The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  Everybody stopped chewing at that.

  “I read that in a book,” said Cook. “But she fits the bill.”

  “I won’t count on her being in her own bed tonight,” said one maid with a snicker.

  “Right,” said a footman. “Lady Thurston made sure Lord Westdale’s room is conveniently on the same corridor but at the other end. We can’t make things too easy for them. It takes away all the passion.”

  “I’ll shut me ears as I walk by,” said another maid, giggling.

  Pippa’s stomach began to feel sick. She didn’t know why. It couldn’t be because of Lady Damara going to Gregory’s room. No, it had to be because she would be sleeping on the floor between two footmen, neither of whom was particularly friendly to their guests’ servants, and their chamber pots.

  Good God, what if they expected her to use their chamber pots? A bit more terror struck her. What if they challenged her to a pissing contest?

  If they caught on to her disguise, Gregory would send her packing.

  “Will you be waiting up for his lordship?” the cook asked Pippa.

  “Yes,” she said, glad of the idea. “I’ll wait in his room. He doesn’t like to ring for me when we’re out and about.”

  “You’re a nice little man, aren’t you?” The cook beamed at her. “Before you go, you’ll head to the attic to see your pallet first, so you don’t wake everyone up when you go up to bed later.”

  “All right.” The idea of sleeping between those footmen was unbearable. But Pippa stood. “Can someone show me the way?”

  “We will,” her Cockney and square-jawed escorts said in unison.

  But she sensed something sly between them. One of the maids giggled. Pippa looked around the table. “I hope you know that a valet deserves respect.”

  Another maid giggled, too. “Your employer didn’t ever kill anyone. You just said that because—because you’re a skinny little fellow and those guys”—she angled her chin to the footmen—“they could beat you to a pulp.”

  “At least he’s thinking,” said another maid. “It was a clever notion.”

  “I wouldn’t challenge Lord Westdale,” said Pippa quietly. She meant it in earnest this time. “He’s the last man on earth you want angry.”

  And the first man she’d want on her side. She was proud—proud—to be his valet. Inside, she was shocked to realize that she admired him.

  This time, the girls’ eyes widened. Pippa lifted her chin and followed the men. Dear God, her dream to become a sugar sculptor was trying her, wasn’t it?

  But going up the servants’ stairs and into the main house, she grew excited at the beautiful surroundings. A house party! How amusing! She’d never been to one.

  The black-and-white marble floor in the corridor leading to the front door captured her fancy like nothing else. Uncle Bertie’s home was comfortable—this home was regal. She looked to her right and caught a glimpse of a library, and then straight ahead, the front door with that beautiful stained-glass window above it. From the left of the front door, a great swath of light fell on the marble floor. It came from the drawing room, where all the guests were gathered.

  “Will the latecomers eat off plates in there?” she asked Cockney.

  “No, they’ll eat off the floor,” he said, and rolled his eyes.

  “Of course,” said Square-jaw. “They’ve got a fine meal, too. If they don’t finish it, I intend to snitch a bit of it to feed my collection of pet rats.”

  The footmen exchanged glances.

  Pippa swallowed hard, but she wouldn’t ask. They wanted her to. She could tell.

  They turned smartly to ascend the stairs—two of their brethren might be watching from their posts at the drawing room door—and Pippa followed behind.

  And then she heard Gregory’s voice. He was telling the company about a remarkable American he’d met on the frontier, a man who inspired him with his grit and resolve to clear his land and build his log cabin. Everyone asked him questions all at once, and he laughed and said, “One at a time, please.”

  They adored him. Pippa swallowed a lump in her throat. She hated being a valet. She wanted to be in that room sitting by Gregory and listening to every word he said about America. And then she wanted Lady Damara to see that he wasn’t eligible to marry her or have an illicit liaison with her because …

  He was Lady Pippa Harrington’s love.

  “My godfather owns a number of theaters,” she heard him say when she reached the stair landing.

  There was a smattering of comments she couldn’t understand, and then she heard, “Lady Pippa Harrington.”

  She stopped on the landing.

  “Hurry up,” one of the footmen said.

  “Wait,” she said, “my stockings are drooping.” She bent down slowly to pull one up—a useless endeavor, really—and heard Gregory say, “Yes, she is an old schoolmate of Lady Morgan’s.”

  Eliza.

  And then he said, “She’ll be coming to London soon, although she’s quite happy in Dartmoor, traipsing the moors and indulging in her hobbies.”

  “What kind of hobbies?” someone asked.

  It was Lady Damara, Pippa was sure. Her voice was like velvet. Or was it like the laugh of that dashed queen of the fairies?

  “She plays the pianoforte,” Gregory said mildly. “And I know she likes to read.”

  Oh, Gregory.

  Pippa’s heart sank. She wasn’t going to London, and he’d said nothing about her passion for sugar sculpture. Why? What difference did it make to anyone, least of all him, that she had a gift? For that’s what it was, her whimsical sculpting of sugary confections.

  A gift.

  “Your stocking is fine,” the Cockney footman said.

  “You’re just eavesdropping,” Square-jaw accused her.

  She looked up at him. “And what if I am? You’re enjoying it, too.”

  “You gettin’ cheeky with us?” Cockney snarled.

  She was so tired of that word cheeky! And he’d said it much too loudly.

  “Ssshh!” she whispered. “I’m not being cheeky. I’m tired, that’s all. Please show me the attics so I can go wait in Lord Westdale’s bedchamber until he arrives.”

  She took one step forward—one sore, tired step—when a voice from the drawing room called up to them. “You! On the stairs. Harrow?”

  She looked down and saw the most welcome sight in the world—Gregory, and he was holding a full glass of something red. He looked marvelously healthy, not at all sad and decrepit, which is what she felt like after this very long day.

  “Wait there,” he ordered her, then looked up at the footmen. “He won’t be sleeping in the attics. Take him to my dressing room right away, and put him on a pallet, please. A comfortable one.”

  Pippa’s heart expanded with a feeling so light, she almost lost her breath. Gregory had been looking out for her all day. She must admit it. Even though she hated that he’d been trying to get her back home, not once had he stopped thinking about her comfort.

  And then a young woman came out of the drawing room. She wore a spectacular turquoise gown with a sparkling chiffon overlay and a matching ribbon woven through her ebony curls. She put her arm through Gregory’s. “What have we here?” she asked, and sent him an alluring smile.

  Lady Damara. Without a doubt.

  “That’s my valet,” said Gregory, his gaze still on Pippa. “He needs looking after. He’s got a bad back.”

  “Poor fellow,” said Lady Damara, eyeing Pippa as if she were a lame horse. “He won’t be any good to you if he’s crippled, will he?”

  Pippa stared back at Gregory.

  “He’s a man of many talents,” said Gregory. “He’ll always land on his feet. Good night, Harrow. Sleep well.”

  But Pippa wouldn’t answer him. Man of many talents, indeed. He hadn’t told anyone she liked to make sugar sculptures, had he? He didn’t care. All he cared about was beautiful women, adventure, and playing with architecture as a hobby. Wh
y do more? He was to be a future marquess!

  She hid her pique, of course, in the servant’s demeanor she showed him by bowing quickly. Then she sped off with the footmen, who brought her—without another rude word—to Lord Westdale’s bedchamber.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pippa was angry. Gregory saw it in the fleeting look of scorn she cast him the moment before she bowed her good night. Then again, she was wearing spectacles, and the light from the candles in the entryway could have deceived him.

  Oh, who was he fooling? She was clearly upset. When she strode off with the footmen, her back to him, he sensed her bristling.

  “He’s a cheeky thing, isn’t he?” mused Lady Damara on his arm. “Not quite the usual valet.”

  “No, he’s not,” he murmured.

  Lady Damara yanked on his arm. “Let’s go back inside. They’re starting a game of whist.”

  “Right,” he said, feeling distracted. He was really in no mood to socialize. He longed to relax—to read, to unwind. And to talk to Pippa would be nice. But of course he couldn’t go to bed this early—not before midnight, at the least.

  He was surprised how much he liked knowing that Pippa would be in his dressing room, waiting—

  Actually, sleeping. That was what he hoped she’d do. She needed it desperately.

  And you need her desperately.

  He had no idea where that thought originated, but the image of the sugar-sculpture castle came to him in a flash.

  A silly little sculpture—to accompany a silly little thought.

  He put both away and focused on the beautiful woman at hand.

  “Shall we establish a bet between us, winner takes all?” Lady Damara looked up at him, the picture of innocence, but he saw the glint in her eye. He knew that neither one of them would lose were they to bet. The invitation was clear, and she was most appealing.

  “No bets tonight,” he said gently. “It’s been a very long day.”

  “Of course.” She looked away, but not before he caught the slightly pained expression on her beautiful face. He hated to embarrass her, but facts were facts: He wasn’t interested in a liaison with any woman who might believe she stood a chance of becoming his future countess and, later, marchioness.

  He wasn’t ready.

  Lady Damara was miffed, and if there was anything worse for Gregory than being the object of scorn of one lady, it was being resented by two. The company had been playing cards and indulging in some fine claret when they’d arrived. Lord and Lady Thurston, perhaps slightly the worse for wear, had escorted him right into the midst of the festivities and plied him with a cold plate and a goblet that never seemed to empty.

  He’d not had a chance to sit back and breathe. Which was all well and good, as he’d had the entire afternoon and early evening in the carriage to sit—and breathe. Which sometimes was difficult to do when the world’s squirmiest woman sat next to one and insisted on casting burning looks at one because she was bored. He’d refused to stare back at her because he’d found Pippa incredibly appealing in those pantaloons. Not only that, he knew she still wasn’t bound beneath her coat by that god-awful strip of cloth, which Oscar had removed from the carriage, no doubt wondering what in hell it was.

  During the course of the evening, he’d spoken with Lord Rochelle and Mr. Brian Forrest, second son of Lord Hall, both of whom he’d worked with on design projects under the tutelage of several architects in London. They confirmed what he suspected: They, too, had been asked to design a dog cottage for Lady Thurston.

  So the race was on. Mr. Dawson kept a low profile all night, just as he had at the inn. Everyone was aware of his connection to Lord and Lady Thurston—he was a cousin and as such didn’t merit much attention. It was true he wasn’t the most scintillating company, but his presence amid the gathering of sophisticated guests lent the atmosphere a refreshing charm rarely found in more rarefied London drawing rooms.

  The little man spoke to every gentleman there who’d designed something for Lord and Lady Thurston, although he didn’t ask them about those projects. He kept to safe subjects, such as the weather and gardening, one of his favorite hobbies, and shooting grouse, which was something he’d only just begun to do. With Gregory, he made a point to tell him that he was also the oldest son of a large family, and they spent fifteen minutes discussing the merits and detractions of being the sibling in charge.

  “It’s a huge responsibility,” Gregory said, and realized he’d missed being the big brother while he’d been in America. “You feel as if when you’re away, the younger ones can’t do without you. Their worlds will stop turning.”

  “They often do,” said Mr. Dawson, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s not our job to get them spinning again, however. Every member of a family needs to learn on his or her own. You may only lend them advice. Not get in the way.”

  Gregory thought of Peter, of how he’d known Eliza didn’t love him—

  And hadn’t told him.

  But he’d had a year now to think about it. Who’d betrayed whom, really?

  He looked down into the scarlet depths of the claret in his glass and thought about that day. He’d never have believed Peter if he’d told him that Eliza was in love with Dougal. Not in a million years. And Peter knew Gregory would react that way, which was why he never confided the full extent of his worries to him.

  The plain truth was that Gregory had let guilt and jealousy come between him and his younger brother. Peter was a true Sherwood of the House of Brady. He should be Lord Westdale if all were right with the world.

  He was truly Father’s son.

  And he was an excellent brother. He’d reminded Gregory that Mother’s ring was special. It was Gregory who’d been in the wrong. He’d been willing to give a treasured token away to a woman he didn’t love—a woman who didn’t love him. The ring was the only thing he had left of Mother besides that grin of hers that he saw on Robert’s face … and her piercing eyes, which now belonged to Peter.

  He shook his head, gave a short laugh, and looked away—anywhere but at the knowing gaze of the little man before him.

  “You have to learn to love what you see in front of you, young man,” said Mr. Dawson, “and not what you expect—or even demand—to see.”

  Gregory turned back to him and raised his glass of claret. “Good advice. From one big brother to another.”

  He would think on it.

  “Cheers.” Mr. Dawson grinned and clinked his glass with his.

  * * *

  An inviting scene greeted Gregory in his bedchamber a long three hours after he last saw his “valet” on the stair landing. A small fire crackled cheerily in the grate, and on the bureau was an elaborate candelabra with four lit tapers casting a lovely glow. Another single candle sat on his bedside table, next to some apples and purple grapes arranged prettily on a china plate. The luxurious scarlet covers of his bed were thrown back, exposing an abundance of plumped pillows while an open bottle of wine waited on the far side of the bed, with not one but two glasses.

  Lady Thurston was the supreme hostess. A wicked hostess. He wondered if Lady Damara were one of her dear friends. He hoped not—he didn’t need three women displeased with him.

  On the left side of the room, a closed door obviously led to his dressing room. Just looking at that door put his senses on high alert. He felt an overwhelming lust invade his being—

  He wanted Lady Pippa Harrington.

  What was wrong with him?

  This was Pippa. Plenty of women in London could turn a man’s eye more often than she would.

  Pippa, as lovely as she was, wasn’t attuned to the whole mating ritual … she didn’t exude an aura of feminine mystery. She simply didn’t care, he supposed. Her mind was on other things—the beautiful morning, the delicious quality of every dessert she’d ever tasted, the latest novels, the amusing antics of her favorites among the village children in Plumtree, the state of affairs in England and the world.

  When she walked into a
room, men felt at ease with her. They didn’t sit on the edge of their seats. The blood in their heads didn’t rush to their groins. She was the type of woman who reminded a man that he hadn’t had tea in a while and was famished—or that he needed to go visit his grandmother more often and make her laugh at his inane stories the same way Pippa laughed at them—with abandon.

  She was the type of woman who reminded a man that he was still a boy at heart—and that he was more than the bleached-white cravat, the well-polished boots, the speech he’d delivered at Parliament, and the mansion on Grosvenor Square.

  But she was also the woman who’d braced herself on a taproom door, her legs spread, and let him tease her until she lost control and cried out her pleasure.

  Yes, she was that Pippa, too, and the memory made his sex stiffen with desire to see her that way again.

  He strode to the dressing room door and gave a gentle knock. When there was no answer, he turned the knob slowly and peeked in. He wanted a glimpse of his valet—

  His Pippa.

  She would be no other man’s until he could find the perfect mate for her.

  Her hair was unpinned and lay in glorious disarray on her pillow. She was on her back, her legs spread wide beneath her blanket, her arms thrown out and dangling over the edge of the pallet, and she was …

  Was she snoring?

  Yes, she most definitely was—a light snore, as befitted a lady—

  A lady who was wearing a man’s nightshirt to bed. A lady who was sprawled in her bed the way a man would be. A lady who liked the intimate things he’d done to her and with her.

  He smiled. He couldn’t help it. Around Pippa, he felt careless. Carefree.

  “Good God!” she suddenly exclaimed, and sat bolt upright, her chest heaving.

  So much for carefree. Gregory schooled his expression to be neutral bordering on light, professional concern. “Sorry. I was checking on you, that’s all. I’m not only your guardian—on an unofficial basis, of course—I’m your current employer, and it’s my duty to ensure that you’re safe and comfortable.”

  “Oh. I noticed that earlier. I meant to thank you. All day, in between being a terrific nuisance—and coaxing me into paroxysms of unadulterated, wild animal passion—you’ve looked after me.” She ran a hand over her brow and the crown of her head to push her hair off her face.