Sex and the Single Earl (7 page)

She had to. She had to find her precious bracelet
and
rescue that helpless, lonely child.

The wind swirled hard, tossing her hair out from under her hood and sending it whipping across her face. Simon pushed the strands back with a gentle hand.

“I agree there is much to be done to help the unfortunate, especially those men and their families who were affected by the wars on the Continent. Some of us are working to do just that. But you must give up trying to find this boy. Follow your mother’s example instead. Confine your work to the appropriate charities. You can’t change the workhouses, and you must promise me that you’ll never go down to Avon Street again.”

Disappointment weighed her down—heavy and sullen. “
You
could do something, Simon. You’re a powerful man. Men like you and my cousin Silverton—you could make them change.”

He fell silent. In the darkness she couldn’t tell if her plea affected him at all.

“If only you could have seen the children,” she whispered, unable to stop the flow of images. “They were grinding bones into dust.
Human
bones, Simon.”

His arm tightened around her shoulder, but he remained silent.

“The dust…it was everywhere. On the walls, the floors, floating through the air. It coated the children’s faces. It got in my hair, Simon. When I got home I scrubbed and scrubbed, but I feel like it will never come out.”

She broke off, ashamed of her trembling voice. Simon growled something low in his throat, and his strong hands pulled her around in front of him. He tilted her chin up and searched her face.

“Don’t cry, Puck. I’ll see what I can do to find your boy.”

She stared into his shadowed eyes, wishing she could read what was in them. He rubbed a single tear from her cheek, then brushed his gloved thumb across her lower lip. Her heart stuttered into a mad rhythm as electric prickles raced across her skin.

“You’re so sweet, just like an angel,” he murmured. “I can’t bear to see you cry.” He slowly lowered his face, brushing his warm lips across her wet skin. Sophie could swear she felt a spark leap out from the place where he kissed her.

Unbelievably, her hands crept of their own volition up the front of his coat and curled themselves into his collar. Any moment now he would push her away. But instead his hands slid around her waist, pulling her firmly into the sandalwood scent of his body. Despite their multiple layers of clothing, the heat between them felt scorching.

Sophie’s mouth dropped open as his lips continued to feather over her cheeks. Her heart beat so erratically she thought she might drop to the ground in a dead faint. She took a deep breath, forcing her head to clear. She wasn’t about to miss a second of this.

“Is something wrong, Sophie?” Simon’s voice—an unfamiliar husky growl—made her legs tremble with a delicious weakness.

“No, Simon,” she breathed. “Not a thing.”

“I’m glad.”

His lips moved over her cheekbone and down her jawline, trailing fire all the way. She clutched at the collar of his coat, trying to pull him to her mouth.

“Simon.” Her voice whispered the plea.

The next moment he swooped, covering her lips in a kiss so devouring that she almost swooned from the sheer joy of it. There was nothing gentle about his mouth on hers. His tongue demanded—and she granted—entrance into her mouth. Its hot sweep filled her with a deep ache, an ache matched by a quiver low in her belly.

She hesitantly answered back, touching her tongue to his, then nipping his lower lip with her teeth.

He gasped and drew back. Even in the shadows she could see the look of shock on his face. Shame flooded every part of her being. How could she have been so bold as to bite him, actually bite him! Was she demented?

“Simon, I’m so sorry. I don’t know…” Humiliation strangled her voice. She began to pull out of his embrace.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled. His steely arms yanked her hard against the massive wall of his chest. His mouth claimed her lips again, tongue stroking, lips nibbling, driving her to respond as she did before.

Sophie stretched up on her tiptoes, her cloak falling back from her shoulders. She tentatively rubbed her chest against the rough wool of his coat, trying desperately to understand the sensations flooding her body. How could an ache, especially an ache in her breasts, feel so wonderful?

Simon growled again, and a tiny part of her mind startled to the knowledge that he sounded like a wild beast of the forest. But a second later that alarming thought was blasted from her mind as his hands slid from her waist to grab her bottom, cupping in a hard grip.

She squeaked into his mouth, but he didn’t let go. And she didn’t want him to. She wanted to feel his mouth on hers forever, his tongue stroking hot, wet caresses onto her tingling lips, and deep inside her mouth. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, and everything she had ever dreamed of.

She arched into him, desperate to bring every part of her body into alignment with his. Something wild began to grow inside her, as his hands cupped and kneaded her through the soft layers of her gown and chemise. The shocking thought flashed through her mind that she wished his long fingers were stroking her naked flesh.

Bang.

Behind them a door slammed open against a wall. They sprung apart, and Sophie almost tumbled to the ground at the sudden release from Simon’s arms. He yanked her back on her feet, keeping a firm grip on her elbows.

Two fashionable young men, obviously in their cups, staggered down the steps of the townhouse across the way.

“Oh blast it, Freddie. It’s too early to call it a night. I know the sweetest little hell this side of the Avon. The whores and the dice are both clean, so what’s say we give it a go?”

“Lead on, dear fellow, lead on.”

The young bucks swayed down the street, hollering and singing on their way to less appetizing parts of town.

“Damn it all to hell.” Simon swore under his breath as he dragged her in the direction of St. James’s Square.

“What’s wrong, Simon?” Sophie had to skip to keep up with him.

“What’s wrong? Are you mad?” He scowled straight ahead. “I was kissing you in the middle of the Crescent.”

He hurried her along to the Marlborough Buildings, which stretched past the Circus and up the Commons like a long, elegant ribbon.

“I don’t mind that you were kissing me. Really I don’t.” If he didn’t stop rushing her, she was bound to get a stitch in her side.

“Well, I mind. You will surely drive me to Bedlam one of these days, Sophie. You really will.”

Sophie let out her own little growl. If she hadn’t been working so hard to keep up with him, she would have kicked him in the shins for ruining the most wonderful moment of her life.

“Really, Simon, it can’t have been that bad.”

“It would have been, if someone we know had seen us. Put your hood up, Sophie. Your reputation is fragile enough as it is without something like this happening to you.”

He towed her along to St. James’s Square, lecturing her all the way. As she hurried to keep up, she listened with half an ear as the chill wind from the heights leached into her bones. The warmth of their embrace had fled, and only questions remained. Why had he kissed her in the first place? Was it only because he felt sorry for her?

“Hurry up, Sophie. It’s late. After the day you’ve had, you should have been in bed hours ago.” His tone was clipped, almost angry.

Sophie reached the depressing conclusion that when it came to Simon, no matter what happened between them, some things would always remain the same.

Mr. Puddleford’s monotone almost drowned out the boisterous chatter of the crowd in the stalls around them. Sophie directed a smile at the earnest widower, even as she strained to hear the latest gossip Lucy Whipple was imparting to Annabel.

“…and that, Miss Stanton, is why one must only divide lilies in the late fall, and never in the spring.”

“…and so she told Mr. Courtney she never wanted to set eyes on him again!”

Both Mr. Puddleford and Lucy concluded on equally triumphant notes, but Sophie could give a hang about dividing lilies. She had, however, been dying to find out why Miss Geraldine Evans had broken her engagement to Mr. John Courtney. It was the talk of the town, but she seemed destined to be the only person who would never know the particulars.

Along with Mr. Puddleford, of course.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Stanton.” The widower eyed her morosely. “I’m sure you must be finding all this talk about my garden exceedingly dull. But you seemed so interested in my lilies the last time we spoke.”

“Oh, certainly not dull, my dear sir. Not dull, at all. Please tell me more,” Sophie replied, mustering up her enthusiasm. After all, Mr. Puddleford was a very nice man, and the last thing she wished to do was hurt his feelings.

Puffing out his already portly chest, he launched into a detailed explanation of experiments he was conducting in his greenhouse. He pulled his chair closer in his eagerness to explain the finer points of cross-pollination. In fact, he backed her right up against the railing of their box. If he got any closer, she would likely plummet into the pit of the Theater Royal.

The play tonight was
The Misanthrope
—never one of her favorites. But Annabel and Robert had insisted she join them in their outing with the Whipples, their friends from Kent who had chosen to spend the winter in Bath.

After several restless hours spent rattling around the house in St. James’s Square, Sophie had been more than ready to be persuaded. Simon hadn’t called all day. With a sinking heart, she finally admitted he wasn’t likely to visit that evening either. The kiss that had meant so much to her had obviously meant very little to him. An outing with Robert and Annabel seemed the perfect antidote to her growing dissatisfaction with herself, and with England’s most irritating earl.

Once Mr. Puddleford had spotted her, though, she had hardly been able to speak a word to anyone else. He hurried over to their box as soon as the interval began, ready to spend the rest of the night attached to her side.

She couldn’t hold back a sigh as she smoothed her rose-colored silk gloves across the lap of her matching cambric gown. Fortunately, Mr. Puddleford didn’t notice, as he was obviously enraptured with his own description of some newly arrived orchids to his estate in Yorkshire.

But Annabel noticed. Worry creasing her smooth brow, she studied Sophie before leaning over and whispering something in Robert’s ear. He nodded politely, but continued listening to Lucy Whipple’s recitation of the morning’s events in the Pump Room.

Sophie focused her attention back on Mr. Puddleford, her most ardent and persistent suitor. She had met him two seasons ago, and he had asked her to marry him four times in the last year. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. She wondered if he actually forgot her refusal from one month to the next—after all, he was very absent-minded—or if he simply intended to wait her out. The Lord only knew most of her other suitors had given up long ago.

Not that she’d had many to begin with. Sadly, they all tended to be like Mr. Puddleford, sedate middle-aged widowers mostly content to pass the evening discussing Roman history or dull botanical treatises. She liked Roman history rather a lot, but, generally speaking, not at balls or assemblies.

And certainly no man had ever tried to give her more than a chaste, stolen kiss on the cheek. Not until last night, anyway.

She shifted uncomfortably, flushing with heat as she recalled the taste of Simon’s lips on hers, the feel of his hands on her bottom. All day, while waiting for him to call, she had worried how to act in his presence. She had succumbed so easily to his passion, responding, if truth were told, with a great deal of enthusiasm herself. God forbid he should think her a strumpet.

She bolted upright in her seat. Perhaps her enthusiasm had been so distasteful it had driven him away.

“Sophie, old girl, you’re as red as a beet. Mr. Puddleford, what the devil are you talking to my sister about?” Robert had squeezed around the other side of Mr. Puddleford, inspecting both of them through the exaggerated lens of his quizzing glass. The older man’s pale eyes widened in dismay.

“Miss Stanton and I were discussing the cross-pollination of orchids, sir. I can’t imagine a more wholesome and invigorating topic for any young lady.”

“Oh, my dear sir,” exclaimed Annabel, abandoning her conversation with Lucy Whipple. “I have had such problems with my orchids. Won’t you sit by me, and give me your expert opinion on what I should do?”

“Capital idea, my dear,” enthused Robert, hauling Mr. Puddleford to his feet and shoving him into the chair next to his wife. “Mrs. Stanton hasn’t been able to sleep for weeks, you know. She lies awake all night thinking about her blasted orchids. Lord knows it’s enough to drive a man right around the twist.”

Mr. Puddleford spluttered as Robert manhandled him away from Sophie.

“Indeed, dear sir, you can’t imagine how my orchids have troubled me,” Annabel exclaimed soulfully, even though her eyes brimmed with laughter. “You must help me, or I fear I might lose them all.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Mr. Puddleford’s alarm finally overcame his gallantry. “Please calm yourself, madam. Once I have the facts in hand, I’m sure I can devise a sound plan to correct your problems.”

Annabel launched into a lurid description of the afflictions of her nonexistent orchids, Mr. Puddleford nodding wisely all the while. Robert rolled his eyes and dropped onto the seat next to Sophie.

“Old poof,” he muttered. “Can’t think why you let him hang about so much, sis. You must be out of your mind.”

“Oh, Robert, do be quiet,” she hissed back, torn between laughter and irritation. “I can’t seem to do anything to get rid of the poor man!”

“Well, Annabel will see to him. I wanted to speak to you alone, anyway.”

Sophie glanced around the brightly lit, ornate theater, stuffed to the ceiling with noisy patrons. Only Robert would think they were alone in the middle of such a crowd.

“You really are looking rather flushed, Soph. Are you sure you’re all right? I hope you’re not stewing about your bracelet. Get you another one, you know, if it bothers you.”

Sophie clenched her fingers on the polished wood of the box’s railing, then forced herself to relax her grip. She had told Robert earlier in the day about the theft of her bracelet—with certain modifications, of course—and what she had done to recover it. Unfortunately, he had reacted almost as badly as Simon had, ringing a peal over her head for a good half hour.

“It’s not just the bracelet, Robert, although you know how much it means to me.” She paused to control the little catch in her voice. She had never lied to her brother before today. Worst of all, she was getting quite good at it.

Robert squeezed her hand, thankfully misunderstanding her emotion. “I do know. It reminds you of Father. His death was horrible, especially since we didn’t expect it. Worse for you, though, old girl. You two were always as thick as glue.”

She swallowed against the familiar pain that lanced through her heart. Her father’s death after a brief illness had been the great tragedy of her life. She loved her mother and brother with all her heart, but it had been Papa who had really understood her. He had encouraged her love of adventure, and turned a blind eye whenever she had thrown down her embroidery to join her brother in some grubby escapade.

“It’s not only the bracelet,” she said, pushing the sorrow back into the little mental box she had created long ago. “I truly feel I must do everything I can to help that boy. He was so sad and alone. I’m afraid he has no one at all to help him.”

“No.” Robert’s voice was surprisingly stern. “Simon’s right. The slums are no place for a lady like you. And who knows what that little ruffian was really up to? Playing on your sympathies, old girl. Trying to prevent you from turning him over to the constable. He’s probably been thieving for years. As the head of the family, I absolutely forbid you to go looking for him. I mean it, Soph.”

She felt her anger spike, her hand curling once more around the railing. If Robert didn’t understand how much this meant to her, no one would.

All at once the gay tumult of her surroundings became unbearable. If she didn’t escape now, she would probably say something she would come to regret a very short time later.

“Of course, Robert. Whatever you want.” She stood and began to collect her things. “I’m really not feeling very well after all. It was a mistake for me to come out tonight.”

Robert gazed up at her, confounded. “Sophie…”

“No, really,” she interrupted him. “I think I best go home. I’ll go in Lady Eleanor’s coach, and perhaps Lucy can take you to Laura Place.”

“Blast, Soph,” Robert grumbled, jumping to his feet, “I’ll take you home.”

Sophie ignored him. “Mr. Puddleford, would you be so kind as to escort me to my carriage?”

“It would be my greatest honor,” he exclaimed, springing to his feet with an alacrity that made her blink.

Annabel looked surprised, but after a quick inspection of Sophie’s face she rose from her chair.

“Hush, Robert,” she said, ruthlessly cutting off her husband’s protests. “Of course you must go home, my love, if you are not well. Lucy will be happy to take us to Laura Place.”

Sophie gave Annabel a quick hug, nodded to Lucy, and then rushed from the box. Mr. Puddleford hurried after her, puffing as he followed her down the stairs to the lobby.

She bolted through the lobby and out into the night, not caring who might see her furious dash into the street. A few stragglers lingering at the entrance to the theater raised disapproving eyebrows as she rushed by.

“Miss Stanton, please wait,” gasped Mr. Puddleford as he clutched at his side. “You will surely do yourself a harm with all this rushing about. It is neither seemly nor healthy for you to do so.”

“Forgive me, sir, but the air was so close inside. I really couldn’t bear it a moment longer.”

“I understand, my dear Miss Stanton,” the widower said, struggling to catch his breath. “Please allow me to take you home myself. Indeed, you must allow me to take care of you.”

Mr. Puddleford’s eyes held a certain gleam—the gleam they got whenever he was about to solicit her hand in marriage. Sophie couldn’t bear yet another proposal, especially not now.

“Mr. Puddleford, I see Lady Eleanor’s footman, James, just over there. Could you please ask him to fetch the carriage?”

The widower hesitated and then bowed, moving down the line of carriages to speak to the footman. Sophie exhaled a huge sigh of relief and began counting stones in the pavement, determined to bring her temper under control before he returned.

A flash of movement at the far edges of the torchlight caught her attention. She glanced up and found herself looking straight into the eyes of her little street thief. Hovering just out of reach, he looked as ragged and frightened as he had the first time she had set eyes on him.

But he didn’t retreat into the darkness. His pale, haunted eyes fastened to where she stood frozen on the pavement.

A shiver of awareness ran across her skin.

Sensing that he looked for a sign, she gave him a wary smile and gestured for him to wait. The boy nodded and drifted back into the shadows.

“Your carriage awaits, my lady,” Mr. Puddleford cried with laborious gallantry as Lady Eleanor’s coach and pair drew up before her. “Allow me to escort you home.”

“That will not be necessary, Mr. Puddleford. James will take care of me.” She grabbed his hand and briskly shook it, then turned as if about to step into the coach. “I hear the gong for the interval. You will not wish to be late. Good night, sir.”

In the face of so blighting a dismissal, the widower had no choice but to bow and murmur his good-byes. She felt a twinge of guilt at the hurt on his pudgy features, but knew he would forget the snub by tomorrow.

“Miss, will you step in?” James stood respectfully by to help her.

“In a minute, James.” She waited until Mr. Puddleford disappeared into the theater. After a quick inspection of the street, she decided the few people milling about the steps of the building would likely not even notice her. In any event, she had to risk it.

“Stay here, James. I’ll return in a moment.”

The footman looked astonished, but bowed his compliance. After another swift glance around, Sophie hurried to the other side of the carriage, out of the direct light thrown by the torches.

“Little boy, are you there?” she called out in little more than a whisper.

The urchin appeared like an apparition from the darkness, moving cautiously toward her. Sophie’s chest ached at the fear etched on his thin features.

“I won’t hurt you, child. I promise.” She held out her hand encouragingly.

“I’ve come to return your bracelet, miss.” His voice shook. “My sister said it were wrong of me to take it, and I must give it back.” He held out a trembling hand. The gold cuff nestled in his dirty palm, gleaming softly in the glow of the lamps from the coach.

Sophie sank to her knees, so powerful was the rush of relief and gratitude pouring through her veins. It took a moment to find her voice. “That was very good of you, my dear. How did you find me?”

“My sister said to watch all the places the swells went to. She said I must look until I find you.” The boy drifted closer, but still remained just out of reach.

“Your sister must be very clever.”

“Aye, my lady. The smartest and the prettiest that ever was. She takes care of me since my ma died. She said it was wrong to steal, even though my pa don’t think so.”

“Your fa…pa tells you to steal?”

“Aye. If I don’t, he beats me.”