Enticing the Earl (4 page)

Juliette nodded, making her uncombed blonde curls fly about her head. She watched her aunt let herself out the front door. Then she stood up. When she did, the kitten jumped down and ran around the back of the stairs, disappearing into a small hole beneath the stairwell.

“No!” Juliette objected. “Stay with me, Gin'ersnap!” She hurried after the kitten, dropped to her knees, and tried to squeeze her hand into the hole. She could barely fit her five fingers into it. “Come back! I'll gif' you my cream from breakfast.”

But the kitten didn't seem impressed. It had disappeared into the darkness.

Sighing, she pulled out her fingers and looked at both of her empty hands, one now very dusty. Snap was gone, and Nurse would scold, Juliette thought woefully, wiping her fingers on her nightgown as best she could as she climbed the stairs toward the nursery.

T
he earl had been distinctly disappointed when Mrs. “Smith”
had not returned for the evening. Had she changed her mind? Lost her nerve?

For her sake, he should hope so. If, as he suspected, she had no illicit connections in her past, he should discourage this highly improper decision she had made.

Of course, she would certainly not be the first woman to be driven to prostitution by pure need, if that were the case, though he still suspected it had to do with the squire's lost estate. It happened more often to working-class women, but he felt sure that it was not unknown in the upper classes as well.

He should, but truth be told, he wanted her back….

He kept remembering the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder, and how her hair had smelled of lavender when he had stood behind her, and how he had wanted to pull the strands out of their pins and allow it all to fall free down her back….

And that wistful expression he had glimpsed in her eyes…how long had it been since someone had made her truly happy?

He tried to put her out of his mind. Dammit all, her problems were none of his affair…why could he not forget her?

But he had slept restlessly last night, waking often, and his body had made him aware of its needs—yet the thought of finding another woman to solace him was not appealing. He didn't want any other woman.

And that was a truly alarming thought. He had only seen her once; she could hardly have made such an impression upon him.

“You are not a green lad, ready to fall for a pretty face and a sad look, Sutton,” he muttered to himself. “Get a grip on yourself, man.”

But when he dressed, it took him much longer than usual to arrange his stock. When the earl tied his neckcloth—he always did his own—it twisted in his hands and refused to fold neatly. He ruined three pieces of immaculately pressed linen before finally getting one right. His expression impassive, Boxel stood behind him, holding out yet another long strip of white linen, his silence a reproach while his master swore and indulged his bad temper.

Marcus frowned into the looking glass. “You should have insisted she return here for the night.”

“She wished to go elsewhere,” the valet told him, not for the first time, his expression still impenetrable. “Ye din't tell me she was a prisoner.”

“Of course she's not—she wasn't a prisoner, it's just—”

What if she didn't return? Marcus drew a long breath. Was it his fault? Had he scared her away? Was he so alarming?

Next Boxel couldn't seem to find the right jacket—Marcus shook his head at two, at last settling for a plain forest green, then slid his arms into the coat, shrugged once to settle it on his shoulders, and turned and hurried to the stairs. He wanted to go down and see—no, no, he only wished for his breakfast, that was all.

But when he reached the dining room and sat down alone at the long table, he found the tea was too bitter and his toast too cool, and the new cook couldn't seem to make porridge without making it too thin or too thick.

After only two bites, the earl dropped the silver spoon back into his bowl, pushing the whole thing away from him. He stood. He had no appetite at all. Everything was tasteless. Who would wish to live here, he asked himself. He couldn't even keep a decent cook, and besides—

Looking up, he saw Parker in the doorway, and hope flared inside him.

“Yes?”

“Ah, the young lady—”

“Yes?” the earl repeated, interrupting, then drew a deep breath and with a palatable effort pressed his lips together as he saw the look of surprise cross the butler's face.

“The young lady who was here yesterday—she has returned, my lord. I have put her in the book room.”

“Why the hell did you do that, Parker?” Marcus demanded. “Show her in and invite her to have some breakfast. And bring me some of the ham and steak and take away this bloody porridge; it's an insult to man or beast. I wouldn't feed it to my dogs.”

He suddenly felt hungry, after all.

He remained standing until he heard light footsteps in the hall, and then she appeared in the doorway, still looking somewhat abashed. But her appearance, in a navy traveling outfit, smartly trimmed with gold thread, was so much improved over the shapeless black gown of yesterday, that she looked like a different lady. Her color was a little high, but she held her chin up and her eyes were bright, and her radiant beauty sent a surge of awareness through his body as if he were that green lad and made him glad he was standing behind a solidly build chair.

“Please come and have something to break your fast,” he told her. “I am happy to see you again.”

She smiled shyly and allowed the footman to pull out a chair for her at the side of the table. She sat and waited for the servant to bring her a steaming cup of tea.

The earl sat back down, too, and did not speak again until she had a plate piled high with meat and eggs and bread.

His guest looked almost startled at such largess, but she took a bite of the ham and nodded her thanks.

“I'm afraid I arrived rather early,” she said in a few moments, after she had swallowed her first bites. “I waited outside until the housemaid came out to sweep the front steps.” She colored a little to make the confession, but he only found it charming.

“I am happy to see you back,” he said again. “Besides, being prompt is an excellent habit. We can now make an early start for the country.”

“Yes, I thought you might wish to do that,” she agreed, looking down at her plate.

He let her eat. Now that he knew that she had not abandoned him, he could give his attention to his own food, which tasted much more savory. And although he wanted to reach out and stroke the small hollow at the base of her neck, or twist a loose curl of her shining hair about his finger, he knew he would alarm her, and there were servants all about…So he told himself he would have to be patient.

Soon enough, he thought, soon enough…but this would be an endless day before he would have the chance to get Mrs. Smith alone!

As soon as she had finished her meal, he ordered the carriage made ready, and her few pieces of luggage were added to his own and secured to the back or the top of the vehicle.

“You have no lady's maid?” he asked. His own faithful Boxel was ready to accompany him, as usual.

She shook her head.

“We will have to see about finding you someone,” he told her as they walked out to the chaise. “Perhaps one of the housemaids at the estate, or someone from the village.”

As always, Marcus himself would ride. One of the grooms had brought up his big rangy gray from the stable and stood holding the gelding, who shook its head and snorted with impatience, ready for a run. He would have to hold the horse to a short rein until they were out of the city.

He could have spent the journey in the carriage with his new paramour, of course, but in his experience, a cramped and jolting interior was hardly the best place to pursue passion, and certainly not with a new and perhaps inexperienced lover, even if his own servant had been exiled to an outside seat, which Boxel hated. No, Marcus wanted a more comfortable and convenient—and more private—setting than that!

So he kissed her hand before he helped Mrs. Smith—he wondered how long it would be before she told him her real name—into the carriage, then Boxel scrambled in after her, and Marcus mounted his steed and led them out into the London traffic, ready to leave the city behind.

Lauryn climbed into the carriage and sat demurely in the corner. She was aware of a distinct feeling of relief that the earl was not sitting beside her, but riding instead. She could postpone yet awhile any private time between them—not that it would have been private with the morose valet sitting opposite.

What would the earl say if he found out she was using an assumed name, she wondered uneasily. Would he be very angry, indeed? Feeling guilty, she gripped her hands in her lap and drew a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in her shoulders.

At least Boxel was not inclined to chat. He gazed out the carriage's glazed windows, and she turned her head and did the same to the other side of the vehicle. They left behind the quiet square where the earl's residence was located, passed through the crowded streets of London's shopping distinct and past poorer residences, more crowded and with houses more close together than the West End. But Lauryn had seen the other side of London, so these lanes came as no surprise.

In time the coachman steered his team through narrower streets filled with drays and oxen pulling carts piled high with coal and turnips and other wares that kept the great city's shops and kitchens employed. Sometimes they slowed, and drivers shouted at each other, “Give way there!” or “Mind the carriage, ye lackwit!” but somehow, they always slipped through the narrow openings without the crash that seemed inevitable.

By and by the houses grew less frequent and meadows appeared, with cows and sheep grazing, and then fields dotted with farmers at work, and then the coachman cracked his whip above the horses' heads. The team could stretch their legs and settle into a faster gait, and the wheels hummed as the carriage rolled along the roadway.

After her restless night, Lauryn found her eyelids growing heavy. She dozed, her head falling back against the smooth leather squabs. So for her, the morning passed swiftly, and when the carriage slowed, she woke with a start.

Looking around, she asked in some confusion, “Are we there?”

“Naw,” Boxel said. “We're only stopping at an inn for some refreshment; the earl must think you need a pick-me-up.” He sounded a bit scornful. “And to change horses, a' course.”

“Oh,” Lauryn said. She had felt a stab of guilt. The valet had made it sound for a moment as if she were being a burden on their journey. Did Boxel think she was an imposition? But surely the earl, the much gossiped about rake, had had ladies—well, women—accompany him to his estate in the country before?

She pushed some straying hairs back beneath her hat and tried to straighten the jacket of her traveling suit, hoping she did not looked totally wrinkled already after sleeping in the corner for several hours. Then the door to the carriage opened, and it was the earl himself who looked in.

“Would you care for a light luncheon and a chance to stretch your legs, Mrs. Smith?” he asked politely.

“That's very kind of you,” she told him, smiling shyly. She accepted his hand and his help to guide her out of the carriage.

Now she could see that they were indeed stopped at a handsome inn, with flowers blooming in boxes hanging from windows and its doorstep brushed clean. Ostlers ran about, changing the team, holding horses and lacing harness quickly back into place. She vowed to eat just as quickly so as not to hold them up. But she also became aware of a pressing need to use the necessary and was glad that they had made a stop.

The earl escorted her up the second flight of stairs and into a private parlor. He held a chair for her, but then turned aside to speak to their host, who was being most agreeable to his important patron, bowing and smiling as he showed off a bottle of his best wine.

“This here is our most mellow claret, me lord, and, you there”—he turned aside to say to his waiter—“bring up the roast turkey and that ham we had smoked, the big one, now, right away!”

Lauryn thought that this was not really her idea of a light luncheon, but no matter—she found that even after a hearty breakfast, she was, improbable as it might be, hungry again. After weeks of eating meagerly while the squire's funds had sunk lower and lower, it was a relief to not have to worry about where the money for one's next meal was coming from.

But first—calling over a maidservant who was pouring the uncorked wine into the glasses, she made a whispered query and excused herself briefly. When she returned, she found the table filled with enough food for a small army, and she shook her head at the earl's idea of a light refreshment.

She wasted no time in partaking of the bounty, and fortunately her host did not seem to expect her to make conversation. He only offered her, now and then, another particularly pleasing treat.

“Try the jellied apricots,” he said once. “They go very nicely with the ham, which I will admit our host does know how to smoke properly.”

So she did, smiling her thanks. And when Boxel disappeared, apparently to check on the progress of the team, and reappeared to report that the carriage was now ready, she at once pushed her plate back and prepared to stand.

But the earl shook his head. “We are in no rush,” he said, his tone firm. “We have not even sampled the sweetmeats. And I have a particular fondness for the apple tarts the inn's cook prepares.”

Sinking back into the chair, Lauryn brightened. Their cook at home made a wonderful apple tart. She was more than happy to try this one and see how it compared, so when the earl offered her a sample, she accepted.

Only after another half hour did they rise from the table and return to the carriage, and she was so replete from the excellent meal that Lauryn was sure she would be dozing again once the hum of the carriage wheels lulled her into somnolence with their rhythmic drone.