No Earls Allowed

by Shana Galen

  So why was she lying awake, eyes wide open, in her bed?

  “Wraxall,” she muttered. This was his fault. She couldn’t sleep because she kept thinking of the way he’d touched her in the carriage. She kept imagining him kissing her. Had he stayed at the orphanage tonight or gone home? He wouldn’t have left her alone after Slag’s threats. Would he? Perhaps she would tiptoe down and check.

  Julia talked herself out of leaving her room and her warm bed and then talked herself back into it again before finally tossing off her counterpane, pulling on her robe and slippers, and cracking her door open. She held a candle with one hand and kept her hand on the latch with the other. The corridor was dark and deserted. What had she expected? Wraxall prowling outside her room or that of the boys? A small voice inside her head warned her to go back to sleep. If she did find Wraxall, he would only want to discuss Slag’s ultimatum more, and she didn’t have any answers or solutions. She could not go home, and she could not stay here.

  Perhaps she should be certain Wraxall was still here. She did have a responsibility to keep the boys safe from Slag. Pulling the door open farther, she stepped into the corridor and shone the light on the pail outside her room. It was only about a quarter full of water, which meant someone had emptied it recently. The older boys usually took turns checking the pails, pots, and pans when it rained, but she hadn’t reminded them tonight. Had they done it of their own volition or had Wraxall ordered them to empty the water buckets? Perhaps he had done them all himself, which meant he’d been right outside her room recently.

  And why should that thought make her belly jump and flutter?

  Seeking Wraxall out was a bad idea. The way he’d looked at her in the carriage, the way her breath caught when he came around a corner, the way her heart melted when she saw him showing one of the boys how to use a tool or make a repair—these were all warning signs that she should keep her distance. She, of all women, knew what villainy men were capable of. Why would she open herself to more pain than she’d already endured?

  Because she was a fool, just as Harriett had been. Julia held the candle with one hand and her robe with the other as she descended the back stairs that led to the kitchen. But she was an even bigger fool than Harriett, because Julia knew the dangers awaiting her while Harriett had not.

  The kitchen was empty, as expected, and Julia moved silently into the main wing of the building, passing the dining room and parlor doors. When she reached the entryway, it was empty. Mr. Wraxall was not keeping vigil over the front door. She turned in a circle, making certain to search the dark corners. Perhaps he had returned home after all.

  What should she do? What if Slag was outside right now? Had Wraxall fixed all the door and window locks? She would check on the children. She would make sure all of them were safe in their beds, and then she would find a large blunt object and keep watch herself. She was about to ascend the main stairway when it occurred to her that when she’d passed the parlor, a faint light had spilled from the doorway. Wouldn’t he have banked the fire before leaving? The fire shouldn’t have still burned unless…

  Julia tiptoed back the way she’d come, pausing right before the doorway of the parlor.

  Please not Slag, she prayed. Please.

  She leaned forward, inching closer to the open seam. She could almost see inside. The fire was still burning—

  “Come in, Lady Juliana.”

  Julia jumped and almost dropped the candle she held. She fumbled, barely catching it, but managing to blow it out so at least if it fell it would not catch the rug on fire. Her heart raced but not from fear. That had not been Slag’s voice.

  She took her time righting the candle, and when she had secured it again, and then again, she swallowed and looked up and into the parlor. In the firelight, she could make out the outline of the man seated in a chair before the fire, his legs stretched out in front of him, his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth removed.

  “No, thank you,” she said hastily. “I thought I heard a noise and came to check all was as it should be.”

  “You heard nothing of the sort. All has been quiet as a graveyard. You came looking for me.”

  She stood in the doorway, wishing he hadn’t chosen to sit before the fire. She couldn’t see his expression. “Not at all. Why would I look for you?”

  “You tell me.” But he must have already known.

  She should return to bed. She should definitely not continue with this conversation. But then she said, “Very well. I wondered if you had gone home.”

  “You are not so fortunate.”

  Julia stepped into the room and saw that not only had he removed his coat, but he’d also rolled his sleeves to the elbow. His face was such a lovely, sun-kissed shade of bronze, and as the firelight played off the bronze skin of his arms, she wondered if the rest of him was that color as well.

  And that was a thought better not explored further.

  “Won’t you try and sleep?” she asked. He looked tired, his face drawn and his eyes heavy-lidded.

  “No. The pails should be emptied about once an hour.”

  “The older boys can take turns doing that. All of us, except the little ones, have taken a turn in the past. If we all take one hour, no one is disturbed more than once.”

  Wraxall shook his head. “The boys worked hard today. They need their sleep, as do you.”

  Julia moved closer to him. “You worked equally hard, and you did not sleep last night.”

  “Leave it be, my lady,” he said, his tone one of warning. As if to emphasize his point, he pulled his legs in and sat forward.

  “Perhaps I should keep you company. How am I to sleep when you sit up and keep watch?”

  He blew out a breath and raked his hands through his hair, pausing to hold his head in his hands and shake it. “Why can’t you be one of those biddable females? Why don’t you do as you’re told or, better yet, stay in your room?” He looked up at her. “You shouldn’t be in here with me, alone, and in only your nightclothes. Aren’t you concerned about propriety and your reputation and all the other rot you females hold so high?”

  “Why can’t you be one of those charming gentlemen who allows a lady to help him so she can return to her room and observe propriety?”

  “Because I’m not!” He stood and stalked toward her. “I’m a soldier, and I’ll always be a soldier. I don’t need help or company. I will do my duty until you come to your senses and return home.”

  But he knew as well as she that she could not return home. Perhaps he felt the same anguish she did, the same tearing of loyalties. He loomed over her, and though she refused to step back and show her trepidation, she did lower her voice. “I thought you sold your commission. You are no longer a soldier. Is it possible you are here because you want to be here, not out of duty? Perhaps you are coming to care for the children too.”

  He laughed, a bitter laugh that made her shiver. “If you mean do I pity them, you have it correct. I pity them and every bastard ever born.”

  She stiffened. Why must he behave this way? Why could he not see that the circumstances of his birth did not define him? “Then go home. I don’t want your misplaced sense of honor.”

  His fists clenched and his jaw tightened. If he’d been another man, she might have been frightened, but she knew he would never hurt her. “I will not leave you until you do,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Then at least sleep.”

  “Go back to bed.”

  “Why won’t you sleep?”

  “Good God, woman! You are every bit as stubborn as they say.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I prefer the term ‘persistent.’” She bit her lip. “Is it Slag? Is that why you won’t sleep? You think he will come here tonight?”

  He closed his eyes as though in surrender. “No.” His voice sounded weary and ragged. “No. It’s not Slag or the
rain or a sense of duty. It’s here.” He tapped on his head. “Here is where the problem lies. You see, my brainbox remains firmly entrenched in battle, and I’d rather not wake the whole building with my shouts and screams. Is that answer enough for you?” He turned his back on her, staring into the fire.

  Julia pressed her hands over her mouth. “Oh, Mr. Wraxall.” She reached for him—to do what she was not certain—but he moved out of her reach.

  “I don’t want your pity.” One hand went to the back of his neck. “God, but I need a drink. I’m too damn sober, and everything is too damn sharp and clear.”

  “I might have some wine in the kitchen—”

  He held his hand up to stay her flight. “If I want a drink, I can procure it myself. If I can’t go a few days without a bottle of Blue Ruin, then I’m a sadder case than even Rafe makes me out to be.”

  “Who is Rafe?”

  He turned to look at her, seeming almost surprised she was still in the room. “Go to bed, Lady Juliana, before I say or do something else I regret.”

  “You’ve done nothing to regret, Mr. Wraxall. I am glad you confided in me. If you have nightmares, why not try some warm milk? My governess used to—”

  The look he gave her made her close her mouth. “Do you think these are the stuff warm milk will cure? These aren’t mere whimsy. I relive battles and ambushes and slaughter in my dreams. My mind doesn’t conjure these horrors. The blood and the carnage were quite real.”

  “And you wake screaming?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  “I’m not the ideal houseguest.”

  “Certainly you don’t have these dreams every night.”

  “No, but I’d rather not risk it tonight.”

  Julia stepped back, startled at his abrupt answer. “Why—”

  He turned his back on her. “Go to bed, my lady.”

  She almost marched out of her room and back to her own chamber. Let him stay awake all night. He deserved his exhaustion if this was how he showed gratitude. But she didn’t leave. Her feet stayed rooted in place, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

  “Of course you won’t go,” he said. “I would have had more success if I’d asked you to stay.” He glanced at her over his shoulder.

  She lifted her chin, refusing to back down. “If you don’t want to sleep, that is fine, but I will stay and keep you company. It’s the least I can do when—” She broke off.

  He rounded on her. “When I am the only thing keeping Slag from coming in here and doing whatever the hell he likes to you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him tonight.”

  “We are both speaking of things we would rather not, it seems.” He stalked toward her, forcing her to back up until she was flush against the wall beside the door. “But understand this. I will never allow Slag to touch you. Never. I will do whatever is necessary to protect you from him, from your soft heart, and even from me.”

  “You?” she breathed. She could barely say the words. Her heart pounded and her lungs struggled to take in air. He was so close, his eyes so blue, his body so large and so warm and so close.

  “Yes, me. At the moment, I have a tenuous hold on my control at best. Leave before I do something we will both regret. The very thing we both wanted in the carriage.”

  “What is that?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat.

  His eyes blazed, and she realized she had challenged him yet again. Before she could take the words back or even flee the room, Wraxall put both hands on the wall behind her, effectively pinning her in. Taking another step closer, his body pressed against hers with a delicious warmth that made her realize exactly how cold she’d been before he’d touched her.

  “I have wanted to kiss you since the first time I saw you.” His finger traced her cheek. “You had flour here.” He trailed to her chin, the pad of his finger burning a path along her skin. “Porridge here.” He looked down, his finger flitting down her neck with a slowness that made her tremble. “And your dress…”

  Julia closed her eyes. She was so warm that if he touched her body, she feared she might spark and flare like a newly lit candle. But his hand stopped at the vee of her robe.

  “I looked a mess,” she whispered.

  “You looked irresistible.” His mouth lowered toward hers, and she knew he would kiss her. She’d been kissed before, and she could easily avoid this kiss by turning her head and offering her cheek instead. Wraxall gave her plenty of time to avoid the kiss, taking his time and making his intention clear.

  Julia knew she should turn her head. Better yet, she should shove him back and chastise him for daring to take such liberties. That was exactly what she had planned to do if a man ever attempted to kiss her again.

  But for some reason, she could not turn her head. She could not make her legs run away. She could do nothing but look into his bluer-than-blue eyes and hold her breath.

  When his mouth finally met hers, it was with a soft, tentative brush. Oh, there would be no denying she had known his intentions or not wanted his kisses. He gave her every opportunity to refuse.

  “Slag will never touch you like this,” he murmured.

  “No,” she agreed. Her lips tingled as he swept his mouth over hers, then pressed more firmly. One of his hands slid down the wall and came to rest on her waist. He made a sound low in his throat as his hand touched the silky material of her robe, and then he cupped her and pulled her flush against him.

  “Or like this.”

  Julia gasped as her body pressed against his hard lines. She had known he was not a man who’d spent his life in idleness, but now she could feel the evidence of his exertions in every hard ridge and plane of his muscled torso.

  His mouth teased hers as he explored her lips with his. He sucked and nipped and finally his tongue slid along the seam of her lips, coaxing them open. Julia tried to pull back. She had been kissed, but this was more than kissing. This was far too intimate.

  “Kiss me back,” he murmured, his warm breath tickling her cheek. “Show me what you like. What Slag will never taste.”

  She didn’t know what she liked. No man had ever asked, and she’d not thought it mattered. She did like the press of his lips on hers, not rough and demanding but coaxing. His question both thrilled and terrified her. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Then let me show you what I have been wanting to do for two days.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “No. You shouldn’t.” His voice was black velvet caressing her as surely as the hand on her lower back made soothing circles, branding her through the thin layers of her robe and night rail. “You really shouldn’t.”

  And that was all it took. Her father had always called her obstinate and headstrong in part because her first reaction when someone told her no was to raise her chin and do whatever it was she’d been ordered not to do anyway.

  She might be three and twenty now, no longer a child, but she still could not abide being told what she should and should not do. Something defiant and rebellious took her over when she heard those words. Instead of doing what she had planned—pushing him away—she brought her hand up from where she’d clenched it at her side and fisted it in the hair at the nape of his neck.

  His hair was surprisingly soft and silky, and she twined it around one finger, pulling his head down and closer to hers. Then she kissed him back. First she simply pressed her lips to his. He made no objection, though she’d felt him stiffen slightly, as though in surprise. He didn’t even move to kiss her back. He made no move at all, except that after her lips joined his and they stood there, joined, his hand curled against her back.

  The pleasure of that simple movement rushed through her, and she wanted more. She wanted to be closer to him. She wanted both his arms around her, holding her, touching her.

  Her mouth moved against his and the
n parted slowly. He seemed to hold his breath until she screwed up her courage and touched his lip with the tip of her tongue.

  And then everything seemed to happen far too quickly.

  Ten

  Neil had held himself so still and so tightly he was all but vibrating. When the woman had slid her hand into his hair, tickling the back of his neck, he had almost pounced on her. And then when she’d kissed him, he’d wanted to devour her. He’d held himself in check, not wanting to scare her, until she’d darted that small pink tongue out and slicked it against him.

  That was when he lost all control. No man could have controlled himself under those circumstances and with that sort of temptation. He held her ripe body in his arms, nothing but thin layers of silk and lace—and God, he knew what that lace looked like—between them. She was soft and warm, and she smelled sweet and clean. Perhaps if he buried himself in her, he’d forget the stench of cannon smoke and burning flesh.

  He lifted her off her feet and pressed her hard against the wall as his mouth came down to claim hers. He’d been playing with her before, giving her a chance to flee, giving her a taste of danger, but he was through with games. He took her mouth as a parched man takes his first sips of honeyed water. His mouth all but invaded hers, not softly or lovingly but with a need that was almost more than Neil could control.

  How long since he’d felt such a need for a woman? Had he ever felt this ferocity of need? He slanted his lips over hers, invading her mouth with his tongue. He’d been half-afraid she’d fight him, but her tongue lashed his right back. Her lips met his with an ardor that mirrored his own. Her grip on his hair was so tight it hurt, but he welcomed the pain. It kept him centered, kept him from losing himself completely.

  He might want her with a fierceness for which he had no compare, but he still had his limits. He was no Slag. He would not take her. If she was a virgin, he would not be the one to rob her of her innocence.