An Unexpected Earl

by Anna Harrington

  She refused to move and silently returned his stare. To be honest, the thought of taking off her wet clothes and finding something dry to put on tempted her. Greatly. Especially since an icy puddle was spreading around her feet at that very moment. But she’d never give him the pleasure of admitting he was right about—

  A violent shiver shuddered through her so hard that her teeth chattered.

  Pearce leveled an I-told-you-so gaze on her that had surely made his subordinates quake in their boots.

  “Fine.” With no other choice, Amelia grudgingly turned her back to him. “But I have no maid here.” She tried to inject as much irritation into her voice as possible, so he wouldn’t suspect how the thought of undressing in front of him twisted her belly into an aching tangle of desire. “So if you want me out of this dress, then you’re going to have to help me.”

  Her wet hair had tumbled down from the chase, and she lifted it off her back. Her hands trembled as she smoothed it over her shoulder, out of his way.

  When he reached for the row of tiny buttons on her back, she closed her eyes, willing her breath to remain steady, her pulse calm. One by one, the buttons slipped free, and her bodice loosened.

  “This is necessary,” he explained, misreading her protests. “You’ll never warm up as long as you’re in this wet thing.”

  She bit back a distressed laugh. “And here I thought you were simply attempting to see me naked.”

  She could almost hear the rueful twist of his lips. “I’ve undressed you before, you know.”

  “When I was nine.” A strained quality laced through her suddenly hoarse voice. “We’ve changed since then. If you persist in this folly, then we’ll both find out exactly how much.”

  “It isn’t folly.” He lowered his mouth over her shoulder. “And believe me, Amelia,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear, “I know exactly how much.”

  Foolish longing ached at the back of her weakening knees.

  “All done.” The last button slipped free, and her bodice drooped low down her front.

  She grabbed at it with both hands to keep it in place as she whirled around to face him. “This isn’t at all prop—”

  Her chastisement died beneath his stare. Instantly, her anger was replaced by something else just as fierce. Something that pulsed achingly and made goose bumps spring up across her wet skin, that longed to have his hands running all over her and hers over him. His skin would be just as wet and cold as hers, she knew, but he would also be warm beneath, with smooth skin over hard muscles. The young lad she’d once loved was still there, ready for her to make love to him—

  She bit her lip to fight back a groan. Damn the man for making her want him!

  “Do you need me?”

  Did she need… Yearning pulsed through her, and she squeaked, “Pardon?”

  “To remove the rest of your clothes.”

  And that sent a wicked spiral of wanton desire shooting right out the top of her head.

  Her hand tightened its hold on her bodice as she somehow remembered to keep breathing. “I–I can manage the rest on my own, thank you.”

  “Including your corset?” His gaze scorched over her, as if he could see right through her dress.

  “Yes,” she breathed out. Her confused brain swirled. Had she just answered his question…or given permission for him to remove even more of her clothing? To do more with her than simply look?

  “All right.” But he didn’t turn his back to give her privacy. The rascal didn’t even look away. His eyes remained on her as she stood there in the firelight, her skirts clinging to her hips and legs. “Are you certain?”

  “No.” She wasn’t certain about anything when it came to this man…except that he made her feel beautiful. Desirable. Alive.

  Was it wrong to let him stir these feelings inside her, to luxuriate in them and the memories of how wonderful their friendship had once been? After all, it was only undressing, and only to keep her from catching cold. A completely practical, not at all sexual reason. As long as nothing intimate happened between them, there was no harm in removing her dress to warm herself, no harm in letting those feelings wash over her.

  Apparently, she was now lying to herself.

  And she simply didn’t care.

  Pearce kept his distance, and she kept her gaze locked with his as her trembling fingers pulled at the cap sleeves of her dress and tugged them down her arms. The bodice came next, peeling down to her waist and then over her hips and thighs. She pushed the wet material to the floor, then stepped out of both it and her shoes. His eyes never left hers, even as she reached behind her back for her corset and tangled her shaking fingers in the lace. A tug untied the bow, and the lace came free, the stays falling loose around her. She removed the corset and let it fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her stockings and wet shift.

  From several feet away, she saw the undulation of his throat as he swallowed. Hard. But his eyes stayed fixed on hers.

  “Better?” Her voice emerged in a hoarse whisper.

  A moment’s hesitation…then temptation won, and he dragged a deliberate gaze over her. The wet shift clung to her body, the material surely translucent in the firelight and revealing everything underneath. This time when she shivered, it wasn’t because she was cold.

  He pulled in a breath so ragged that she could hear it shake into his lungs. “Much.”

  That rasping murmur stirred a hot throbbing between her legs. But she wasn’t embarrassed to be standing in front of him like this, letting him look—encouraging his attentions, in fact, by making no attempt to cover herself. She simply stood there, her arms at her sides, the thin shift plastered over her breasts and hips. Having his gaze on her was too delicious to refuse.

  “I think you have to agree,” she half whispered, “that a lot’s changed since I was nine.”

  His eyes darted up to hers, and the raw desire she saw in their depths turned her insides molten.

  He took a slow step toward her, and the smooth, stalking motion spiked her pulse. Now she knew what a gazelle felt like when faced with a lion.

  “What I think, Amelia,” he admitted in a husky drawl that sparked across her flesh, “is that you’ve grown into a woman who knows her own mind and possesses the confidence not only to go after what she wants but also to know what to do with it once she has it.”

  Standing close in front of her, he took another deliberate sweep of his gaze over her, this time not bothering to hide his desire as his eyes lingered shamelessly on her breasts and hips. Surely, he could see the dark circles of her nipples through the shift, tightened into little points that longed to be touched, and the dark curls between her legs guarding her femininity. She might as well have been naked.

  He added in a low drawl, “That includes men.”

  Amelia scoffed at the absurdity of that, that she of all women understood men and what they wanted—

  Until he stripped off his waistcoat and tossed it to the floor to pile over her dress. The sound strangled in her throat.

  He wore nothing more than black trousers and a wet shirt that clung to his sculpted chest and revealed exactly how much of a man he’d become during their years apart. Shamelessly, she let her gaze move over him, the same way he’d done to her only moments before.

  Sliding the braces off his shoulders to let them dangle around his hips, he dropped his arms to his sides and let her look. The audacity of his confident stance was a clear issue of a challenge. “So the question is…what do you want?”

  An anguished ache swelled inside her with such yearning need that she couldn’t breathe. What she wanted was comfort and security, love, protection…him. God help her. Even after all these years and all that had happened, she still wanted to be with him.

  Beneath her confused stare, he yanked his shirttail out of his breeches and peeled the wet shirt over his
head and off. It landed on the floor at her feet.

  Her lips trembled as she whispered helplessly for mercy, “Pearce…”

  He cupped her cheek against his palm and slowly lowered his mouth toward hers.

  “Sir!” A knock pounded at the door.

  Amelia jumped just as his lips grazed hers, startled back into sanity. She quickly stepped back, putting half the room between them.

  Pearce bit down a curse and ran his hand through his damp hair. His hungry gaze remained fixed on her, even as he demanded over his shoulder at the door, “What is it?”

  “Mr. Hughes sent me up, sir.” The high-pitched voice belonged to a boy who couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve. “You got a message you need me to run?”

  “Perfect timing,” Pearce bit out sarcastically in frustration as Amelia crossed her arms over her bosom to hide herself and turned away. “Wait one moment.”

  He snatched up the spare blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders to cover her.

  “Seems that you and I never get to finish what we start,” she teased, forcing a lightheartedness to ease the tension between them. “I think fate’s trying to tell us something.”

  “I think fate can’t tell time.” He lowered his mouth to her ear, and his warm breath tickled over her skin as he murmured, “Because the night’s only half over, and that boy will be gone in five minutes.”

  Her knees turned liquid, and she reached for the bedpost to keep her balance.

  He stepped past her to the little desk beneath the window and reached for a piece of paper and the quill. He scrawled out a quick message, then folded it. Not bothering with a seal, he wrote the direction on the front. Glancing at her to make certain she was covered, he opened the door.

  A boy with a giant cowlick and scruffy clothes stood in the hall. The insolent look on his face belied his young age and revealed a soul who had already spent too many rough years on the streets. Amelia feared he’d have too many more harsh years of survival to come.

  Pearce handed him the letter. “Can you read this direction?”

  “I can read,” the boy said defensively, jabbing up his chin. “And write, too.” His gaze dropped to the note, and he read slowly but determinedly, sounding out every letter, “The Armory, High Holborn Street.”

  “The place looks abandoned but isn’t. Knock hard on the door, then wait for someone to answer. You’re to deliver this immediately, and the man who gets it will give you a coin.” He handed over the note. “When you bring him back here, you’ll get a second coin. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy tucked the note under his cap, then looked curiously past him at Amelia.

  “Run!”

  The boy jumped and darted down the hallway, racing through the tavern toward the street.

  Pearce closed the door. He grabbed the wooden chair from the corner and placed it in front of the door, sat down, and kicked out his long legs. The perfect vision of a man at leisure.

  Although her head knew better, Amelia’s foolish heart panged with disappointment that he wasn’t attempting to pick up where they’d left off. With his lips on hers. “Why are you sitting there?”

  “In case you attempt to distract me and escape.”

  She arched a brow. “Wearing nothing but a wet shift and a blanket?”

  “I didn’t say it wouldn’t be thrilling to watch,” he answered dryly.

  She snatched up one of the pillows from the bed and threw it at him. It smacked him in the chest.

  With a low chuckle, he tucked it behind him and eased back against it.

  She cinched the blanket tighter around herself. “All comfy, are we?”

  “Very. But a man needs to be comfortable in a situation like this.”

  A warning prickled at her bare toes. “What situation is that?”

  “Finishing our conversation from the shop.” He leaned forward, knees on elbows, and narrowed his gaze on her. “And you can start by telling me what you wanted with Charles Varnham at the masquerade.”

  Sixteen

  Pearce waited for her to begin, not moving a muscle. He wasn’t bluffing. She wasn’t leaving this room until she told him what he wanted to know. Starting with Varnham.

  “Well?” he pressed.

  Amelia crossed her arms. “No.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I’m not telling you anything.”

  Damnably stubborn woman. “You know, you were a lot more cooperative when I was removing your clothes.”

  Even in the dim light of the fire he could see her face flush. The sight was pure temptation.

  Knowing she was practically naked beneath that blanket didn’t help. He squirmed uncomfortably on the chair and tried again. “Why are you so interested in Varnham?”

  “Why did you follow me out of the ball tonight?” she countered.

  “Because rescuing you has grown into a habit. What did you want with the man?”

  “Only to talk to him. Why did you follow me?”

  “Because I’ve grown fond of your neck.”

  She frowned with faint bewilderment, her hand going to her throat and the old locket that hung there. “My neck?”

  “I knew it was only a matter of time until you put it at risk. Again.”

  She angrily dropped her hand away. “Very funny.”

  “If those men had caught us tonight, no one would be laughing.” Men he was certain were connected to Scepter. Men who’d wanted to kill her. He pinned her with a hard gaze. “Tell me, Amelia. What did you want with Varnham?”

  “Well, an unmarried miss should never pass up a potential husband,” she quipped. “Sometimes a woman has to take matters into her own hands.”

  Unease tightened in his gut. She might have been teasing about wedding Varnham, but something about the way she said it contained a deeper truth that prickled an icy warning at his nape. “It won’t work.”

  “What won’t?”

  “Attempting to distract me with jealous thoughts of you with Varnham.”

  “Well, thank goodness for—”

  “Because he’ll never court you. You’re not his type.”

  She twisted a damp curl around her finger. “Blond?”

  “Intelligent.” When her eyes flared, he added, “That sharp mind of yours can run circles around Varnham. He’d never let himself be shown up by a woman. Even one as beautiful and alluring as you.”

  Her lips parted slightly at the compliment, and for a moment, she was speechless. Good. The last thing he wanted to discuss was potential husbands for her.

  “Is that why you keep embracing me?” she challenged softly once she found her voice. “Because you find me beautiful and alluring? Or are you attempting to distract me into giving you answers?”

  No. That was the last thing. “Not at all.”

  “Yet you keep doing it.”

  A smug grin curled his lips. “Because you seem to like it.”

  She sniffed with mock offense. “It was the excitement of nearly being caught in Devonshire’s closet, that’s all.”

  “And in your shop? No one was there to catch us then.”

  “Temporary madness.” Then she folded her arms over her chest, once again assuming that obstinate pose in which she’d begun this argument.

  Damnation. He was getting nowhere by sparring with her like this, and time was running out. Flanking the enemy and hoping for a break in the line wasn’t working. It was time for a direct assault.

  He accused bluntly, “Varnham is connected to the trust, isn’t he?”

  She tensed, her breath catching so hard in startled surprise that he could hear it. But she managed to rasp out, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  No, he wouldn’t let her dissemble so easily and pressed, “What did you hope to gain from him? Help in
delaying the trust if I turned out to be on your brother’s side?”

  “If I don’t answer,” she tossed back, once again picking a fight, “will you kiss me again in another attempt to seduce secrets from me?”

  “If I kiss you, Amelia,” he promised, “it won’t be to uncover those kinds of secrets.”

  She stilled instantly, except for her cheeks which flushed bright red even in the dim firelight.

  As if needing to keep herself busy, she picked up her dress from the floor and shook it out. She made a show of frowning over the ruined satin, but he knew it was really to keep from having to make eye contact with him. “What do you care about any of this?”

  “I’ve always cared about you.”

  She turned toward the fireplace, ostensibly to drape the wet dress over the back of a chair to dry. But more than likely to put an even greater distance between them. Even with the blazing fire, the room had suddenly grown cold.

  “I’ve never given you any reason to doubt that.” His voice was low and controlled, but he fought the urge to clench his fists in frustration. “Even when I left Birmingham for the army, I did it to protect you. And I’ll keep protecting you as long as necessary.” He pushed himself out of the chair and slowly approached her. “But it would also help a great deal if you trusted me.”

  She held tightly to the blanket to keep it in place between them. A desperate shield, nearly as effective in stopping him in his tracks as the look of betrayal shining in her eyes. “How can I trust you when I don’t know your real motives? Or why you’re so interested in what my brother has done?”

  A logical question. Yet something about the way she said it implied so much more that he couldn’t fathom. A defensiveness. The need to protect herself. An old wound. It killed him to see her in pain.