The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  He walked back into the dressing room and saw that, sure enough, her things were gone. “God,” he croaked aloud, rubbing his jaw in the looking glass, “how embarrassing.”

  The childhood warrior in him—the one who’d have ridden that imaginary piebald stallion and saved the world from dreaded enemies—didn’t like knowing he could be taken by surprise.

  “There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he heard from the door, and nearly jumped out of his skin. “You’re dealing with someone who excels at being invisible, as all good servants should.”

  It was Pippa dressed as his valet—and it was entirely expected that such a servant might see his employer naked. “Good morning, my lord.” She looked boldly at him, her spectacles glinting in the sunlight, her wig giving her an elfin look. “You were sleeping like a baby when I sneaked in here this morning.”

  “Was I? How did you sleep?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said firmly. “I’ve laid out your clothes on the bed. But I called for a bath. Yesterday’s travel dirt must be gotten rid of first.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “Do you really think this is a good idea—your acting as my valet?”

  She shrugged. “It’s too late to go back. I’m already quite used to seeing you naked. Feel comfortable flaunting your body about the room as much as you care to. Don’t mind me.”

  She took a hard look at the part of him that was still at full attention and shut the door behind her.

  “Don’t mind me,” he muttered.

  The door opened again, and she tossed him the silk banyan she’d donned last night. “On second thought, two footmen are bringing up the hot water. So you might want to put that on.”

  “Oh, really? I might need some help, Harrow.” He threw the garment back at her.

  “Very well.” She pointedly ignored his irritated gaze when she held out an arm of the robe in proper subservient fashion. In silence, he slipped one arm in, then turned to put in the other. Finally, when he pivoted back around to face her, he lifted his arms to shoulder height. Without a word, she tied the silk belt into a proper manly knot and left it dangling at his side.

  “There,” she said, sounding satisfied with her handiwork.

  “Hmmph,” he responded.

  She lowered her spectacles a fraction of an inch. “May I be so bold as to say, my lord, that your exercise at Gentleman Jackson’s—or wherever you go to stay fit—is reaping its rewards? Keep it up. We don’t want that waistline to be anything but trim.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, but she lifted her chin—like a girl—and stalked out without shutting the door.

  So this kind of behavior was his payment for bringing her to utter ecstasy last night?

  She popped her head in once more. “Oh, and I’m recommending the blue striped silk waistcoat and the navy blue coat. Buff breeches as you might be traipsing about outdoors today. Your boots are freshly polished. And you’ve got one stocking with a hole in it. I’ll have it mended by this evening.”

  The door shut again.

  “Fine,” he called through it. “Mend that stocking, why don’t you!”

  “I look forward to it,” she called back primly.

  He was in a foul mood now. Was he nothing but a doll for her to dress? Did his physical form move her so little? She’d admired his body the way someone might a fine racehorse. There wasn’t a bit of reticence in her when she put the banyan on him, either, even though he made sure she saw every inch of him as he turned before her.

  What did she really hope to accomplish with this “competent valet” act of hers?

  He wouldn’t think on it at the moment. He had something else to do, and that was to tweak his plans for the dog cottage—after he got ready for the day, of course. He stalked into the bedchamber, where Pippa was opening the door to the same footmen who’d escorted her last night to his bedchamber. Between them, they carried four buckets of steaming water. A copper tub already sat before the fire.

  “We’ll be back with more in a trice,” said one, after they’d dumped the buckets into the tub.

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “This is plenty of water to bathe in.”

  “Very well, my lord,” they said in unison, and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind them.

  Pippa grabbed the doorknob. “I’m leaving, too, to assist Mr. Dawson. When I come back, you’ll be done with your bath, and if you need help with your coat and cravat, I can do that.” Her cheeks were pink.

  But something in him couldn’t resist goading her after the treatment she’d given him.

  “Mr. Dawson can wait,” he said. “You can help me with the bath.” He threw off his banyan and swung his leg over the tub to stand inside it.

  She froze for a second then moved toward the dressing room. “All right,” she said coolly. “I’ll get you a cloth and some soap.”

  He watched her bustle away. The girl had mettle. When she came back with the equipment, he said, “Soap it for me, will you?”

  Her eyes grew large. “You’re teasing me, and you know it, Gregory Sherwood.” She thrust the soap and towel at him and hastened to the door.

  “Teasing you?” he called after her. “You said yourself that you’re my valet!”

  Her back was to him. “You always did this when I was your lieutenant. You knew I was mad for you, and you’d try to make me do frightening things like race across the yard of the mean old crone in the village. You’d dare me with a perfectly straight face. Well, I’m not accepting this dare. I don’t want to be your valet anymore.”

  “I can go along with that,” he said, soaping his belly. “The truth is, I don’t need one.”

  Still she wouldn’t look at him, and it made him realize how difficult it must have been for her this morning, playing the role of the indifferent yet capable valet.

  His pride took flight. “Oh, all right. I’m sorry if I offended you last night. I understand why you’re treating me so coldly, and I don’t blame you. If it’s any consolation, your humiliation at being bested can’t be nearly as agonizing as my own frustration at being—”

  “At being what?”

  “Unable to touch you again. I won’t go against your wishes.”

  Her shoulders sank. “I don’t think I should see you naked anymore—I mean, after this bath of yours.”

  After? Did that mean that she wasn’t quite ready to give up the sight of him in the buff just yet?

  “Fine,” he said, suppressing a smile. “So we’ve called a truce?”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  He squeezed the wet cloth over his belly, the sound of the trickling water loud in the room. When he looked up, she had turned around to face him.

  His ears filled with a drumbeat that was beginning to echo in his veins. “Pippa—”

  “I’m scared.” She had the same fearful look in her eyes that she’d had in bed with him the night before. “What’s happening? I can’t stop thinking about you—and me—and what occurred last night. You are more than a tease. I believe you now, what you said in your carriage—you’re dangerous. I shouldn’t be here. I need to leave this house, the sooner the better.”

  With one sure movement, he wrapped a towel around his middle. “Come here,” he said.

  The tension in the room was thick.

  “Come here, Pippa,” he said. “I’m not going to frighten you.”

  Slowly, she walked over to him and allowed him to pull her into a one-armed embrace.

  He squeezed her hard, as if they were mates. Boys on the battlefield who’d come through the wars. And then he kissed her cheek. “We’re all right,” he murmured against her ear.

  She looked down at the floor, her eyelids translucent, her face too pale and soft to be a man’s. “Oh, bother,” she said in a strangled tone. She looked away from him, then back, her eyes registering confusion and something else—something that pained her.

  He felt some alarm. What was wrong?

  And then much to his aston
ishment, she reached out a tentative hand, undid his towel, and let it drop to the floor.

  “My God, Pippa, you just said—”

  “I’m not doing what I did last night,” she insisted in a rapid-fire voice, her cheeks bright red. “I’m not trying to coerce you. Honestly. I—I just want to see … before I go to Paris.”

  He held his breath as she touched him, and of course, the expected happened. He became rock-hard.

  She sucked in a breath.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” he said, suppressing a groan.

  “It’s too late for that,” she said, sounding distracted. “Much too late.” She bent down and retrieved the soap from the floor of the tub and played with it in her hands. “Once I get something in my head—” She sent him an apologetic look. “Consider my interest in you this way—and my lack of pride in revealing it—a parting gift to a man who enjoys being in charge.”

  “Not always,” he said, his eyes flickering with heat.

  She flushed in response.

  “You know I won’t stop you.” His tone was utterly serious. “You might regret this later. I know I probably will. But—”

  “Enough talking,” she said with a smile. “I’ve taken over, and you must be patient. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

  He gave a light laugh. “Your concern for me is most appreciated, but I promise you, unnecessary.”

  And then she grabbed hold of him, gently but firmly, and began to stroke his sleek member. It felt good—more than good. It felt divine. And it endeared her to him even further, seeing her so curious and unwavering in her determination to do whatever she wanted to do.

  “I’m not finished,” she said.

  “I’m not objecting,” he returned.

  She began to wash between his legs and cupped him in her soapy hand. He dipped his head and closed his eyes. Total hedonism wasn’t something he’d expected to indulge in this morning.

  “I love seeing you this way, feeling you this way,” she murmured.

  He opened his eyes. “I’m at your mercy at the moment,” he said in a ragged whisper, and leaned the flat of his hands on top of the bureau behind him.

  She went back to his sex, caressing it so perfectly that he swiped her hand away. “You don’t know what you’re doing—where you’re going with this.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “We’re going there. No more talking.”

  And she returned to her ministrations.

  Fine, then. Gregory spread his legs, threw his head back, and let pleasure take him where it would. He’d no idea how an unversed sprite like Pippa could have brought him to one of the most gratifying releases of his life. But she did. And afterward, she stood stunned, her hands completely frozen upon him while he allowed his chin to drop and his eyes to close once more. “God,” he said on a sigh. “How is the rest of the day going to compete with that?”

  Her chuckle was nervous. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  He looked up and arched a brow. “Liked it? That’s an understatement. I won’t be able to think of anything else, all day. Who would ever guess that I’d be craving my cheeky valet?”

  She blushed. “I didn’t say we’d do it again.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “I never said we would, either.” She couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him when he grabbed the dry towel off the floor and wrapped it around himself once more. It was quite flattering. And arousing. “Now your curiosity is satisfied—that’s what this was all about, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Last night was an eye-opener, and I’m afraid … I’m afraid it got me extremely curious.”

  “Understandable,” he said, unable to keep the heat out of his voice.

  She backed away and tilted her head. “Now, my lord, I really must go.”

  He hesitated a moment. “Are you sure?” he dared to ask. “You don’t have to quite yet … if you don’t want to.” He let her wonder what he meant, that he was perfectly willing to do to her again what he’d done last night.

  If she asked, he would grant her anything, he realized.

  Her eyes flared wide, so she must have guessed what he meant. “Good heavens, no. I really must go.”

  “Very well.” He’d be all business if that would help. “By the way, I won’t need your assistance dressing. I’ll be busy most of the day, too. When you’re done with Mr. Dawson, don’t feel you have to do anything else. That is, don’t let anyone engage you in the chores of the house. Retreat here—and tell them if you’re hungry that you plan to eat in here, too. When you get bored, go browse through the library, walk in the garden, or even borrow a mount and go riding. You’re the valet of a future marquess. So act like it if you wish.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I think I’ll explore the grounds after I visit with Mr. Dawson.”

  “Right.” Gregory walked naked to the dressing room and turned around. “And Harrow?”

  “Yes?”

  “The valet act—it’s only for outside of this room. I’ll wear the banyan from now on, and you’ll be Pippa henceforth when you’re in here. I’ll tie my own cravats and put on my own jackets. I’ll also shave myself.”

  “I’m afraid you’d better.” She had a twinkle in her eye.

  “Is that a threat, or an admission that in your hands, a razor is an instrument of torture?”

  “Certainly not the second. I excel at shaving Uncle Bertie. Nor is it the first, much as you’d enjoy the idea of fending off a potential murderess. It’s actually that I’ll be holding your face in my hands—upside down. I don’t know that I could do it without laughing.” And to prove her point, she giggled. “Don’t you remember?”

  “What?”

  “When I made you lie that way on the ground—we faced each other and saw each other upside down. We’d draw two little dots on our chins for eyes, and when you look at the person’s mouth and chin that way, they become little people with upside-down smiles.”

  “Oh, right. I do remember. Let’s do it again.”

  “Later,” she said, and then blurted out, “Although I don’t know … I might not be able to see your mouth the same way ever again.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded, her face turning bright red.

  And suddenly, he knew what she was talking about.

  He allowed himself a slow smile. “That’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

  “It is when you can’t do that again.” She sounded wistful.

  “Do what?” he asked, striving to look the picture of innocence.

  “Gregory!” She stomped her foot. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Kissing and cavorting between the sheets? Against taproom doors? Or in tubs? Is that what we may never do again? Because you’re a sugar sculptor destined for greatness, I’m an architect designing dog cottages, and we’ll both be on opposite sides of the Channel very shortly, achieving our unparallel destinies?”

  “Yes.” She looked away, clearly in a huff. “You’re impossible.”

  He laughed. “I’m only teasing you. But I must agree. Our kissing days are numbered.” And he pulled the dressing room door shut behind him.

  “They’re over,” Pippa called to him, always wanting the last word.

  “Have a good day,” he called back.

  “No, you have a good day,” she insisted before bustling out the door.

  He waited until he heard her leave the bedchamber and then he allowed himself to fall onto the pallet, his face turned to the side.

  She’d been the perfect sexual companion. To hell with the upside-down smiley faces. She was right—he’d never be able to see her mouth that way again without wanting to kiss it, and the rest of her.

  He was rapidly becoming much too interested in her that way. He hadn’t been lying—the rest of the day would rot in comparison to the morning.

  He allowed himself ten seconds to close his eyes and think about what had happened in the tub. After those seconds were over, he vowed to open his eyes and focus on his
rather puny purpose at the house party: to work on that dog cottage design.

  He’d already met the pack of Irish wolfhounds last night in the drawing room. There were five of them, yet he’d not been inspired, as much as he enjoyed their scruffy, sweet faces and thumping tails. Perhaps if he went to the site of the dog cottage and saw where it would actually be, fresh ideas would come to him.

  Attention from John Nash was a worthwhile goal for a man who wanted a career as an architect. And Gregory did. He wanted it as much as he wanted anything, which wasn’t saying much, actually. Because there was nothing that truly stirred his soul these days.

  Nothing.

  Except Pippa.

  And that was only a recent development. He’d nip it in the bud. His conscience reminded him that he couldn’t do it soon enough. But then he saw one of her hairpins on the dressing room vanity and he remembered her last night and today.

  He gazed at himself in the looking glass, saw the hunger in his eyes.

  He’d told her he was dangerous. He’d told her. Could he really be held responsible if they happened to fall together again that night? And every night thereafter at the house party?

  He refused to answer the question. He ignored his own misgivings—ignored logic—tucked the pin in his pocket as a good-luck token of sorts, and left the room.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pippa adjusted her wig one more time in the looking glass in the upstairs corridor. She wished she could giggle as she used to when she thought about looking at Gregory’s chin and mouth upside down. But instead she sighed … he had a perfect, supple mouth.

  Very well. All she had to do was get through the day without thinking anymore about him at all. She could do that.

  She’d think about Paris. Would Madame DuPont be kind? Where did Monsieur Perot work? But then all the Gallic imagery—the Left Bank of which she’d heard so much, Nôtre-Dame, that glorious edifice, and the gorgeous French fashions—all of it was replaced with an image of Gregory standing naked in that copper tub. He should’ve looked embarrassed or shy, but he hadn’t. He’d looked like a living, breathing Greek god used to being admired, but not in a conceited way. He merely appeared comfortable in his own skin.