Sex and the Single Earl (27 page)

She groaned and dropped her head onto his shoulder, giving up everything to him. If only for this brief moment, she wouldn’t deny him what they both craved.

He murmured husky words of satisfaction as he pulled his hand from her bodice and brought it between her thighs. Cupping her sex through the thin layers of clothing, he pulled her back against his bulging erection. She bit her lip and groaned, tipping her pelvis into his caressing hand. Suddenly, she was ravenous with the need to feel him inside her.

“Simon,” she moaned.

Urgent hands pulled up her skirts. She whimpered with relief as his calloused fingertips found the throbbing bud of her sex. He played with the hot flesh, holding her fast as she squirmed against his chest.

She was already slick—she could feel it as his fingers circled and stroked. The ache in her core intensified as he alternately cupped and flicked the hard peak.

“God, Sophie, you’re going to drive me insane,” he moaned as he rubbed his face against her neck.

She shivered, relishing the bristling feel of his skin. He flattened her against the wall, his body an iron cage behind her. Her nipples, pushed tight against her bodice, tingled with painful intensity. She arched back against him in an effort to relieve the ache.

As she did, he pushed a finger deep into her sheath. Sophie bit back a cry and went up on her toes. He inserted another finger and pumped gently, building the sensation in a slow, hot surge.

She pressed her hands against the cool plaster of the wall, pushing back as he played with her. The feel of him behind her—his body grown hard with passion—made her feel weak and hot with desire. If he didn’t come inside her soon, she would go up in a flaming puff of smoke.

“Simon,” she panted. “Please. Now.”

“Yes, love. Now.” His voice shook with desire.

His hand slipped away, and she could feel him tear at the fall of his breeches. A moment later his hands were back on her, pushing the fabric of her gown and chemise up around her waist. His fingers spread wide on her hip bones, taking a firm grip before lifting her off the floor. The tip of his erection probed her wet flesh, and with one sharp movement he surged into her heat.

She cried out, pushing against the wall with a desperate strength as he worked her body up and down his thick shaft. Each hard thrust rubbed against the most sensitive part of her sex, bringing her closer to climax. He brought his lips to her ear, his breath a scorching pant. His entire body strained in need for a release as urgent as hers. She sobbed, overcome with the force of her love and the devastating certainty this would be their last time together.

He let her toes hit the floor as he pushed back into her with another aggressive thrust, his erection rubbing hard against her throbbing nub. She cried out, flinging her arms wide against the wall as she climaxed. A moment later he followed, pulsing in her slick heat. Her body convulsed around him once more, and she collapsed, utterly spent. If not for the muscular arms locked so securely around her, she would have slid down the wall to the floor.

After a few dazed moments, he steadied her and carefully pulled out. She winced, the tender flesh between her thighs aching from his lovemaking, and the emptiness that followed his withdrawal.

But that pain was as nothing compared to the shame crawling along her nerves. How could she have given in to him like this? Behaving so disgracefully in broad daylight, especially after she had rejected him. Lady Randolph had nothing on her.

The contempt he must feel for her made her cringe, and she wanted to creep into a deep, dark cave and never come out.

“Sophie…”

“Don’t. Don’t say a word.” She winced at the self-loathing in her voice as she cut him off.

With trembling hands, she smoothed her dress and rearranged her bodice. When he tried to help, she pushed him away and fumbled for the lock of the door, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Sweetheart, don’t be ashamed,” he said. “You can’t say no to me any more than I can say no to you.”

His voice held a hint of masculine arrogance. He reached out a hand to cup her cheek. She swatted at it, her face burning with mortification.

“Just go away, Simon. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to see you again. It’s over.”

She heard him make an impatient noise and, out of the corner of her eye, saw him quickly button up the fall of his breeches. As she fumbled once more to open the door, he grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around.

Their gazes locked. His was dark and merciless.

“This isn’t over, Sophie. It will never be over.”

He lifted her right out of her slippers and planted a smothering kiss on her lips. Before she could respond he released her and wrenched open the door, striding out without a glance at her.

Sophie staggered to a cane chair next to the window and collapsed onto the seat. A choking laugh forced its way from her throat as she dropped her head into her hands. He would always see the world—and her—as something to bend to his will. But not this time, and for her, never again.

Their life together was over before it began, and the sooner he learned that lesson the better.

Simon couldn’t find words ugly enough to describe his mood. His thoughts had been racketing through his brain like a shuttle on a loom since the moment he stormed out of his aunts’ townhouse. He had mentally replayed his fight with Sophie a dozen times as he sought to make sense of her odd and frustrating behaviour. At the end of a long day, he felt not a whit closer to ascertaining the root of the problem. Worse still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in trouble and needed him.

Sophie still loved him—of that he was certain. She wouldn’t have surrendered in that blaze of passion if she didn’t. Not Puck. She was innocence and honesty personified, and incapable of hiding her true feelings.

The heated images of her slender body splayed up against the wall, melting like honey under his rough caresses, drove him away from his desk. She had met his lovemaking with a sweet intensity, but he had acted the brute with her, once again. No wonder she wouldn’t speak to him. He had obviously gone stark raving mad, at least when it came to her.

He dropped into the leather club chair by his desk—the very one she had sprawled in so sensuously the other night. Everything he saw or touched reminded him of Sophie. Life without her was fast becoming intolerable, and now he didn’t have the faintest clue how to get her back. He hadn’t felt this helpless since the day his grandfather ordered him home from Cambridge all those years ago.

A knock pounded on the front door of his lodgings. He sighed, rubbing the aching muscles in the back of his neck. With any luck, the caller would be visiting another lodger. The last thing he needed was an evening of idle chitchat with one of his Bath acquaintances.

A tap sounded on the door to his apartments. He blew out a soft curse as he rose to answer it.

“You have a visitor, m’lord,” said the porter. He paused portentously. “A lady.”

“Who is it?”

“She wouldn’t say, m’lord. And she’s wearing a veil.”

Sophie.
Thank God she’d finally come to her senses. “Show her up.”

He tugged his cravat, easing the pressure of the starched linen. If he hadn’t been so bloody thankful she was going to relent, he would have been tempted to throttle her for putting him through such misery.

A petite woman, dressed in a grey velvet pelisse and swathed in a black veil, stepped into the room. French perfume assailed his nostrils, twisting his insides with frustration and disappointment.

Bathsheba threw back her veil. Her face was composed, but her eyes glittered with a hectic, almost wild, excitement.

“What the hell are you doing here, Bathsheba?”

She glided over to the club chair, pulling off her gloves as she sank gracefully down onto the leather seat. Simon had to clench his fists against his sides to stop himself from yanking her from the chair.

“Do sit down, Simon. You’ll give me a crick in my neck.”

He remained standing. “Whatever it is, get on with it.”

Her lips turned down in a seductive, practiced pout. “So cold. I suppose it’s only to be expected after what happened today.” She paused, as if waiting for him to respond.

Christ.
He was sick of her manipulation. How could he have ever preferred her to Sophie?

“All right, I’ll bite. What happened today?”

She looked genuinely startled. “Oh. I’ve come to offer my condolences. I understand your betrothal to Miss Stanton has come to an end. I’m not surprised, of course. It was a colossal mistake, and I’m so grateful you’ve come to your senses.”

Her words hit him with the force of a blow. “Who told you that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Your sources are wrong. My engagement to Sophie stands.”

“But I got a note—” She cut off the words on a slight hiss.

He strode over and pulled her from the chair. She gasped, eyes going wide, but didn’t struggle to break free.

“Who sent you the note?”

Bathsheba’s eyes shifted away. Anger rose, tight and fierce in his chest, as the morning’s events suddenly began to make sense.

“Sophie,” he rasped. “Why would she write to you?”

She swallowed, as if her throat had suddenly gone dry. “A piece of information reached my ears this morning. A very damaging piece of information. I knew Miss Stanton would want to know.”

Simon let her go so abruptly that she dropped back into the club chair. But she didn’t stay there, instead rising to follow him to the window.

“Simon, I did this for you. Sophie will bring you nothing but gossip and scandal. The poor thing can’t help it—she simply has no discipline. But what she’s done now…everything that came before pales in comparison.”

He stared blindly into the street below, fighting back the tempest of fury that threatened to cloud his brain. Who had seen them last night? Had someone followed him down to The Silver Oak? He’d been so careful to shield Sophie from—

Watley.

He had been at The Pelican last night with a noisy group of young bucks. Simon had been tempted to challenge the bastard on the spot for the liberties he’d taken with Sophie, but Russell had been waiting.

“What did Watley tell you?”

He felt, rather than saw, her start. She hid her emotions well, but her reaction told him he’d guessed correctly.

“That Miss Stanton was seen at The Silver Oak tavern with one of Lady Eleanor’s footmen. Consorting with thieves and prostitutes. And that you dragged her away,” she answered in a quiet voice.

“No one will believe it,” he said hoarsely. Neither of them had to say what
it
was. Her meaning was perfectly clear.

“Simon, the ton will attack a woman for daring to walk past White’s in the middle of the day. What do you think they’ll do to Sophie if word of this gets out? They may not believe everything, but they’ll believe enough. Her reputation already hangs by a thread after her antics these last few weeks. Do you want to ruin her for good? If you truly care, you’ll do what you must to protect her.”

A wheedling tone crept into her voice. “But I can help you. Let me talk to Watley. I’m sure I can convince him to hold his tongue.”

“And what must I give in exchange for your help?”

A small hand crept up his sleeve. Through the haze of his anger, he noticed her fingernails were bitten to the quick.

“I want you to come back to me, Simon. I want you to marry me. You’ve forgotten how good we were together, but I can remind you. We were made for each other…you’ll see.” Her voice dropped to a seductive whisper. “Let me show you.”

A shudder coursed through his body. He shook her arm off and moved to the other side of his desk.

“You’re mad, Bathsheba. I’ll never marry you. And I
will
marry Sophie.”

Something much like panic distorted her beautiful features. But after a moment her iron will reasserted itself.

“Are you willing to face that kind of scandal? All for that ridiculous chit? I always believed you had more sense than that. What will your aunts say?” Her treacherous gaze narrowed, sharp with speculation. “And what of General Stanton? How do you think he’ll feel when he discovers you refused to quell the gossip about his granddaughter?”

He took a step forward. “Do not try to blackmail me, Bathsheba. Things will go very badly for you if you do.”

Her eyes flared with anger, but underneath it lurked fear. The emotions poured from her petite frame, boiling through the air like a swarm of furious bees.

“Don’t reject me, Simon. I vow you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. And so will Sophie.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded and full of helpless rage. Bathsheba had him by the throat, and she knew it.

It had been five days since Lady Randolph walked into the parlor at St. James’s Square and blown Sophie’s life to smithereens. That, and the encounter with Simon, had been earth-shatteringly awful, but it had seemed then that things couldn’t get worse. Clearly the worst was just getting started.

Lady Eleanor swept into the drawing room, a startling sight in a puce-colored dress and a gigantic matching turban.

“No long faces, Sophia,” she boomed. “I won’t have it. We’ll march in, heads high, and the devil take the lot of them.”

“A few long faces are certainly in order, Eleanor,” chided Lady Jane as she retied the sash on Sophie’s gown. “After what the poor child’s suffered these last few days, I can’t imagine why you’re forcing her to go through with this charade.”

They fell silent. The tempest had broken over their heads, as swift and deadly as a winter storm at sea. Lady Randolph had not kept her promise. A few days ago, word of Sophie’s adventures at The Silver Oak had begun filtering throughout the Bath company. The gossip had accelerated with lightning speed—totally inaccurate, of course, and surprisingly vicious—and nothing her godmothers said to their friends made any difference. They, too, were affected, as morning visits and dinner invitations dwindled to a trickle.

Even worse, Simon wasn’t there to defend them. He had departed from Bath the day Sophie broke their engagement, with no indication when he would return.

Lady Eleanor cleared her throat. “We’re going because Stantons don’t run and hide, that’s why.”

“This Stanton would be happy to run and hide, rather than suffer death by ton,” muttered Sophie.

She’d resisted her godmother’s plan to attend the ball at the Assembly Rooms this evening, knowing it would only provide more fodder for the gossips. Aunt Eleanor had been implacable, however, insisting that family honor dictated no other course. Sophie had finally given in. Her godmother would likely drag her there by her topknot if she didn’t fall into line.

“Besides,” added the old woman, “Robert and Annabel are going. We can’t leave them to face all this rot without our support. You’ve got to do it for the family, Sophia. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of—unless you count your sentimental notions about life as shameful, which I certainly don’t. Face down the old cats one last time, then you can leave for your grandfather’s estate with a clear conscience.”

“I know. It’s just that—” Sophie broke off, swallowing the lump that had taken up permanent residence in her throat.

“Oh, Sophie.” Lady Jane gave her a quick hug.

Lady Eleanor watched them with a sad wisdom. They all knew what Sophie’s future was likely to be, and the loneliness she would have to bear. Without even a sister to grow old with.

“You’re a brave girl, Sophia, and I’m sorry you have to go through this. If only you had thought to wake me that night, I could have done something to help you. I wish I could have dealt with that poltroon and his doxy myself!”

Sophie choked out a laugh at the idea of Lady Eleanor storming The Silver Oak. Now that would’ve given the gossips something to talk about.

“That’s more like it.” Lady Eleanor smiled. “No more moping from either of you. Not tonight, anyway. Let’s be on our way—we don’t want to keep our audience waiting.”

Lady Jane gave a delicate snort. “Heaven forfend.”

All too soon, the carriage deposited them at the Assembly Rooms. They disposed of their cloaks, shook out their skirts, and prepared to head into the fray.

“Courage, my love.” Lady Jane tucked her hand into Sophie’s elbow. “This time tomorrow you’ll be far away from here.”

Away from everyone she loved, exiled by her own choice to General Stanton’s most northern estate. Robert and Annabel were following in a few days, but Sophie likely wouldn’t see her mother and grandparents for several weeks, if not longer. And Simon—she had no idea when she would see him again.

She blinked hard, trying to push his image from her mind. If she thought of him now, or how he must have reacted to the news of the scandal, she would turn tail and run. He would never forgive her. How could he? Losing the coal from her estates would be bad enough, but losing his reputation over something as tawdry as this—

“Ready, my dear?” Lady Eleanor’s question interrupted Sophie’s downward spiral.

With her godmothers flanking her, she squared her shoulders and headed into the Octagon Room. The crowd parted, giving them just enough space to move unimpeded to the opposite, less crowded end of the room. Lady Eleanor bestowed an imperial nod on the occasional acquaintance, but otherwise ignored the smirks and grins, the whispers and cutting remarks that followed in their wake. Sophie marched grimly forward, every part of her skin flushed with a maddening heat.

Just ahead, she spied Mr. Puddleford talking to one of the Heathcote sisters. She breathed a sigh of gratitude. He would acknowledge her, of course. There had been many a rout or party where no one would talk to the poor man but her.

“Good evening, Mr. Puddleford.” She gave him her best smile. “How nice to see you again.”

“I…I…” The pudgy little man rolled his eyes in panic in the direction of his companion.

“Come away, Mr. Puddleford.” Louisa Heathcote’s shrill voice rose above the crowd. “The company in this part of the room is intolerable. Not at all respectable.”

A pomaded fop behind Louisa tittered and repeated the remark to another man. It would only take moments for the ill-mannered rebuff to sweep the room.

“Come along, dear,” murmured Lady Jane. “I see Robert and Annabel at the top of the room.”

Sophie’s vision blurred, but she forced her feet to move. A scorching mix of emotions burned away at her, like vinegar on an open wound. Rage that anyone would insult her godmothers, and a sickening shame that she had brought this trouble down upon her family.

She blinked away her tears, furious that she felt like crying. She had helped save Toby and Becky and would do it again, if she had to. Louisa Heathcote and the lot of them could go to the devil, for all she cared.

“Sophie, darling.” Annabel’s gentle voice and warm hug brought her back to herself.

“Here, sis.” Robert appeared at his wife’s shoulder. “I managed to snabble some chairs for us. You look like you could do with a rest. In fact,” he said, peering at her face, “you look done to a cow’s thumb.”

“I’m fine,” Sophie automatically responded, as she had done so many times in the last few days.

“Of course you are.” Her sister-in-law patted her hand. “You just need to be gone from this horrid place. We all do.”

As they settled into their chairs, Annabel launched into a grimly cheerful recounting of her correspondence with various family and friends. Sophie smiled vaguely and pretended to listen. But, as happened whenever she had nothing to occupy her mind, all she could think of was Simon.

God, she missed him. With an ache that burrowed into her very bones. The pain of the last few days would have been little more than a fleabite if he were still by her side, protecting her as he had done for so many years. But now…now she had no choice but to go on without him. Perhaps the ache would eventually fade, and life might return to something that resembled normal. Eventually.

If only she didn’t feel so lonely. As lonely as that terrible time after the death of her father.

She grimaced, irritated with her mawkish self-pity. She had made a decision to protect her family, and she had held to her end of the bargain. As far as Sophie was concerned, Lady Randolph carried the blame for all of this. Unfortunately, the countess wouldn’t be the one to suffer.

“Oh, good God,” muttered Robert from the chair beside her.

“What is it?”

“Over there.” Her brother, looking as if he had just swallowed a bad oyster, pointed toward the archway leading into the room.

Sophie craned her neck, trying to see over the throng. “There does seem to be quite a commotion, doesn’t there? And it’s not even one that we caused.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he said morosely.

“General Stanton and Lady Stanton,” announced the master of ceremonies into the sudden hush that had fallen over the room.

Sophie came to her feet, as did Annabel and Robert. Perspiration misted the back of her neck as she watched the dignified old couple make a slow progress through the crowd. What in heaven’s name were they doing here?

Her stomach lurched. For a moment, she feared she might cast up her accounts in front of half the population of Bath. She bit back a hysterical giggle at the absurdity of the image, and forced herself to take a deep breath as her grandparents approached.

Annabel gave a swift curtsy before launching herself into Lady Stanton’s arms. “Grandmamma, Grandpapa, I’m so happy to see you.”

Robert cleared his throat and gave his grandfather a nervous smile. “Good evening, sir.” His voice sounded considerably higher than its normal pitch.

General Stanton glared back at him. “Well, grandson, will you also tell me how happy you are to see me? Spare me your canards.”

Robert blanched. The general leaned in closer, until they were nose to nose.

“Good lord, my boy! What are you about letting your sister get into so much trouble? You’re supposed to be protecting her. And because you didn’t do your duty, your grandmamma and I had to pull ourselves away from our own comfortable hearth, and come to this godforsaken place and consort with the worst set of vulgar mushrooms I’ve seen in years.”

“Really, sir, you know as well as I—ouch!” Robert scowled at Annabel, who gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence.

General Stanton switched his gaze to Sophie, his features as stern as a gothic saint.

“Well, miss? What do you have to say for yourself?”

The silence in the room thrummed in her ears. It seemed the entire world waited for her answer. She dropped into a deep curtsy, held it for several moments, then rose to her feet.

“Good evening, Grandfather.” She met his narrowed gaze with as much composure as she could muster. “It’s wonderful to see you looking so well.”

His thin mouth twitched, and then he gave a gruff laugh. “That’s my girl. Come and give your old grandpapa a hug.”

She stared at him, not quite sure her ears were working as they should. He pulled her into his arms. It took all her discipline not to burst into tears as he gave her a rough hug.

“There now, miss. You’ve all made a mull of things, as usual, but your grandpapa will set it right.” He glared at their eager, jostling audience. “And anyone who doesn’t think I have the power to do so will find it goes very ill for them.”

“Yes, my dear, I’m sure they will. But do let Sophie go. You’re crushing her gown.” Lady Stanton extracted Sophie from his arms and gave her a soft hug.

Sophie returned the embrace, still too dazed to ask any questions. All around them the hubbub had been growing louder by the second, but, once again, a stunned silence fell over the room.

“Now what?” groaned Robert.

“Oh my goodness,” squeaked Annabel. “Sophie, look!”

Lady Stanton released her, and Sophie turned to face the room. Her heart took a throbbing leap into her throat when she saw who stood in the archway.

Simon.
Looking devastatingly handsome in his flawless black tailcoat and snowy cravat, and radiating so much power and confidence that it reached her from across the room.

He moved swiftly through the crowd, ignoring the murmured comments that followed him like a rippling tide across a wind-scoured beach. He came to a halt before her. Sophie stared into his midnight eyes, breathing so hard that her vision began to blur.

Simon shook his head, a smile playing around his lips. “Sophie, you’re fogging up your glasses.”

He carefully plucked them from her face, took the lacy handkerchief Annabel offered him, and wiped them clean.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he gravely offered them back to her.

“Well, nevvie,” groused Lady Eleanor. “It’s about time you showed up. We’ve been having a devil of a time down here.”

“Forgive me, aunt. I came back as quickly as I could.” He smiled down at Sophie. “I told you I would never abandon you, sweetheart. You know I always keep my promises.”

She still couldn’t speak. She could only stare into the imperiously aristocratic yet beloved face she thought never to see again.

He tilted his head. “What’s the matter, Puck? Cat got your tongue? I’ll have to remember to surprise you more often.”

Her mouth fell open. “Simon! How can you tease me at a time like this? Don’t you—”

“May I have the next dance, Miss Stanton?” He cut her off, unholy amusement dancing in his eyes. “That is, if someone hasn’t already claimed your hand. I did see Mr. Puddleford hanging about when I came into the room.”

She felt it best to ignore that remark, extending her hand while maintaining a dignified silence. He grinned and led her into the set just forming in the next room.

In truth, Sophie was afraid to open her mouth. She didn’t know what would come out—hysterical laughter, tears, or even a scold was likely, and the Stantons and St. Jameses had already provided enough food for the Bath gossips to last a lifetime.

For several minutes they moved through the figures of the dance. Simon ignored everyone but her, his expression relaxed and easy, his eyes smiling and full of love. She could hardly believe it. Where was her imperious earl? How could he not care she had subjected him to the worst kind of innuendo and scandal? She couldn’t make sense of it, but the fact that he was here and had convinced her grandfather—the second most scandal-averse man in England—to lend his public support spoke of a love that would trump every obstacle standing in their way.

They came back together, hands and arms intertwined.

“You’re not mad at me?” she whispered.

He gave a rueful shake of the head, his dark eyes gleaming like ebony in the glitter of a thousand candles. “No, love. This is my fault. I should have known something was wrong. That you were in trouble. If I hadn’t been such a prideful fool, you would have told me.”

“Was this—tonight—part of your plan to respond to the scandal?”

“I didn’t have a plan, Sophie. I wasn’t even sure you would want to see me again, after the way I acted. Your grandmother, though, seemed quite certain you would.”