The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous)

by Frances Fowlkes

  He slipped into the darkness of her room, the smell of lavender waging war on his senses.

  He stepped toward her, doing his best to ignore the translucency of her gown shimmering in the moonlight. God, he could see the outline of her hips, her thighs, and the dark triangle between her legs…

  He should leave. Now. His body lusted after her. He was sprung and ready to pounce should she give him the slightest inclination of her interest.

  She shut the door behind her and nibbled on her lip. “I have been mulling over Miss Saxton’s symptoms. And I must confess, along with the unearthed licorice root and my missing stores, not to mention your theory—”

  “My theory?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I fear someone may be, as you theorized, purposefully harming your guests.”

  “An interesting theory, but one I have yet to prove.”

  “Have you any notion as to why someone would wish to harm them?”

  “Can you think of none?” He stepped toward her and fingered one of her glossy black strands. Soft, and smooth, her hair slipped over his skin.

  Her gaze caught his. “Your, your past?” she whispered.

  “My past, my present, my future.” His hand fell to his side. “My insolent arse of a brother would like to inherit. Society deems me too damaged to forgive. And my injury”—he let out a low laugh—“is a continual reminder that I am not…” He let out a long sigh.

  “Not what?” she breathed.

  He turned away from her toward the darkness. “It is late, Lady Henrietta. Should someone find me in your room—”

  “I would confess to inviting you in. It is on my invitation that you are here.”

  He spun around, his gaze searching hers. “Yes. And one that ensures your selection as my bride.”

  “I did not pull you into my chambers to force your hand.”

  He lifted a brow. “No? You have no desire to claim Plumburn as your own?” God, he was a fool. He had actually believed she might want him here for unselfish reasons.

  “Of course. My father’s memory is here. In this house.”

  “Lady Henrietta—”

  “But it is the current earl whom I desire.”

  Simon’s heart beat fast in his ears. Impossible. She couldn’t possibly mean what her words inclined. This was a ploy. A trick to lure him into her bed. And God help him, he was her willing prey.

  “You would give yourself to a maimed man? In possession of only one eye?”

  “I wish to give myself to you, my lord. Your injury matters not.”

  He let out a low bark of laughter. “You say that with confidence, though I wonder if you were to see what lies beneath the patch, whether you would be so eager with your offer.”

  She stepped toward him, her palm resting against his chest. “I would.”

  His breathing slowed as he held her piercing gaze, seemingly daring him to do, what he’d always considered the impossible. That, however had been before Henrietta had unflinchingly offered herself to him. If she was to bare all to him, he had an obligation to do the same.

  Reaching behind his head, he untied the black strings, holding them on either side of his head. With a deep breath, he lowered the patch.

  Chapter Ten

  Henrietta swallowed her gasp.

  She hadn’t expected, hadn’t believed he would expose his injury. His eye remained, though it had gone glassy white, the skin surrounding it was shriveled and scarred, a knot of pink angry skin.

  “Dear God,” she whispered.

  He turned away, his head lowering. “I understand should you wish me to leave.”

  “N-n-no, you misunderstand,” she said, quickly. “The only thing I wish is for you to stay.”

  He paused, his slumped shoulders lifting ever so slightly. “You are not repulsed—not offended by my injury?”

  Henrietta lifted her hand to his face and pressed her palm against his cheek. While ugly in its appearance, his deformity did not change the man beneath its tortured surface. “Repulsed? No. Surprised and curious? I-I-I fear I am quite guilty on those accounts.”

  He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed their tips, her entire hand tingling from his caress.

  “H-h-how did it happen?” she asked, breathless.

  “A disagreement with a viscount.”

  “Someone did this to you? But why? Who would do such a thing?” Her fingers curled around his.

  His lips left her skin, their absence chilling her flesh. “Who is not as important as why.”

  “I-I-I don’t understand.”

  He leaned his head into her hand, his gaze unswerving. “Before I knew of Anne’s infidelity, I defended her innocence against a viscount’s lewd references to her person. Your father had not yet passed, and I was nothing more than a mere mister challenging a very powerful and rumored criminal. One who liked to make examples of those who dared to challenge his authority.”

  “Simon.” She whispered his name, not knowing what else to say or how to console him. All the gossip, all the rumors whispered about him, and not one carried a hint of truth. The man in front of her was not a killer, but a man wronged, scarred for defending a woman’s honor.

  His hand left hers and his fingers sank into her hair. Henrietta sought his lips, moving hers over his, reveling in the tremors coursing through her with every stroke of his silken tongue.

  Once again, heat stirred within her, a tumult of yearning, desire, and something she did not know how to sate.

  “Henrietta,” he said between kisses.

  He reached down to her bottom, his large palms cupping her round curves. A primal beast roared inside her, sending her blood racing and her inhibitions running. She clenched his lower lip between her teeth—and tugged.

  Simon groaned. He lifted her, bringing her legs to just below his waist. Henrietta clenched his shoulders to steady herself, her thin nightdress bunching around her thighs.

  “God, I want you,” he whispered, breaking their kiss.

  “Me? The girl with a s-s-stutter?”

  “You stutter?”

  She pursed her lips, not believing his ignorance for a second. “You know I-I-I do.”

  “Why?” He nuzzled her neck, touching his lips to the flutter of her pulse.

  “Nerves, I-I-I suppose,” she said, barely able to conceive a complete thought, let alone a sentence.

  He pulled back, his thick dark eyebrows high on his face.

  Henrietta dipped her gaze away from his scrutinizing one. “People have always made me nervous. Especially in large groups or gatherings.” She lifted a shoulder. “I-I-I prefer the company of plants. They do not mock or judge.”

  “Anyone foolish enough not to see the amazing and intelligent woman beyond a slight impediment is not worth your attentions.”

  Henrietta’s face warmed. “You are too kind.”

  “Kind is not a word commonly associated with my person.”

  Her head lifted, her gaze seeking his. A smile thinned his lips, curling them into something worthy of the devil.

  He shifted her in his arms, his fingers clenching her bottom and making her gasp. “I am the Black Earl, after all.”

  Henrietta giggled and tilted her head back, allowing him access to her neck, which he greedily devoured with his lips.

  He strode forward, the juncture between her legs rubbing against the bulge straining in his breeches. He lowered her to the bed, planting soft, flutter-like kisses along her jaw, the placement of each one setting her skin aflame.

  She shuddered, her breath hitching as his mouth settled on her shoulder. With the smallest of motions, his finger tugged on the drawstring neckline of her shift. She tilted her head back, reveling in his tender caresses and praying, to all that was holy, he wouldn’t stop.

  A small sigh escaped her lips and he glanced up at her, smiling. She seized the momentary pause in his attentions to pull on the perfectly knotted linen at his neck. He stilled, his eye darkening as he watched her.

 
; She had not the first clue how to seduce a man or how to return the pleasures he so easily administered. Lord, that she could walk without stumbling was a small miracle. How could her bumbling hands bring anything but embarrassment?

  And yet…inexperience seemed to give way to instinct. Her hands moved of their own accord, tossing aside his starched linen and delving into the shoulders of his jacket, pushing it down his shoulders.

  He assisted her, shrugging off the wool garment, exposing the matching waistcoat and white lawn shirt beneath.

  “Should you continue in your ministrations, my lady, you venture into dangerous territory with a very dangerous man.” His voice was soft, yet with all the severity his warning warranted.

  “Yes, a man so dangerous he defends a woman’s honor despite harsh opposition.”

  “And one who, should we continue in this vein, cannot promise he will stop when the opportune moment arises.”

  Her skin heated, but she did not stop her fingers from sliding the brass buttons of his waistcoat through their buttonholes.

  His breathing was shallow, his chest barely moving as she pushed the waistcoat down his arms. Dark curls sprang over the edge of his shirt, the sagging neckline daring her to slide her fingers into the soft mass of hair beneath. “Then don’t, Simon. Don’t stop.”

  He pressed his lips against hers, his hands wrapping around her and lowering her head to the pillows atop her bed. He nipped at her lips, his tongue darting into her mouth. He tasted sweet, of brandy and liquored fruit.

  She met his tongue with her own, her blood pounding. As though it had sprung to life, her entire body tingled, awakening from a deep winter sleep and awoken by the earl’s hands…hands that were making their way up her legs.

  God in heaven.

  His fingers splayed over her thigh, their tips grazing the intimate curls between her legs. A heavy throbbing grew in her most secret of areas and she trembled, willing him to continue his exploration and ease the ache. He hesitated, his fingers stilling. “Henrietta.” His voice was thick and strained. “I—”

  “Please,” she begged.

  He growled, his fingers slipping over her thighs, coming to rest on the sensitive heat between her legs. Circling and dipping between her soft, forbidden folds, his thumb rubbed against her. She bucked beneath him, her hands gripping his shoulders. Her head fell back and she gasped, writhing with every flick of the damnable appendage. He was a wicked sorcerer, conjuring a dark magic that left her breathless and…hungry.

  “I—” She let out a groan, all words disappearing from her mind as he slipped another finger between her folds.

  His thumb stilled, and something between a whimper and scream left her lips. Her torment could not have been more profound—until he lowered his head, sinking his lips to the place where his fingers teased.

  “S-S-Simon,” she gasped. His tongue delved where she never would have believed possible, his mouth suckling her heated flesh and making her quiver with pleasure. Henrietta clutched his head, her fingers digging into his scalp. Deaf to any thought beyond the ecstasy wrought by his mouth, tongue, and fingers, her mind clouded. Her breath came in short little pants, her back arching against his mouth as he continued to run his tongue over her tingling flesh. “Dear God,” she whispered, not wanting him to stop.

  He rubbed the sensitive nub between her legs, his tongue swiping over its tip. She squealed, her mind exploding into a swirl of colors and light.

  Her entire body shuddered, the ripples of her release coursing through her and making her clench against him.

  Silencing her cry, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, the taste of her sex sweet on his lips.

  Her hands wrapped around his arms, pulling him against her chest and the hardened tips of her breasts.

  Simon broke their kiss, his full lips swollen. “Christ, Henrietta. I want you. I want you as I have never wanted another.”

  She fumbled with his tunic, shoving it over his head. The need to feel him against her skin was overwhelming. He helped her along, pushing his breeches past his hips and down his knees, the trail of hair at his navel and his muscled abdomen increasing the fervor in her loins.

  Simon’s hands ran up her sides, sliding up her shift. Pulling her toward him, he lifted her, yanking the thin cotton of her undergarments over her head and tossing it to the side.

  She wanted more. She wanted him to fill the ache in her stomach, the need between her legs that throbbed with each beat of her heart.

  His hand lifted to her breast, her full mound resting against his palm. He squeezed, his thumb trailing across her nipple.

  She couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything or care about the consequences of what might result from their union. Befuddled didn’t begin to describe the fog in her head, of her heightened sense and dulled thoughts. All she wanted was him.

  “Please,” she begged, urging him to do what must be done to quench the thirst.

  He was solid against her, his skin taut, the muscles in his arms and stomach tense and defined.

  Henrietta arched her back, pressing her breasts into his chest.

  “Henrietta,” Simon whispered. “I cannot promise this will be pleasant, that you will enjoy—”

  She cared naught for his words, only his actions, and the feel of his erection thick against her abdomen. She kissed him, urging him to complete their union and make her his.

  Simon obliged, lowering her to the pillows, his hand dipping to her slick folds and sliding his manhood between them. He thrust his hips forward, filling her void.

  A sharp pain laced up her center and she winced, her insides clenching around him.

  “Jesus,” he hissed. His jaw clenched and his arms locked, but his gaze was soft…and concerned.

  Henrietta responded by tilting her hips, allowing her body to fully sheath his erection. Simon grunted, his hands resting on either side of her head. He kissed her, distracting her from the remnants of pain lingering between her legs. Her head spun, her heart racing so fast, she thought it would tear out of her chest. “Simon,” she breathed in between kisses.

  He pulled back, his face strained. His hands left the pillow to slide down her body, resting at her hips. With another grunt, he thrust forward, her body arching with the ancient rhythm.

  His hips moved faster, his breath matching each thrust, as he worked her into a dizzying spell of pleasure and pain. Simon leaned forward, his body trembling, and let out a garbled cry.

  Her arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, and shaking with the enormity of what they had done.

  Chapter Eleven

  Simon roused to a numb arm and a wide-eyed, wild-haired Henrietta shaking him awake and sliding from the bed.

  “Simon,” she hissed. “You must leave. The maid will be here soon, and I cannot have her finding you in my room.”

  His body hardened at the feel of her bare legs against his. He pulled her close, his palm flush against the small of her back.

  She squirmed against him, inching out of his grasp. “My sisters are also known to come in unannounced, and on occasion, my mother.”

  The first rays of dawn broke through the slits between the curtains, the soft orange beams illuminating Henrietta’s panicked features and agitated stance.

  Groggy, he ran a hand over his head and stretched. While he wished to go about their marriage in the proper way, where her reputation was not damaged and his not further tainted, he was quite comfortable under the covers. With Henrietta beside him, warming his body, and making him hard with want.

  He hadn’t been so affected by a woman—ever. Anne had fulfilled his needs, had made him feel something akin to love. Her station had prevented any notion of marriage, but Simon’s feelings toward her had been genuine.

  But Henrietta…changed everything. Never before had he connected with another on a level so deep, so intimate. Simon could not bear the idea of waiting to be with her again.

  He had lost himself in her arms, had believed, for the first time
since his injury, he could be loved regardless of his damaged appearance. Henrietta had given herself freely, the sheets between them still warm and scented with the earthy musk of their lovemaking.

  “Simon,” she whispered, her voice insistent. “You need to leave, please.”

  She was right, of course, but God, if he didn’t want to take her again, to have her beneath him, writhing, squealing with pleasure. “I’m up,” he murmured, wickedly, his erection lifting the sheets.

  Henrietta blushed, her gaze darting to the floor. She reached for a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering her beautiful pink skin still flushed from their early morning exertions.

  “You can use the servant entrance,” she said, her voice hushed. “Take three lefts and a right and you should be in the men’s corridor.”

  Damn. He wanted to taste her again, to kiss her senseless.

  Simon threw off the sheets and strode toward her.

  “S-S-Simon,” she hissed. Her eyes widened, the bright golden brown orbs lowering to his bare torso.

  He reached her, his hands wrapping around her bundled form and pulling her to him. He lowered his head, pausing inches from her mouth. Her breath tickled his lips, and he kissed her, unable to refuse the instant pleasure they promised.

  She relaxed in his arms, the tension leaving her body as her mouth opened, allowing him to tease both of them further.

  She gasped, and Simon pushed aside the blanket. His hands ran over her perfect curves, cupping her heavy breast in his hand. Breaking their kiss, he lowered his head and flicked his tongue across her hardened peak. Henrietta arched toward him, her firm breast thrusting farther into his mouth. Simon gladly suckled its warm fullness, his tongue moving over her nipple and eliciting a series of whimpers from her that made him near release into the blanket.

  “Simon you must stop,” she whispered in soft little pants. “Should anyone hear…”

  Grudgingly, he released his hold and lifted his head.

  She shoved her hands onto his chest, a small smile on her lips. “Now go, you brute, before anyone should see you.”