The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  She remembered also that casually posed question he’d asked her near the end of the morning’s exhilarating encounter, something along the lines of … did she really want to go just then?

  She knew what he’d been suggesting.

  And she’d been sorely tempted.

  But, no. She was off to help Mr. Dawson because she needed to act like a valet—and she would not be dissuaded by a dangerous charmer who also happened to be her friend.

  She might not want to be a valet, particularly, but at least she wasn’t at home with Mr. Trickle breathing heavily through his mouth a few feet away from her at the table. And she had to be thankful she wasn’t now married to Mr. Hawthorne and sharing his bed.

  Oh, no. Now that she knew what went on there …

  She felt a pleasurable, warm weight in her lower belly—it was that wanton named Desire, moving at a languorous pace lower and lower, finally settling between her thighs and refusing to move unless given some attention, some proper attention.

  Doing her best to ignore her own entirely inappropriate impulse to turn around and visit Gregory again, Pippa sped around the corner and knocked rather hard on Mr. Dawson’s door.

  “Come in,” Mr. Dawson said in that friendly, sweet way of his.

  A burst of affection for him filled her at the sound of his voice. That—and her commitment to being the most excellent valet on earth—served as a lovely distraction. When she opened the door, he was already in his shirt and breeches, thank God. She spent the next half hour shaving him—which she heartily enjoyed, as she spoke about the people she loved at home, not mentioning any names, and of her never-ending fondness for walking the moors, especially when a wild wind moaned over the gorse and low, gray clouds scudded across the sky. Afterward, she picked out his waistcoat and coat. She also tied his cravat and shined up his boots. It was an entire hour before she was finished, but it had flown by.

  “You look very dashing, if I do say so myself,” she said.

  “But these are the clothes I always wear,” he answered.

  “Yes, but it’s how you put them on that matters. Today, you had me to help you, and with every tweak of your cravat and buttoning of your waistcoat, I was beaming sincere admiration of you. In fact, if you were forty years younger—” she said flirtatiously, and then suddenly remembered she was a man, not a girl.

  His eyes widened, and he tilted his head as if he found her most curious. “Yes?”

  “If you were forty years younger,” she continued without missing a beat, “why, you’d be snapped up in an instant by a discerning young woman. As it is now, don’t be surprised if some of the elderly matrons at the house party find an excuse to sit by you when you dine.” She winked at him.

  He gave a blustery sigh. “The last thing I need or want is an elderly matron speaking to me of her servants, her pickles and jams of which she’s so proud, her bonnets—all of which look alike to me—and her grandchildren, especially the infants. I believe if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all.”

  “Mr. Dawson.”

  He gave a little chuckle. “I’m an old curmudgeon and proud of it. Fortunately, Lord and Lady Thurston put up with me, anyway. What can they do? I’m Lady Thurston’s cousin. I was thirty when she was born. I lived next door and remember everything—the tantrums, the sulks, the wretched tendres when she got older … Of course, she’s the apple of my eye. But I don’t tell her so.”

  “You should!”

  “Why?” He raised both graying brows. “Then she’ll stop making me my favorite jam tarts.”

  “You just said it annoys you when elderly matrons speak to you of jams—”

  “You’re a cheeky valet,” he said.

  “Indeed, I am.” She smiled.

  “We’re rather alike.” He sent her a sly grin. “In fact, I’m taking you in with me to breakfast. Things seem to happen around you, Harrow.”

  She gasped. “I can’t sit at the table. Not with the other guests.”

  “No, I suppose you can’t. But you can wait in the corner, and I’ll bring you a plate of eggs.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “I hope Marbury will be there,” he said, all innocence.

  “Why?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “No reason.” But he had a twinkle in his eye.

  She stood still. “Why, Mr. Dawson, I think you’re hoping Marbury and I will get into some sort of row!”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, but he was chuckling as they descended the stairs.

  The breakfast room was empty except for one man—Lord Marbury. Pippa and Mr. Dawson exchanged a knowing look.

  “I’m going to disappoint you,” Pippa whispered to him. “I vow to be on my best behavior.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he whispered back.

  When they walked into the room, Mr. Dawson said, “Good morning, Marbury,” as if he were a sweet old man and not a mischief-maker.

  Of course, now Pippa knew better.

  “I wanted to say good morning first, Mr. Dawson,” said the earl, “but I was busy scratching the back of one of the wolfhounds under the table with my boot. I love them like family already. And now that I’ve identified their temperaments, which range from moody to panting, I plan to make a nuanced adjustment to my design for the doggy cottage.”

  “Oh?” Mr. Dawson asked in a pleasant manner, his eyes roaming over the plentiful dishes on the sideboard.

  “But please,” Marbury said, “don’t tell Lady Thurston that I’m going to such supreme effort. I want her to be utterly shocked when she lays eyes on the sketches.” He rubbed his chin. “On the other hand … she might need her smelling salts, so if you’d like to prepare her in advance for my genius, you have my blessing.”

  “You’ve put me in quite the dilemma,” Mr. Dawson said, and held a cup out to the footman to fill it with steaming tea. “To tell my cousin—or not to tell?”

  Pippa sidled past Marbury and obediently sat in a chair in the corner. She laced her hands in her lap, but then she decided that looked too feminine, so she cupped them over her kneecaps and tried her best to glower.

  Marbury turned his round shoulders to stare at her. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “He’s with me,” Mr. Dawson said in his placid manner, and filled a plate with eggs.

  Marbury tucked an entire piece of bacon into his mouth. “You do what you like, Mr. Dawson,” he said with his mouth full. “I just find it odd to see a valet lounging in the same room as his betters. But you know how it goes. Someone like me—a person with tremendous design vision who also love dogs—has bigger things to think about than Harrow and where he sits. I think it’s bloody marvelous he’s here, actually. It’s a bit of comfort seeing him there in the corner, the same way it’s a solace having these slavering beasts under the table.”

  Mr. Dawson’s brow puckered, but he said nothing. When he brought Pippa a plate filled with eggs and a fork, he winked. She thanked him, winked back, and began to eat. The footman, pouring Marbury’s tea, cast her a secret envious look, and she knew that she’d best avoid the kitchens today.

  Just as the fellow put the teapot on the tray near his station in the opposing corner, a few sharp woofs and growls and then a thump came from beneath the dining table—dogs in the midst of a brief argument over territory. There was a clattering sound from where Lord Marbury sat, followed by a yowl emitted by that same gentleman. He pushed back his chair.

  “Harrow?” he yelled.

  Pippa jumped up with her plate. Good God, what had happened? And then she saw the overturned cup and the small milk pitcher on the carpet—and his wet lap. He sat stiff as a statue, his face in an awful grimace. Poor thing—he must have been preparing his tea and been jostled by the dogs.

  The footman moved swiftly to his side. “Let me help you, sir,” he said in a low voice.

  “Hot and cold hit me at the same time,” Marbury whimpered. He waved off the servant. “Harrow? Get over here. These are my best
pantaloons. Save them.”

  She held her plate to the side and approached. “Why don’t you go to your room and change them first?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but a dog the size of a small pony clambered out from under the table and knocked into Pippa and her plate, causing the eggs to slide right into Marbury’s lap.

  His eyes blazed. “You didn’t,” he said in a menacing whisper without looking down.

  She gulped and allowed her glance to flick at the new mess in his lap. “I—I’m sorry.”

  The wolfhound turned right around and tried to gobble up the feast, pushing his long snout into the crevice between Marbury’s rounded belly and his thighs. He swatted hopelessly at the hairy head. “Footman!” he barked. “Come get this mongrel!”

  The footman struggled with the hound but only managed to bump the table and cause a dish of sausages to hit the floor. This led to a stampede from beneath the table as the other hungry beasts dashed for the savory prizes. Marbury, surrounded by great quantities of wiry fur and slobbery tongues, was frozen in his panic.

  “Do something, Harrow. Help me!” He held out his arms.

  Mr. Dawson kept eating his porridge, watching with great interest but with only a mild expression on his face.

  Pippa fought her way between two hounds and grabbed a square ivory linen serviette from the table. She dunked it into a goblet of water and began dabbing at Marbury’s soaked lap. The sodden pantaloons gaped at the front panel where a hound had obviously devoured a button in his zest to find some more egg, and Pippa shuddered at the notion of retrieving food remnants from beneath the flap.

  Between Marbury’s howls of protest and the canine snorting and snuffling, Pippa hardly noticed when a loud cough escaped from Mr. Dawson, but she glanced up to see him shaking with silent mirth, his lips compressed but his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. He gave her a quick wink, one that she knew said, I told you so. Things happen when you’re around.

  Before she could even return a smile, Marbury yelped when one of the hounds snatched the edge of a tea-soaked serviette from his lap and took off for the dining room door.

  “Come back, you hairy beast!” Marbury snapped. He managed finally to get to his feet, waving his arms wildly to dispel the remaining animals.

  But the serviette thief wouldn’t stop. It kept going—and so did the serviette. Why, it’s unraveling, Pippa realized.

  Standing next to the distraught earl, she gaped in amazement. The serviette wasn’t a serviette, after all. It was long and narrow, and it was … it was—

  Her eyes got wider—

  So did Marbury’s.

  So did Mr. Dawson’s.

  And even the footman’s.

  The hound flopped down in the doorway with the fabric hanging out of its mouth and trailing across the floor.

  It was a cravat. Before Pippa could even begin to wonder what had happened, she rushed over and tugged upon the cloth until the dog let it go.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled to the pilferer. She balled up the sodden rag, terribly embarrassed by the turn of events. Apparently it had been rolled tightly and placed—

  Inside Marbury’s trousers.

  That gentleman, for once in his life, was silent. Mr. Dawson blinked. Pippa knew—

  Pippa knew she had to say something. She inhaled a deep breath. “Good for you, Lord Marbury,” she said doggedly, “for wearing the latest trend—er, the er, the cravotch. It’s all the rage in Europe.”

  “Cravotch?” Mr. Dawson asked, his eyebrows almost to his hairline.

  “Yes, the cravotch,” Pippa said. “Cravat … crotch. It’s a word recently invented by a stylish French wit.” She gave a weak smile. “Er, only the best valets know it. Yours must be very good, Lord Marbury. Very knowledgeable.”

  “He is,” the fellow said smugly, “and I can’t wait for him to arrive. I think I’ll bring him to breakfast, too.” He swiped at the remaining food particles on his pantaloons. “Now if you don’t mind, Mr. Dawson, I believe I’ve been through enough this morning with the dogs, all in the name of authentic research, which is crucial if one wants to design a doggy cottage par excellence. And now, I must go repair my person. Harrow?” He held out his palm for the offending—or was it glorious?—garment.

  She offered the cravat with great relief, and he snatched it up, stalking toward the door with his pride somewhat intact—she hoped.

  A commotion in the entryway at the front of the house caught her ear—some laughing and talking between a man and a woman. Beneath the strips of cloth binding her breasts, Pippa felt her entire upper body tighten. It sounded like Gregory—and Lady Damara.

  At the breakfast room door, Marbury nearly barreled into the cozy pair. Lady Damara had her arm possessively through Gregory’s, and Pippa’s heart nearly stopped. They looked beautiful together—she with rosy cheeks and a few tendrils about her ears, and he, his usual vigorous and very male self.

  “Westdale,” Marbury said between gritted teeth.

  “Marbury,” Gregory replied with no venom, only mild amusement. “What’s that in your hand?”

  Marbury arched one brow high. “You mean … you don’t know?”

  “No,” Gregory said patiently. “It merely appears to be a sodden lump of linen.”

  A delicate furrow appeared on Lady Damara’s pretty white forehead.

  Marbury gave a short laugh. “Oh, Westdale, I pity you.” He looked back at Pippa. “Harrow, what kind of valet are you? Not sharing the latest in modish fashion with your own employer?” He looked at Gregory’s breeches—which left little to the imagination—and his eyes widened. “Well, excuse me if he had good reason for his silence,” he muttered.

  And he rushed past the pair, jostling Lady Damara so that she nearly lost her footing and gave a small cry. Gregory caught her other arm to steady her, and Pippa inwardly gasped as she watched Lady Damara manage to pull him closer, close enough that there was not a bit of space between her bountiful breasts and his strong biceps.

  Her heart blazed with jealousy. Were they a pair? They certainly acted like it. Why else did it take them a few seconds to separate, as if they were longtime lovers who couldn’t bear to be apart? And when they finally did—Damara giggling and cooing silly things about how she couldn’t wait to show Gregory the amusing portrait of Lord Thurston’s great-grandfather in the upstairs gallery—Gregory made a gallant sweeping motion with his hand to encourage the lady to walk in front of him to the sideboard.

  Pippa was furious with Gregory—although she didn’t know why. He was merely being a gentleman. Small acts of chivalry didn’t mean that he was smitten with Damara. And, of course, it followed that neither did any cordial behavior he showed Pippa mean he had a tendre for her.

  But something in her didn’t like that logic, as soothing as it was supposed to be. That’s because you want Gregory to have a tendre for you! a tiny voice in her head said.

  “Good morning, Mr. Dawson.” Gregory spoke in a pleasant manner to Pippa’s new friend, who returned the greeting. “And good morning, Harrow. May I assume you accompanied Mr. Dawson to breakfast this morning?”

  “Indeed, he did,” said Mr. Dawson before Pippa could speak—which was a good thing. Because her throat was choked with all sorts of emotions, and she wasn’t sure her valet’s voice would be steady.

  “Good thing, too,” went on Mr. Dawson. “He saved Marbury’s pantaloons and his pride. Ask him to tell you more about it. He’s too modest, otherwise.”

  “No,” said Pippa, before she realized she was speaking out of turn. “I refuse to speak about the Cravotch Incident.”

  “Cravotch Incident?” Lady Damara asked. “What’s a cravotch?”

  Pippa simply stared at the wall behind Lady Damara’s head.

  Gregory chuckled. “Harrow’s not your usual obedient servant,” he said to his female companion. “If he doesn’t want to cooperate, he won’t.”

  “He is very odd,” she said, staring at Pippa as if she were a fascin
ating painting in a museum. Then she looked up at Gregory, her eyes as wide and exotic as a Siren’s. “You surprise me all the time, Lord Westdale, with your unorthodox choices. Hiring cheeky servants must be the least of them.” She lowered her lashes and gave him a coy look. “I love a man who dares to venture into risky territory. I wonder how far you’re willing to go in other areas of your life?”

  Her voice became breathy on the last few words, which she spoke so lightly that most people would merely nod their heads at the remark. But the subtle arch look Lady Damara threw Gregory wasn’t missed by Pippa. She didn’t excel at flirting herself, but she remembered Eliza and her strategies to capture a man, and at the moment, Lady Damara was doing her best to ensnare Gregory.

  “Well, I did go to the American frontier,” Gregory said.

  Surely, Pippa thought, he knew what Lady Damara had been hinting at—and it wasn’t a plea for him to tell her about his time in America! Her eyes narrowed but she continued to look completely absorbed in the chair rail that marched along the wall.

  “That was an adventure,” he went on. “I could tell you about it sometime. Especially the part about killing the rattlesnake that entered my tent while I was sleeping.”

  Pippa’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She wanted to hear about that!

  But Lady Damara’s smile faded. “Yes, I suppose you could.”

  “Later, perhaps,” he said. “Shall we dine?”

  “But wait,” Pippa blurted out. “You forgot to mention that you’re incredibly inventive in your design work, my lord. That’s the territory where you excel at breaking boundaries.” She knew she was in dangerous territory but couldn’t stop herself. “Too bad the mediocre commissions you’ve accepted don’t reflect that vision.”

  Gregory’s face froze.

  Lady Damara’s wide eyes grew even wider. “How dare he!”

  “Yes, well, sometimes Harrow pushes his own boundaries too far for my taste.” Gregory’s jaw was tight, and his mouth a thin line.

  But as a valet, she could conveniently look over his head, which she did. One part of her hated that she’d upset him, but the other knew she needed to wake him up, somehow. She didn’t have much more time in his company.