a step.

  “I will see you at dawn,” the baron snarled, even as Amelia clutched his arm and shouted, “No!”

  “I expected as much,” Patrick said calmly.

  “Papa, no, you cannot call him out. You know that Patrick is a crack shot.”

  “So am I.”

  Amelia’s tears were quite real this time. “There is no need for this. I may be ruined, but George still wants me. We’ve been posting the banns at St. Barnabas Church. No man in society may be willing to overlook this, but George…”

  As if Amelia hadn’t spoken, the baron stared straight at Patrick. “I trusted you, and you lied to me. You are no gentleman, sir. I demand satisfaction.”