The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  “It was my pleasure,” he said. And yes, the word pleasure was weighted with all sorts of meaning.

  “I suppose you had an interesting night,” she said carefully.

  “Yes, you could call it that.” Lady Damara was miffed with him, but the talk with Mr. Dawson had done him good. “I’m thankful to get to bed, however.”

  “I was, too.”

  “No doubt you had an interesting night, too. I hope it wasn’t terrible.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing I couldn’t bear with equanimity.”

  “Good.” He was glad the firelight behind him made his face a shadow. He could study her for any signs of fear or worry—and bask in her simple beauty—without her really being aware. “I want you to know that even if I hadn’t seen you on the stairs, I would have made sure you never would have had to sleep in the attics with the male servants.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice sounded subdued. No wonder—he’d woken her from a deep sleep. And she was playing a role, a role that surely couldn’t be easy, and doing so in a houseful of strangers.

  “Did you really enjoy this evening?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “It was all right.”

  “You appeared to be having a lovely time with Lady Damara. Was that she? The one who came out and took your arm?”

  “Yes.”

  “She looks divine in turquoise.”

  “I suppose she does.”

  Pippa looked down and away from him. “She obviously wants to marry you.”

  He laughed. “Not necessarily.”

  Now it was Pippa’s turn to shrug. “It would be most convenient if she did.”

  “Right. I remember why. So Uncle Bertie will stop pestering us to get married ourselves.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Of course, he thinks we’re heading to Gretna right now.”

  “There’s no way we could have made it so quickly.” She sighed. “So I suppose he thinks we’re staying at an inn. Hopefully, he believes we’ll be in separate rooms.”

  “That’s not usually what happens when people elope. They give up on pretense, I believe, and indulge their passions where they may.”

  She emitted a little laugh.

  “What’s so amusing?” he asked.

  “Just that I heard in the kitchens that the servants expect you and Lady Damara to be together tonight. I assume that’s what the wine is for on your bedside table.”

  Gregory hid his chagrin. He was sure those were props for use in a midnight affair, too. “Just because servants talk doesn’t mean the rumor is true.”

  “Right. Like the rumor Lord Marbury mentioned about you … and my old friend Eliza.” She gave another laugh, but this one was a bit sad.

  Gregory sighed. “Do you believe it?”

  Pippa stared at him. “I don’t know.”

  It hurt him that she did. But why should it? It was true. He’d slept with Eliza—once.

  Just once.

  But he couldn’t stand the idea of Pippa knowing. He couldn’t bear the idea that she would ever, ever truly think ill of him.

  “Tell me the truth about you and Eliza,” she said, and even in the dark, he could see how her eyes were lit with more than curiosity. There was something else … she had another reason for wanting to know.

  “You tell me why you’re asking first,” he said. “And then—I swear—I’ll tell you the truth.”

  She heaved a big sigh. The room was silent a moment.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  He was relieved, of course. “Tomorrow we’ll talk, shall we? About what to do with you when the house party is over.”

  She sat up higher. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I don’t intend to take you back to Uncle Bertie’s.”

  She gave a great gasp. “Really?” And before he could blink, she’d left her pallet and had her arms around his neck. “Oh, thank you, Gregory.”

  He let her hang there a moment. In fact, he closed his eyes and luxuriated in the feel of her. “I decided tonight when I saw you on the stairs with those two brutish footmen…”

  “They were awful louts.”

  “… That anyone who tries this hard to escape their lot must have a very good reason for doing so.”

  She squeezed him even harder, then pulled back to look at him. “It’s true that belowstairs I was very worried about being a valet here. I even wondered if it were worth it. But it is.” She gripped his shoulders and gave him a little shake. “It is.”

  He marveled at her devotion to her dream. “Tell me,” he said, “what is it about making sugar sculptures that makes you so … excited?”

  She laughed. “They make people happy, that’s why. Including me.”

  “It’s as simple as that, then?”

  “Of course. It’s the same way I can’t give up tea. Or sleep. Or—”

  “Or what? What else can’t you give up?”

  Her eyes were large and dark, her skin glowing in the firelight from the bedchamber. “Nothing.” She stepped back and looked away from him again, her arms crossed over her chest. “I think you should go now. Tomorrow is another long day. At least we’ll start it and end it in the same place.” She looked back at him and gave him an awkward smile. “That will be nice.”

  He took a step toward her, and she stumbled back onto her pallet. “What are you doing?”

  He stood still. “Nothing.”

  “Then—then why are you still here?”

  He scratched his temple. “You just seem a bit angry at me. And it disappoints me. I was looking forward to seeing you.”

  “You were?”

  “Of course. Why do you sound so surprised?”

  She shrugged again.

  He wasn’t sure that he should ask, but he did: “Are you jealous of Lady Damara, by any chance?”

  She reacted as he suspected she would. “Why would you think that? I want you to marry someone, Gregory. The sooner, the better.”

  “Right,” he said.

  There was that silence again.

  Slowly, she rubbed her eyes with her index finger and thumb. “All right.” With an abrupt change in her demeanor, she looked him square in the eye. “I might have been a little jealous. The few times I’ve seen you in London, you’re always with these beautiful women, and then the papers speak of how all the debutantes want to waltz with you—”

  “Yes?” He came up to her, put his hands on her waist. “What of it?”

  She bit her lip and looked away again.

  “Pippa?”

  “Blast it all, I hate you sometimes.”

  “I know.” He felt his mouth tip up at the corner and wondered why it was that no matter what she said, he still adored her. He always had. From the time they were small.

  But what did it mean, to adore someone?

  He adored his sisters, didn’t he? And Mama. He adored Alice, too, their housekeeper. He’d also adored his grandmothers and Mother—when they were alive.

  Obviously, adoration was a feeling he reserved for women—he’d never adored sweets. He’d longed for them and gobbled them down when he got them. And he’d never adored Tiger, their old dog. In his younger years, Gregory simply loved him and wanted to roughhouse with him on the grass. He’d definitely never adored his father or his brothers, mathematics (his favorite subject), or boats (which he was also mad for).

  No, there was something about that word adore that he reserved for women who were special to him.

  And he adored Pippa.

  Maybe it was because her profile was stunning. He hadn’t noticed that before. He longed to run his finger down it, from her forehead to her chin, and then her neck …

  Had he adored Eliza?

  No.

  And he was ashamed that he’d taken it as far with her as he had, and hadn’t adored her as every woman deserved to be.

  Pippa released a little laugh, then looked back at him. “It’s just that I sometimes wish…”

  “What?�
�

  “That I intrigued you the way those women do,” she confessed. “But of course, you already know that. You saw my notebook in Eliza’s garden, and I’m over you, I promise. But I still want to know what it is—and how to get it—the ability to attract the notice of a man like you, not just on a dare—”

  He stopped her with a kiss.

  And what a kiss it was.

  What a kiss it could be, he thought, when Pippa kissed him back with her whole heart.

  For that was what she was offering him, he knew, even if she didn’t realize it herself.

  Her whole heart.

  She was never one to disguise anything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “No.” Pippa’s lips felt plump and warm, ready to be kissed by Gregory again. But she couldn’t. She mustn’t.

  “You’re especially beautiful tonight,” he whispered in a husky tone. His dark eyes held her in place the way the moon held the tides.

  “We can’t do this.” She pushed against his chest and walked around him into the bedchamber to stand before the fire, her arms wrapped around her middle.

  Oh, dear, her legs were bare.

  She looked up and saw him staring at her, at her legs, and then back at her face. A little shiver ran through her. “Sorry. I didn’t have a night rail. I took one of your spare shirts. You packed more than I was able to manage.”

  “It’s all right. I’ve seen you like this before.” Pippa’s cheeks burned. He went to a corner and pulled a banyan off a hook. “Here. Use this.” He came to her then like a gallant knight and held out an arm of the silky robe. She slid it on, enjoying the slippery feel of it. He did the same for the other arm, and then came to stand in front of her, where he took the two ends of the belt and smartly tied them at her waist. “There.”

  She smiled. “You’re the valet. Not me. You’ve been so all day long.”

  “I have, haven’t I?” He walked to the far side of the bed and poured a glass of wine.

  She listened with satisfaction to the sound of the liquid gurgling from the bottle and into the glass.

  “Would you like some?” He held the glass toward her.

  Slowly, she nodded.

  He poured another for himself, and then he walked over to her, the sound of the floorboards squeaking a reminder that the rest of the house was falling asleep—or perhaps staying up to play, depending upon the guest and his or her carnal intentions.

  When she took the glass, he raised his toward her. “Cheers.”

  A little reluctantly—well, if she were honest, very reluctantly—she clinked hers with his and said what was truly on her mind: “As much as I might like it to be, this can’t be another seduction scene, Gregory. I’m not one of your many female admirers willing to be bedded at your whim, like Lady Damara.”

  “I agree. You’re not in the least like her or any other female I know.”

  “Thank you. I’ll decide when seduction is to occur, if ever. It might be years from now—”

  “Years? That would be an awfully long time.”

  She shrugged and took another sip of wine, and together they watched the flames in peaceful silence. “People can live on memories, you know.”

  “I’d hate to do that. The real thing’s so much better.”

  She huffed. “I know we’ve spent some very intimate moments together, and it was truly lovely, but I intend to follow through on my plan to go to Paris.” She allowed her mouth to tip up. “I’ll admit, you’ve hit upon quite an effective way to keep me here in England. But it’s a diversion only, and as I told you at the inn, I comprehend your strategy—if that’s what it is.”

  “I’m flattered you think I’m that clever, but that’s not it at all.” His gaze was serious when he lifted a hand to pull a long strand of hair off her face. “It happened. And when it shouldn’t have, I’m the first to admit it. But it’s almost inevitable when a man and woman are thrown together as we’ve been—not to mention all the expectations Bertie has voiced about us.” He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “I understand your point, in other words. Fun is fun, but plans are plans. And ne’er the twain shall meet.”

  “I—I’m glad you understand.” She shifted a few inches to the right, away from him.

  “And you’re breathtaking, even in a man’s shirt. Especially in a man’s shirt.” He took her free hand and squeezed it. “You talk as if other women have some secret that you don’t—and they do, I admit. But you’re so much more interesting, just being you. You don’t need any secrets.”

  “I must admit I’m averse to them.” She pulled her hand back carefully and wrapped it around her goblet. “How long have you been able to wrap women around your little finger?”

  “It’s not something I work at,” he said. “But it’s true that somehow I’m never wanting for female companionship.”

  “And you’re not speaking of your stepmother and sisters, are you?”

  “No,” he admitted wryly. “Although when you throw them in the mix, I have more female companionship than a fellow knows what to do with.” He tossed off a wry grin. “Even in America, where I concealed my identity as a wealthy earl much of the time, I was plagued with female companionship.”

  “Poor you.” She’d imbibed half her glass now. Her arms and legs were beginning to warm up very well.

  “I’m not complaining,” he said. “I enjoy the company of women.”

  “Obviously.” Her tone was dry.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “but no one teases me without retribution.” He put his glass down near the single candle and threw himself back on the bed, where he lay on his right side, one leg tucked up to his knee. “I dare you to join me.” He patted the coverlet. “Your punishment will be my complete indifference to your feminine charms while we discuss what we’re to do with you after the house party. What with your being valet not only to me but to Mr. Dawson, we won’t have much time to plan, otherwise.”

  “That’s a grand idea,” she said, warming up to him again. “I can’t believe this is happening, that we’re not going back to Plumtree.”

  She put her wine down next to his and crawled onto the bed, feeling as if they were two ill-behaved children preparing to break into the pantry and steal a cake. She stretched out full length next to him, her head resting on the heel of her open palm. “I’ll start,” she said.

  “Go right ahead. Just remember, this is conjecture at this point. Don’t get too excited.”

  Excited?

  His eyes were hooded, their deep blue depths unfathomable. His broad chest and muscular arms reminded Pippa that she was smaller, weaker.

  A shiver went through her. Gregory was all man.

  “After the house party,” she began, “you’ll take me to Plymouth and drop me off so I can sail to France, where I’ll immediately take up my post as companion to the lovely old lady who’s actually expecting me.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “Fated,” she corrected him. “She hadn’t spoken to Uncle Bertie in forty years when she wrote him about needing a companion.”

  “Very well. How would you get to France safely?”

  “I’ll maintain my disguise, which I admit I can’t stand—the wig is itchy, and when I wear my binding”—she saw his pupils dilate when she said binding—“I have difficulty drawing a deep breath. But the disguise serves its purposes.”

  “That’s not nearly enough,” he said. “You’d need to carry a pistol.”

  “You can teach me to shoot while I’m here, then.” She grinned. “I’m going to be the first English lady of the leisure class to be trained by an international expert in the art of confectionery. Ever.”

  “If this were to happen, you’d be beginning a small revolution, in other words,” Gregory murmured.

  “Exactly. Who knows? Maybe another young lady in a similar position will look to my example and throw over expectations and do something completely marvelous and unexpected, too.”

  “And if it involves marzipan,
all the better,” he said.

  “Don’t talk down to me, Gregory.” Her banyan slipped off her shoulder.

  “I’m not. I meant metaphorical marzipan.” He pulled her sleeve back up and patted it. “Something sweet, decadent, frivolous yet somehow completely necessary for happiness.”

  His voice was getting husky again.

  “I know you’re jesting, but you’re actually describing perfectly why I like sugar sculptures.” She reached behind her and picked up her glass of wine, took a sip, then set it down. “Do you want your wine?” she said over her shoulder.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.” But he sounded distracted, as if he weren’t really listening to her anymore.

  “Gregory? Are you all right?”

  “I think I’m failing at my objective. Your feminine charms are definitely attracting me.”

  She threw herself down to face him again. “Good.” She winked at him. “You deserve it. I refuse to go anywhere. Be tempted.”

  “Fine,” he said. “But I’ll outlast you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I know I will. Because in about two seconds you’re going to go storming out of here into your little dressing room.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t take you to Plymouth.”

  “What?” Her stomach dropped to her feet. “You said—”

  “I said I wouldn’t return you home. But I never said I’d expedite your journey alone to Paris. Even after all you say—even if you were to learn to use a pistol—I still don’t believe it’s safe. You’ll be found out, Pippa.”

  “Have I yet?” she snapped.

  “No.”

  “But these two weeks will be stellar practice,” she insisted, anger building in her like steam trapped in a teapot.

  “It’s not enough,” he said. “You’d be an unprotected woman in a foreign city, and it goes against my conscience to dump you at a seaport—”

  She leaped off the bed. “You’re right. I am leaving.”