PLAYED BY THE EARL

by Alyson Chase

  “Sullen and resentful?”

  John frowned. “Scarred.” Though the other two characteristics definitely applied.

  “Does that matter overmuch?” She wrinkled her nose. “His capabilities haven’t been diminished in any way, have they?” Her eyes shot wide. “Oh, did the explosion injure other parts of him? Parts of him that…uh, men find most important?”

  “No!” John ran his hand up the back of his head. “All Chaucer men are quite competent in that arena. Some might say exceedingly so.”

  She didn’t jump to agree with that sentiment, and John narrowed his eyes.

  “All right,” she said. “Then why does he behave such? The few times I’ve met him, all he does is glower and grumble. Not one smile for me. And as we both know, I’m delightful.”

  John did her the service she hadn’t shown him and agreed. “Yes, you are.” Settling his hands at her bum, he tugged her an inch closer so her heat was nestled over his groin. “But his face is disfigured. He feels a monster. And his chances for a good match have greatly diminished. No woman wants to wake up to that every morn. Would you?”

  “Yes.” She nodded stoutly. “In a heartbeat, if he was of the right character. A pretty face can hold much evil; why can’t a scarred one hold an equal quantity of goodness?”

  John’s stomach fluttered. “No reason.” Her mouth was right there in front of his, so he leaned forward and kissed her slowly, leisurely. “No reason at all.” He squeezed her arse. “Netta, are you saying if I were of good character—”

  “Which we both know you are not,” she teased.

  “Quite. And if I wasn’t so devastatingly good-looking—”

  She sighed. “Which we both know you are.”

  His lips twitched. “Quite. But if I were both those things, ill-favored but morally upright, that you would still have agreed to help me? Still have found yourself in my bed?”

  She tilted her head, a smile dancing about her lips. “You offered me four thousand pounds. I would have agreed to help Shakespeare’s monster, Caliban, for four thousand pounds.”

  He slowly raised one eyebrow. He didn’t like how much truth might be in that statement.

  “As to landing in your bed…” She wiggled her hips. “You could be poor, ill-favored, and the dissolute reprobate you are and you’d still have to drag me from it.” She placed a soft kiss on his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “The Chaucer men are just that good.”

  He breathed deeply. That was more like it. “Netta, is there another actor who can take your place at the theatre tonight?”

  She pulled back. “Why? Are we going to a gaming hell?” A flicker of concern passed across her features.

  “No. Can you find a replacement?”

  “There is always an extra villager who is eager to take on a speaking role.” She tugged on his cravat. “Tell me where you wish to take me?”

  So impatient, his Netta. So demanding. But with her love of dramatics, he knew she would approve of that night’s entertainment.

  “We, my dear poppet, are attending a masquerade ball.”

  ***

  Netta twirled, her face lifted to the ceiling, the glittering lights of the Dutch embassy’s chandeliers making her dizzy.

  She didn’t care. She’d never danced in a ballroom in the embrace of a dashing gentleman before. One of the many things she’d missed by leaving home before coming out. Of course, she’d saved herself years of misery so the trade-off was well worth it, but she couldn’t deny her joy at having a taste now of what she’d lost.

  “You appear to be having a marvelous time.” John took her hand and guided her in an intricate pattern down the floor, weaving between other couples. “I feel like I ought to be offended.” He leaned down to whisper. “That look should only belong to me. In my bed.”

  She pushed off of him and skipped around the man opposite before returning to John’s side. “Either way you’ve put the look on my face. But if you want to see a superior one in bed, work harder.”

  “Trust me, poppet.” He placed his gloved palm on the small of her back and guided her in a figure eight. “I will be very hard for you tonight.”

  The music ended, and Netta dipped into a low curtsy, her gaze never leaving John. In a room teeming with black-and-white dominos, he had dressed as Oberon, king of the fairies, his costume a vivid display of rose pink and Paris green. The mask he wore was of the same emerald shade, the eyeholes embroidered with silver thread and faux diamonds.

  At least, she thought they were fake. But with John, one never knew.

  His gaze was hooded by the mask, but she couldn’t miss the hunger as she exposed her décolletage with her low dip. She was Titania, and the gown John had chosen was of the same rose color as his costume. She hadn’t thought the color would suit the flowing, red wig she wore, but John had been right. Again. Instead of letting his superior fashion sense irritate her, she’d decided to reap its benefits.

  She straightened and flicked open her fan. “My lord, one would almost think you find something in this gown improper.” She pressed her hand to her bosom, and the large emerald pendant nestled between her breasts. John had draped the jewel around her neck before they’d left for the evening.

  She fingered the sharp rectangular edges. John didn’t know it, but it too was going to be added to her fee. He couldn’t wear it, after all. “Perhaps the modiste you hired isn’t quite at the level she ought to be if your focus is so diverted.”

  “That modiste should be given a medal of honor.” John took her hand and led her to the side of the ballroom floor. “Your gown has all the trappings of modesty – not too low cut, no sheer fabrics wetted to conform to your body – but is just tight enough across the bodice to let a man know what lies underneath. If I had my way, you would wear that dress morning, noon, and night.”

  “Even the nights?”

  His full lips curled under the edges of his mask. “Even then. At least until I could peel it from your body, slowly revealing every luscious inch of flesh below.”

  She snapped open her fan again and attempted to cool her face. Hidden so beneath her own mask, the swirling air did little to alleviate her heated skin.

  A man in a pirate’s mask and headscarf approached and made a sweeping bow. “Might I have the pleasure of the next dance?”

  John never removed his gaze from her face. “No, you may not.” He took her hand and led her back to the dance floor.

  “John, that was insufferably rude.” But delight burbled through her veins as she swung back into his arms. “And if your intent is to have me attract men, shouldn’t I spend some time in their company?”

  “Not men. Man. One who has not yet arrived.” He grunted. “But mayhap a dance or two with someone else wouldn’t go amiss. Besides, I must leave you for a short while. Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

  Netta stumbled over the train of her gown. “You’re leaving me? Where are you going?”

  “Not far.” He looked over his shoulder.

  Netta followed his gaze and saw a man with nutmeg hair in a black mask nod at him. “Is that—”

  “There’s a group of wallflowers over there you can join.” He turned her and gave her a small shove.

  Netta gritted her teeth. If she wasn’t very much mistaken it was his friend Rothchild waiting for him. John was off for some bit of skullduggery and she was supposed to drink punch and converse about the weather?

  Purely to irritate him, Netta slipped from his grip and looked over her prospects. “I’d rather dance. Take your time with your mystery task. I’ll be quite well occupied here.” She caught the eye of a portly man in black-and-white and smiled broadly.

  He started and looked behind him.

  John crossed his arms, his satin jacket pulling snug across his wide shoulders. “All right. One dance.”

  “Or two. You said two before.”

  He harrumphed. “I do not always like the ga
mes you play, poppet.”

  “Liar.”

  “Miss?” The domino she’d smiled at stood before her. He bowed deeply. “Dance, ja?”

  “I’d love to.” She gave the Dutchman her hand. “Ta,” she said to John. “Find me when you’re done.”

  John scowled, but with a warning look at her partner, he turned on his heel and threaded his way across the ballroom.

  She stepped on her partner’s foot. “My apologies,” she said before finding John in the crowd again. Rothchild had disappeared, but John was aiming for the doors he had stood next to.

  Her mask concealed her identity and she was in a well-guarded embassy. There was nothing for her to fear, yet still her lungs squeezed when John disappeared from sight. If she told him her history, her fears of being recognized, perhaps he wouldn’t have left her.

  If John knew her parentage, how would he react? Would they go on as before? Or would he feel his duty towards her had changed because she was a gentlewoman?

  The Dutchman drew her into his arms for a waltz, his cheeks pink beneath his mask. “You enjoy ball?”

  “Very much so.” She firmed her arms to put an inch more space between them. She had teased John about wanting to dance, but truly if he wasn’t her partner there wasn’t much joy in it.

  The Dutchman hummed the melody as he twirled her about, seemingly happy to let conversation languish. His obvious joy in dancing with her raised her own spirits. John would be back shortly. She was dressed in a fine gown and dancing to a lovely orchestra. She began to hum along, as well.

  Her partner pressed his hand to her back and spun her out in time with the music.

  She laughed as he pulled her back in.

  “Good, ja?” He grinned down at her.

  “Very good.”

  He spun her out again amid a wave of her giggles. Out and back until her sides hurt from laughing.

  “We dance good together,” he said.

  The music came to a crescendo, and he spun her out one last time.

  Her hand slipped from his and she stumbled into the man next to her. He caught her by her elbows.

  “Easy,” he said, his deep voice chilling her to the core.

  Netta froze, her mouth open, her pulse racing. Her mind screamed to wrench herself from his hands, to flee, but all she could do was stare into his jade green eyes.

  He wore a white mask and a jacket in the same matching silk. His cravat was knotted high on his throat. His thin lips curved.

  She knew those lips. That smile. They haunted her dreams.

  “How fortunate for me.” Harlow Sudworth, the man who’d changed the course of her life, stood before her. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you all evening, and here you’ve landed right in my arms.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Netta shook her head, but a monster still filled her vision. Her throat swelled shut; no words could escape.

  Not that she had any to say. For once in her life, she was stunned into silence.

  The Dutchman bowed to her as the music ended, but she and Sudworth paid him no notice.

  “Will you give me your name, or must I wait for a proper introduction?” His voice was serpent-smooth, teasing, and the memory of how charming this man could be chilled her blood. Charming, until he didn’t get his way. Then the fangs popped out.

  Her body trembled, and she jerked herself back, away from the threat, and Sudworth narrowed his eyes.

  A mistake. She couldn’t help but make them around the man her father had sold her to. He never responded as a civilized person ought, and the best way to avoid such a predator was to remain as invisible as possible. Never attract his notice.

  And most definitely never speak one’s mind. She’d learned that one the hard way.

  She rubbed the bump in her wrist, sucking down choppy breaths. Smile, she told herself. Smile and lower her gaze like a demure little miss.

  She tried. Her limbs shook with the effort. Or was it from fear? No matter, the result was the same. She couldn’t pretend the man was nothing but a new acquaintance. Her legs tensed, prepared to take flight.

  She scented him before she saw him. His spicy citrus aroma wrapped around her like a cocoon, a barrier of protection she could trust. John came to her side, gently cupping her elbow, his solid presence releasing the vise on her lungs. She took her first full breath since stumbling into Sudworth’s arms.

  “Sudworth.” John gave the barest of nods. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  Sudworth tutted. “How easily you discern my identity, Summerset. I will have to speak to my valet about concocting a more mystifying costume.”

  “It appears I am likewise easy to distinguish.”

  Sudworth flicked his gaze up and down John’s brightly-colored body. “Yes, that proved no difficulty at all. But tell me,” he said. “Who is your charming companion?”

  “Miss Courtney.” John banded an arm around Netta’s waist. “She is the daughter of a friend. I’ve agreed to escort her about London, an arrangement for which I am much obliged.” He squeezed her hip. “Her society is most charming.”

  Sudworth stared at John’s hand on her gown, pursing his lips. “So I see.” He inclined his head to Netta. “I do hope her charms haven’t distracted you from your other obligations. I’ve been waiting for you to call upon me.”

  Netta clenched her hand in her gown. John knew Sudworth. By his manner, it was apparent they weren’t friends, but what was their connection? Surely it was nothing but a casual acquaintance. Surely life could not be so cruel as to have Sudworth be—

  “My time has been fully occupied.” John twirled a strand of her fake hair around his finger. “Don’t get your smallclothes in a bunch. I will see to all my obligations in my own time.”

  Netta loosed a strangled gasp. What freedom there was to be a man, to be an earl. John could say whatever he wished without fear. By God, he was outrageous. And wonderful.

  A smidgeon more of her tension eased.

  “As you are at this embassy,” Sudworth said, “I hope the time to fulfill your duty is now.” He smiled. “But let us speak on more pleasant matters. Are you enjoying the masquerade, Miss Courtney?” His gaze hovered on her bosom. The tip of his tongue darted out and he licked his lower lip.

  Netta shuddered, her skin crawling. She flicked her fan open and cooled her face, the feathers making up the fan hiding her breasts from his vision.

  Sudworth inclined his head. “Pardon me. I can’t help but be impressed by your large…pendant. That’s a beautiful emerald.”

  “Of course.” John pressed even closer into her side. “I have good taste. In everything.”

  “In your choice of companion that is obviously true.” Sudworth inclined his head again, all politeness.

  She wanted to stab him through the eye with her fan.

  “So are you enjoying the masquerade, Miss Courtney?”

  Netta swallowed, trying to bring moisture back to her mouth. She deepened her voice, slowed her speech. “Indeed. The earl has been most solicitous in showing me the best diversions London has to offer.” She truly was an outstanding actress. She didn’t at all sound as though she wanted to cripple the man.

  “And yet this is the first time we have met.” Sudworth stepped aside as another dance began. “Where have you been keeping this lovely creature, Summerset?”

  Netta and John followed him to the side of the room. “A couple of calls. A ride through the park” John spread his hands. “My Net—”

  “I’m afraid I’m a bit dull for Lord Summerset.” She dug her nails into her palm. She couldn’t let Sudworth hear her nickname. She’d always been called Netta. He might add two plus two and come to the right damned answer. “I enjoy more sedate pursuits, but the earl has been kind enough to indulge me. In fact…” She laid her hand upon his arm and prayed he would follow her lead. “We had discussed leaving after this dance.”

  “Yes.” John patted her hand.
“The Dutch can provide decent entertainment but their food is abominable. If you will excuse us.” Without waiting for a response, John led her away, saving her the necessity of curtsying to her enemy.

  They waited in the spacious entry for the footmen to bring their coats. “You were marvelous,” John whispered in her ear. “Just the right amount of innocence and backbone. And ending the conversation early, leaving him wanting more was inspired. How did you know Sudworth was our man?” He took her coat from the servant and helped her into it. “I must have mentioned his name before, I suppose.”

  Netta’s head went light and she swayed. “Yes,” she said, the word sounding distant.

  Sudworth was John’s target. She could almost laugh at the horrible coincidence. The person who’d forced her to abandon her family was now threatening John’s. The reach of this one man was almost impressive.

  “Netta?” John cupped her shoulders and squeezed. “Netta?”

  A cold wave of despair slid through her body, and she shook. “Yes?”

  He studied her face. “You’re ill. We do need to get you home.”

  “I’m fine.” But she let him bustle her into the carriage. She snuggled into his side as he draped a blanket around her body. Gave him her hands to warm between his own.

  Another tremor shook her body. She was cold, ice-deep in her center, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel warm again.

  Sudworth was their target.

  And there was no way she could assist John in his scheme.

  No way for her to earn that four thousand pounds. It would take years at the theatre before she would have the funds to take her and her sister out of England. Years her sister might not have.

  She could ask John for financial help. To provide her a small nest egg for her future. He would most likely agree. But what nobleman would assist in the kidnapping of a child? And that’s what it would be under the eyes of the law. Her father wouldn’t hesitate to prosecute Netta, his own daughter, if he caught her spiriting Eleanor away.

  What would he do to John?