Earl of Wainthorpe

by Cameron, Collette

  “I mean to make it official, Bianca. One way or another, I shall assume legal responsibility for you.”

  One way or another?

  What other way was there?

  “And besides, as I mentioned before,” Pierce said, “I hope to impose upon you to help with the hiring of staff and the refurbishing of Halverstone. From my observations, the kitchen gardens aren’t as robust as they might be, either. Those are areas I have little experience in and which need a woman’s hand.”

  He grinned down at her, a lock of hair falling forward and giving him a boyish demeanor.

  Gone was the hardened, stone-faced man who’d won her at the gaming table.

  “You may consider that payment for your new garments and other necessities if that makes you feel more proper.” Pierce patted her hand. “I’m sure there are many other ways you might put your talents to use. Fairfax did say you ran an efficient household.”

  “Mrs. Digby might have something to say about that.”

  Pierce had mentioned his absence from Halverstone for almost five years, and though he was the earl and their employer, the Digbys ran the place the way they thought best. Sudden change wouldn’t be well-received.

  “You leave the Digbys to me, my pet.”

  Squinting slightly against the vivid azure framing his hatless head, she halted and searched his features. “Just how long do you plan on my staying here? Have you forgotten our wager? In a few days I am to return to Elmswood Parke.”

  If I don’t kiss you, that is.

  She certainly wasn’t going to ask for the ‘more’, no matter how curious she might be.

  A hare darted across the path, and Pierce watched the sleek animal disappear into the hedgerow. “But a lot can happen in a short period of time, my sweet. I know an earl who fell in love and married within a week. And if you recall, I never explicitly agreed to your terms.”

  A sudden rush of tears stung behind her lids, and she went rigid.

  How could she forge her own future then? A future without hint of scandal or dishonor.

  But perhaps it was too late for that already.

  He halted behind a shrub dappled with tiny dark pink flowers, and drew her stiff form nearer. “Please don’t be miffed with me, sweeting.”

  He kissed her nose, the act so endearing, her ire dissolved.

  Why did he have this effect on her?

  Righteous vexation ought to be singing through her pores, not a sweet, languid sensation like warm honey.

  “I’ve been hard-pressed not to taste your pretty mouth again. Abstaining is proving more difficult than I’d imagined.” He canted his head toward the pond. “I’ve taken to swimming in yonder pond each evening.”

  He had?

  Still, he would break her heart if she didn’t remain resolute.

  Her wayward attention strayed to the pond. The water must be frigid, even if June was upon them. Why hadn’t she seen him from her balcony?

  Then he must take his cold plunges after dark. Wasn’t that a mite dangerous?

  “Tell me you struggle against temptation as much as I, my sweet.” The husky timbre of his voice caused those deuced nape hairs to perk up once again.

  Bianca knew how she should respond, but once more her capricious emotions betrayed her. Damnable shilly-shallying things.

  Certainly, she shouldn’t feel this giddiness at his confession. Shouldn’t notice how he loomed above her, making her feel protected and dainty when many men must look upward to meet her eyes. Particularly since Pierce had all but admitted he didn’t intend to honor their agreement.

  “Well, be assured, my lord, I have no similar inclinations to kiss you.”

  She presented her profile and pulled her hand from the crook of his elbow. Pray her expression didn’t bely her words.

  He chuckled and traced his finger along her jaw. “Liar. I see the desire in your magnificent eyes.”

  Indignation billowed within her lungs, and she spun to face him.

  He met her fuming glare with a winning grin.

  She curled her toes and gritted her teeth against a most unladylike oath.

  “This is not a game, Pierce. I cannot, shall not, be compromised.” She poked him in the chest just above his paisley waistcoat. “I’ve seen London’s east end. Seen the unfortunate, once respectable women, even young girls, their circumstances reduced to desperation, plying their trade.”

  She swallowed against the sickening tautness in her belly. Shaking her head in frustration at herself as much as at him, she firmed her lips. “If nothing else, I’m sensible. Surrendering to a moment of ecstasy with a man I find deucedly attractive, no matter how much I might want it, simply isn’t worth that risk. Not in the end.”

  Because her mum had surrendered to such insanity and then been left to raise a child alone. After Uncle died, Bianca found a neat stack of letters, tied with a string, buried in the bottom of his desk drawer. Mum wrote him when Father had disappeared shortly before Bianca’s fifth birthday.

  Mum never knew what happened to Papa. Didn’t know if he’d abandoned them. If he had been pressed into service aboard a ship. Or even if he’d been murdered.

  One day, he’d just vanished.

  As time passed, Mum’s letters to Uncle Sylvester had become more infrequent and stopped altogether after a couple of years. Still, Mum had refused to move back to Elmswood. Refused to believe Papa wouldn’t return someday. Even when they’d been forced to let their housekeeper and cook go, had left their cozy house and lived in a humble paint-chipped room in a dingy part of London, she never gave up.

  What would it be like to love so profoundly?

  Wholly wonderful.

  Utterly horrid.

  Love like that controlled a person. Stole their ability to make rational decisions.

  While Mum worked, Bianca had stayed in their one room lodging, the door locked from outside. Clutching a ragdoll, the only toy she ever owned, Bianca had watched the pitiful creatures outside begging for a crust of bread.

  From the small, grungy two-paned window overlooking a street and three alleys, she’d seen other awful things an innocent child should never witness. Things that had terrified her and made her determined to never become one of those pathetic women.

  In that room, Mum had taught her to read, write, and do sums, and later when Bianca grew older, the door had been kept locked from inside to keep riffraff out.

  One day when she was eight years old, Mum had been late coming home. Bianca’s empty stomach gnawed away at her spine, and she’d disobeyed and left the room. Scared, for she’d never walked the street alone, she hurried to the pastry shop to see what was keeping her mother.

  The place had smelled divine, and her stomach had rumbled its appreciation. Only Mum didn’t work there anymore. Times were hard, and she’d been dismissed over a year prior.

  Such pity etched the woman’s face who gently broke the news to Bianca, that she’d wanted to collapse, curl into a ball and sob right there before the counter. Instead, she’d accepted the warm roll the woman offered and returned to their hovel, having matured twenty years.

  She never told Mum she’d left their room. Never told her she knew she didn’t work at the bakery any longer. Never asked what she did when she left Bianca alone for hours and hours at night.

  Even as a child Bianca knew.

  Perhaps not the specifics. Nevertheless, she’d seen enough from the fusty rectangle overlooking the neighborhood to get the gist. Horror and shame kept her mute. Still kept her silent, but doggedly determined to avoid the same vile fate.

  Pierce captured one of the curls that escaped its confines and wrapped it around his forefinger, drawing her back the present. Though his tone remained light and playful, the contours of his face seemed more pronounced. “So you admit to desiring me?”

  Out of all that Bianca had said, he picked that morsel to comment on? It seemed to be a habit of his.

  “Do not take me for a bacon brain. You know that I do. I cann
ot resist you, though God knows I try. I believe the foolish incident in the carriage made that perfectly clear.”

  Bianca must not submit to his magnetism. She must be unpredictable. Must keep him off his guard.

  “I don’t know.” He lazily fingered her curl. “I don’t think it was so very imprudent. I rather enjoyed it.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Did he speak of their kiss or her bungling attempt at seduction?

  Fine. She knew just the thing to scare away a rakehell like him. He would distance himself from her so fast and so far, she needn’t fear his attentions any longer.

  “Unless I have a band around my third finger, Pierce,” she held up her hand and wiggled the appendage, “I’m not dallying with any man. Not even sinfully handsome, tempting-as-sin lords such as you.”

  Just when she believed she had the upper hand, he neatly turned the tables on her. His gaze locked with hers, Pierce raised her hands to his mouth and pressed his lips to them for a lengthy moment.

  God help her but she could get lost—no, she could drown in those unfathomable, black-fringed depths.

  “Then marry me, my darling, sweet, obstinate, impulsive, wonderful Bianca.”

  Pierce had not planned to propose.

  Yet the words spilled from his mouth, expressing what he’d contemplated for days.

  Weeks.

  From that first morning she’d intruded into his bedchamber and Popplewell planted the ludicrous notion in his head. He didn’t regret the impulse either. Wedding her was the perfect solution. Besides, he wanted to marry this unpredictable, remarkable, delightfully aggravating woman.

  Theirs would be no marriage of convenience. The part of him that delighted in thumbing his nose at tradition and expectations thrilled at that fact.

  Perhaps it was an insane impulse, but she brought a part of him alive that he had long since thought dead. Or at the very least, dormant.

  They would quarrel, of that he had no doubt.

  Probably have great, fierce, bloody loud rows, truth to tell. But life wouldn’t be dull or predictable married to Bianca. It had been for so long, he’d forgotten what excitement felt like—what it was to anticipate something other than revenge.

  Yes, Bianca Salisbury was the perfect woman for him.

  He couldn’t be more certain of it. Even if he had only known her for weeks. Why, even her height suited him. The crown of her burnished head came to the juncture of his shoulder, and despite her stature, she possessed a svelte figure.

  Except for her big feet.

  She’d be peeved to know how much that little detail amused him. Even so, he’d vow she danced as gracefully as she walked, slight limp or no.

  He kissed her knuckles again.

  The moment she said yes, he would claim her scrumptious mouth, too.

  “What say you?” Closing his eyes, he brushed his face against her satiny cheek. “We can be married as soon as the banns are read. Or if you prefer, we can go to Scotland and skip all that formal falderal.”

  A most unladylike snort resounded near his ear, and he leaned away to study her face.

  Something near scorn tightened Bianca’s features, and amber fire flared within her gaze.

  “Now you mock me.” She tried to pull her hands free, her eyes luminous and wounded. “I know you have a devilish reputation, and I know you probably find me highly amusing. But I never considered you would stoop to unkindness.”

  “Darling, I’m perfectly earnest. The notion occurred to me days ago. And the more I’ve pondered it, the more I’m convinced it’s the perfect solution. You need protection, Bianca, and I need a wife.”

  “Oh, you … you rogue.” She shoved at his chest. “Those are your reasons for proposing?”

  Her color high and those incredible eyes sparking with indignation, she’d never looked so magnificent.

  Probably ought to have given her a bit more time and not mentioned that snippet about needing a wife. But then again, Pierce never thought he’d want to marry. And now he did. Not only because he hungered for her sweet body beneath his. No, her wit and her intellect, her straightforward speech, the fact that she didn’t turn all feminine fluff and guile to get her way, attracted every bit as much as her lush form.

  From her glorious hair, a shiny, untamed burnished copper halo framing her face in this morning’s sun, to her cherub’s nose, peach tinted mouth, and her slightly overgrown feet, she fascinated him.

  In fact, wonder of wonders, she’d even managed to temper his animosity toward Fairfax the merest degree.

  He knew full well what Coventry would say, his mouth skewed into a smug smile. “You’ve fallen in love, Wainthorpe, old chap.”

  That carried things a trifle too far. Pierce didn’t love Bianca.

  Did he?

  No, of course not. Love was elusive, otherworldly, fragile.

  Nothing like this molten stirring he felt—powerful, strong, infiltrating every aspect of his life. For she’d taken up residence in his mind, and from the moment her gaze pleaded with him from across the room during the card game, something unnamed had also taken root in his chest and simmered in his blood.

  Her expression grew shrewd, and he felt her prodding his thoughts, trying to read them.

  “It doesn’t make the least sense,” she muttered, her features scrunched in bewilderment. “You cannot possibly want to marry a woman such as I. Aside from barely knowing one another, I’m no beauty, and I have no dowry.”

  Bianca had already told Pierce about her dowry, and that she was unaware of her exquisiteness caused him a sort of sadness he couldn’t quite explain. “I don’t care about a marriage settlement, and though you may not believe me, I find you remarkable, fascinating, and utterly lovely.”

  Seemingly oblivious to his compliment, she shook her head again. “I haven’t a doubt that you would grow bored with me within a sennight. A month at most, then put me aside and return to your horde of demimondaines. Why, you probably don’t even know the number of women you’ve lain with, let alone remember their names.”

  Either disdain or disenchantment leached into her mumbled comment.

  His pride shredded by her lowly opinion, he released her.

  Bianca put a finger to her chin, and tilting her head to the side, regarded him. “So what’s your motivation?” As she drew herself upright, her features darkened and comprehension lit her eyes. “Besides despising my only living kin, that is? Is that why?”

  “That suggestion is beyond insulting, and not worthy of refuting.” His posture as guarded as a fortified castle, Pierce stepped away from her. “I shall put Elmswood at your disposal. I have no need for the estate. But you will remain in my care until such time as I deem it is safe for you to return there. It may be days, weeks, or even months. Those terms will have to suffice.”

  She gave one short nod, her naughty curls bouncing with the enthusiasm their mistress’s reply lacked.

  Pierce had expected a blistering retort and adamant denial. Would have preferred them to her complacent response. He cast a deliberate, disparaging glance over her attire, and she notched her chin upward, silently defying him. Ah, there was that impertinence.

  He adored that about her.

  “You still need decent clothes. As your guardian, I won’t have it said that I’ve neglected you. I’ve been remiss for too long in that regard as it is. The carriage will await us out front at half past ten.” Flummoxed by the anger and disillusionment surging through him, he pivoted toward the house. He took one step, then paused and angled halfway in her direction. “’Tis true I have no love for your cousin. He’s responsible for my mother’s death. But until I saw you at Lady Lockhart’s, I didn’t know you existed.”

  Her mouth sagged into an ‘O’, her almond-shaped cinnamon eyes big and startled.

  “And, Bianca, in case you’re wondering, I have never asked for a woman’s hand before either. I waited until I found a woman who I thought could be my equal.”

  Why he deemed that important en
ough to share with her, Pierce couldn’t quite say. Perhaps he simply wanted her to know that though he’d bedded other women, he’d saved proposing until he met a woman who stirred something more than his libido.

  With that, he strode across the green, humiliation stabbing him between the shoulders with each peeved step. At long last, not out of obligation or duty, but because he truly wanted to, he’d proposed to the only woman ever to capture his interest, not merely his lust. And Bianca threw the offer back in his face. No, she heaved it onto the ground and stomped upon it, even intimating that he’d planned this debacle to ruin her.

  He’d only ever been trying to protect her. Why couldn’t she understand that? What was she so afraid of?

  For the first time in decades, hot moisture pricked his eyes, and he blinked several times to clear them. How was it bloody possible to care for her in such a short while? Care that she’d refused his suit? Care what she thought of him, and that her scorn and rejection could turn him into a leaky-eyed milksop?

  Surely, this unbearable ripping apart behind his ribs was not love.

  Bianca was wrong, too.

  He would never become bored with her, and he could too remember the five women’s names he’d ever been intimate with.

  AamA used to tell him everyone had a soul mate, and those fortunate enough to find theirs, sometimes knew instantly they’d found the other half to their souls. She claimed it was so with her and Father. He’d been considerably older, and though of different ethnicities, religions, social status, and even political persuasions, she swore none of those things mattered.

  She gave Father her heart and soul, and he did the same without regret.

  For over eight years, they’d been blissful. True, Father’s work as a diplomat and his title and three daughters took him back to England quite regularly. AamA refused to accompany him, declaring she would be as out of place in his home country as a rhinoceros in a chocolate shop. Yet, they’d been happy. Even their spats about her involvement in the resistance against English rule couldn’t warp their love.