My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers
3
“Marcella!”
Marcella tried to wrench her arm away from the pirate captain but succeeded only in tearing the sleeve of her dress. A feeling of desperation filled her as she realized that Captain Mohab might well use her as he had the poor women now cowering in the ship’s hold.
Captain Mohab leered at her while she fought back his advances. She looked up into the rigging hoping for a glimpse of the one man who would be her salvation.
Lord Thurston.
She had not seen him in several days, not since Captain Mohab had taken her captive in Jamaica. Lord Thurston had danced with her at the Governor’s Ball, then disappeared into the night mist as if he’d never been there. Captain Mohab and his crew snatched her from her father’s carriage as she made her way home.
But she knew Lord Thurston would come for her. He had to. He was her only hope.
“Capt’n!” A shout came from the front of the ship. “It’s the Gorgon! She’s closing fast.”
Marcella wrenched herself away from Captain Mohab and ran to the railing. A ship was closing fast. The Gorgon. Lord Thurston’s ship.
“He’ll not save you.” Captain Mohab pressed his lips against her neck. “You’ll be mine.”
The crunch of wood splintering met her ears as the Gorgon scraped against Captain Mohab’s vessel. A cry reached her ear, the sound of men boarding the ship.
“I told you he would come for me.” She spat at Captain Mohab.
“Leave her!” A lusty roar echoed from the flapping sails as men scattered before the angry avenging angel who threw himself atop the deck.
“Marcella.” Lord Thurston, his features, grim with worry, searched her face for any sign of injury. A firm arm wound around her waist, pulling her behind Lord Thurston as he thrust out with his sword. She melted into him, overcome with relief and something else.
Miranda sighed and turned the page, relieved to hear the storm intensifying outside. Thank goodness for rainy days. The inclement weather would keep all but the most obstinate ladies from calling to pay homage to the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne.
If the day was relatively free of rain, a steady stream of fashionably garbed ladies, their bland daughters trailing them, would arrive to engage her grandmother in what passed for witty conversation. Grandmother would receive them all in the formal drawing room, a room whose furnishings were so rich as to leave no doubt as to the power of the Cambourne’s and the Dowager Marchioness. The visitors would be appropriately grateful the Dowager was home to receive them.
Most of the titled ladies wished to advance themselves by associating with the Dowager Marchioness or sought advice on how to find a suitable match for their dull daughters, for Grandmother was known to be an expert matchmaker. Some ladies, braver than the rest, fairly ran up the steps to call at Cambourne House hoping to catch a glimpse of Miranda’s brother, Sutton, a man whose very presence caused the ladies of the ton to swoon.
How her sister-in-law, Alex, tolerated such nonsense, Miranda would never understand.
Miranda, if forced, and she often was, would sit beside Grandmother, wearing her mask of carefully cultivated politeness. She would nod graciously, pretending to be enthralled by a discussion of what Lady Halstead wore to the opera, even though Lady Halstead could have arrived naked to her box and thrown herself at the stage and Miranda would still not be the least interested.
There were other callers, male and female alike, who came to gawk at Miranda, a woman who had once been the most sought after young lady in London during her first Season. A woman who now had one foot firmly on the shelf. A beautiful spinster with only a handful of suitors because of the scandal.
Lady Miranda, the ton twittered, had shot a man.
That last part, unproven, but scandalous in the extreme, was enough for Miranda to be considered, unsuitable.
So Miranda would sit, hands clasped and displaying perfect posture, on the edge of the couch and listen while the ton’s titled ladies touted the many attributes of their insipid daughters while sipping their tea and stealing smug glances at Miranda.
The satisfaction displayed by these ladies was, Miranda admitted, probably justified, though not wholly directed at her. The superior attitudes displayed had much more to do with Miranda’s mother, a woman who had lorded over these very ladies as if she were a queen. How many young ladies had Mother ruined with just one cutting remark? One small bit of gossip? Many a young girl’s reputation had been questioned. Chances for a brilliant match ruined Invitations had been denied.
It was only fair, Miranda supposed, that these fine ladies gloated a bit. Mother had been rather unkind.
At any rate, Miranda would much rather spend the afternoon with Lord Thurston. Books were so much easier than people, especially the people and circles within society whom Miranda was to embrace. Honestly, there were times she felt as if she were an oddity in a circus, a poor freak trapped in a cage while the world looked on her in muted, sympathetic horror.
Sutton did everything in his power to quell the talk regarding the incident, as the Cambourne family called it, but to no avail. If a young, unmarried woman possibly shot a man, even in defense of one’s brother, sooner or later the gossips of the ton would find out. Young ladies of good breeding did not handle firearms, let alone shoot their mother’s cousin.
Even though Cousin Archie had been a horrible person and had certainly deserved shooting.
One of the retainers at Helmsby Abbey officially took the credit for Archie’s death, claiming he did so in defense of Lord and Lady Cambourne. But somehow the truth, in the form of innuendo, blazed like wildfire through the ton. Lady Cambourne herself was likely the culprit, for upon learning of Archie’s death, Mother fell into a heap of silk skirts, screaming out her hatred for Miranda before collapsing like a wounded animal.
Until then, Miranda had thought her mother incapable of love, when in fact, it was only that the Marchioness was incapable of loving Miranda.
It no longer mattered who repeated the tale. The damage to Miranda’s reputation was swift and unrelenting. No matter that she was the granddaughter of one of the reigning matrons of the ton, the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. Not even Grandmother could fix society’s opinion of Miranda.
Miranda returned her attention to the page before her. Lord Thurston deserved better than to have her attention wander. Truthfully, her mood today was not due to her mother nor her decision to marry one of the two rather desperate gentlemen courting her.
No, it was the sudden appearance of one specific gentleman.
Colin Hartley, now the Earl of Kilmaire and the object of her ruination, had finally returned to London. How casually he’d greeted her weeks ago in the Duke of Dunbar’s drawing room as if they were nothing to each other but family friends. Frowning slightly as if her presence gave him a headache, he’d guided her from the room before dropping her arm as if the very touch of her disgusted him. Colin disappeared before she’d had an opportunity to speak to him, though he clearly had no desire to speak to her.
The page blurred before her for a moment and she angrily blinked back the tears starting to form.
The Earl of Kilmaire was obviously taking great pains to avoid Miranda at every turn, so she returned the favor, fleeing his sight whenever possible. She took comfort in assuring herself he wasn’t the same man. Not anymore..
Colin was still beautiful, a sleek, golden lion stalking about the salons and ballrooms of London. The scar, angrily bisecting the left side of his face, did not detract from his looks but only added to the aura of suppressed danger that surrounded him. He remained aloof. Cold. If you did catch the Earl of Kilmaire smiling, you would see that the smile did not extend to the deep velvet of his eyes. This Colin was not the one that Miranda had loved so fiercely.
Unfortunately, Miranda’s heart refused to see the difference.
Determined, as she often was, to push Colin from her mind, she gave her full attention to her two suitors, Lord Ridley and Lord Hamill. She’d gone nearly a whole day without thinking of Colin when Lady Dobson appeared for tea the day before.
Lady Dobson was not a favorite of the Cambourne family, particularly the Marquess and his Marchioness. She’d once chaperoned Miranda’s sister-in-law, Alexandra, and it had not gone well. Grandmother still received Lady Dobson on occasion when she wished to hear all of the latest gossip; after being in bed for the last week with a nasty cold, Grandmother had received her.
Lady Dobson, thin lips sipping at her tea, confided to Grandmother that the Earl of Kilmaire might do for Lady Dobson’s unfortunate niece, Miss Margaret Lainscott. Cursed and damaged though he was, Lord Kilmaire was still an earl. Lady Dobson cautiously broached the topic to Grandmother, the enormous peacock feather decorating Lady Dobson’s ridiculous blue turban waving in the air as if hailing a hackney.
Turbans.The style was outdated. Miranda herself could never fathom why turbans became a fashion to begin with. Something to do with India, Grandmother claimed. Regardless, Lady Dobson seemed not to care. She was never seen without one perched on her head. Odd that one never saw the lady’s own hair. Ever. Not so much as a wisp ever escaped the confines of the turbans.
Perhaps she doesn’t have any of her own hair.
Miranda giggled out loud, imagining Lady Dobson bald, sitting at tea and conversing with Grandmother. She’d have to tell Alex, her sister-in-law, what she suspected.
‘Lord Thurston wrapped one arm about Marcella’s waist, his touch as assuring as it was alluring.’
Her neck prickled in sudden awareness just before she felt the press of lips against her hair.
“Lord Thurston? How scandalous, Lady Miranda.”
Shocked, Miranda attempted to sit up but only succeeded in banging the top of her head against the edge of the table behind her and unseating a tepid cup of tea she’d long since forgotten about. Crumbs from a half-eaten raisin cake scattered down the front of her gown and into the crevices of the couch. Horrified that he’d taken her unaware and found her in such a state, she pulled the pillow and Lord Thurston against her, as if either would protect her from the man looking down at her.
The seductive whisper against her ear must have been imagined, she thought, for certainly there was nothing but a look of annoyance in Colin’s cold, dark eyes. No matter how hard she looked, she never saw any indication that he cared or even remembered that he’d broken her heart. Ruined her.
Bastard. Cursing him, even if only in her mind, felt empowering. And just then, with Colin Hartley staring her down, Miranda needed all the courage she could muster.
Lifting up her chin and composing her features, she summoned up the superior manner that had been her mother’s trademark. Difficult to be haughty with bits of raisin cake crumbs clinging to her bodice and the tea-soaked strands of her hair sticking to her neck, but, still, she thought her look appropriately frosty. Pursing her lips as if sucking a lemon, she gave a brief nod.
“Lord Kilmaire. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Yes, I’m certain it is.”
Colin did have the most amazing eyes, deep and fathomless. Difficult not to get lost in them, even under the present circumstances. Framed by sooty lashes that any woman would envy, his eyes tipped up slightly at the corners, almost catlike. The dark eyes and lashes were a sharp contrast to the color of his hair, which shone like a burnished gold guinea. The other Colin had worn his hair cropped close to his skull. The thick strands of the Earl of Kilmaire’s hair scraped the top of his broad shoulders, as if he couldn’t be bothered to cut it. He probably couldn’t. It was unfashionably long. Very un-earl like.
A lock of gold fell across the scar, as he inspected her, clearly annoyed with her caustic welcome.
Did he expect to be greeted with open arms?
He moved a bit closer, a large, gorgeous male hovering over her, and Miranda’s heart tripped. She could smell the soap he’d used, a clean scent she found intoxicating.
“I beg your pardon for startling you. My deepest apologies.”
Well that was something, the sarcasm in his tone. That sounded like Colin Hartley and not the Frost King better known as the Earl of Kilmaire.
“If you are here to see my brother, Lord Kilmaire, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.” Why wouldn’t her heart be still? “Sutton and Alex left for Gray Covington several days ago with the children. I’m so sorry you’ve braved this dreadful weather for nothing.” Good Lord, she sounded just like her mother. “Allow me to ring for Bevins to show you out.”
“I’m not here to see Cam, though I would like to discuss why your brother feels the need to employ ancient butlers. The man is eighty if he’s a day. I became concerned that he would expire before he made it up the stairs.”
“Bevins has been with us for many years. I’m sure you’ve encountered him before,” she said pointedly. Bevins had chanced upon Colin and Miranda once, and it was only due to the poor lighting that the butler didn’t see Colin’s hand cupping her breast. A miracle made possible only by a servant who neglected to light the lamps in the front drawing room.
A hungry look caressed the tops of her breasts.
He did remember.
“Bevins’s loyalty and devotion to our family is treasured. You may not value such things, Lord Kilmaire, but I assure you my brother does.”
Colin’s mouth twisted in a mocking grin.
“You find loyalty amusing?” How dare he show such a lack of respect towards Bevins.
“No. I find the word on your lips amusing.”
Any hint of humor disappeared as his mouth drew tight. It was as if a someone opened the door on a cold winter day, blowing away any hint of the hunger displayed before. The Earl of Kilmaire fairly vibrated with anger. At her.
Whatever did he have to be angry about? I am the injured party. I was the one who was ruined and abandoned as if I were some lightskirt. Perhaps it wasn’t anger but only concern that she would bring their past association to light? Miranda declined to respond.
The room grew silent except for the occasional burst of thunder and the rattling of the glass in the windows that followed.
Finally, Colin spoke. “I’m here at the invitation of the Dowager Marchioness. I would ask for refreshment, but it appears,” his eyes fell on the spilled tray, “that I’m late for tea. Or raisin cakes.”
“You never cared for them anyway as I recall,” Miranda snapped back, watching the way the scar pulled at his upper lip as he spoke. A week after he’d left her, no, abandoned her, Father relayed the information of Colin’s brother’s death and the attack by the Mad Countess. She’d written of course, even though she’d not heard from him. All she received was a short, curt note, telling Miranda to stay away. Then nothing for six long years.
“It is impolite to stare, Lady Miranda. If you care for the details, I’ll be happy to go over them with you,” he spat. “You see, we were having goose and—”
“I was wondering,” she interrupted, nodding to the expertly tailored charcoal coat and gray trousers, “what you could possibly have to discuss with Grandmother. Perhaps she is recommending a new wardrobe? You resemble an undertaker. Not a splash of color to be found anywhere. Not even your neckcloth, which, I might add, looks so tightly wound I wonder that you aren’t choking.” She smiled politely as if to say that she wished it were choking him.
“I prefer not to be considered a dandy.” His tone was acid.
“Oh surely, Lord Kilmaire,” Miranda allowed a small laugh to accompany her words, “none would dare find you as such. Well, they do say a man’s clothing reflects his personality.”
“Do they?”
“Austere. Severe. You are the very furthest thing from a dandy. No one would dare accuse you of merriment, I assure you. Why, there’s probably a bet in the book at White’s on whether you will ever crack a smile, or God forbid, burst into laughter.”
The dark eyes narrowed on her. “What would a young lady, like yourself, know about betting books and White’s? Has one of your many suitors filled your head with such? I should speak to your brother. I’m sure he wouldn’t be pleased.”
She did not care for the way he said ‘lady’ as if she weren’t one. If her morals had been loosened it was due to him. Her many suitors? That was rather deliberate and unkind considering she was certain Colin knew of the incident. Doubtless he knew the reason why the drawing room wasn’t packed with young gentlemen regardless of the storm outside.
“I find the weather is inhospitable to those wishing to pay calls,” she answered pointedly. “It keeps away those we would rather not have visit Cambourne House.” She lifted a brow. “Imagine my surprise that you found your way here.”
“I am here at your grandmother’s request. The Dowager and I have business to discuss.” The words left his mouth in a slight hiss even as the velvet of his eyes hardened on her.
‘You taste delicious, Miranda. A banquet for a starving man.’
Colin had once whispered those words against her neck and just the memory of them caused warmth to creep over the tops of her breasts. Even now, as he stood glowering at her, no hint of caring in his dark eyes, Miranda allowed desire to wash over her. Desire Colin taught her.
Mother once told Miranda that if a man wished to bed a woman, he would pretend any amount of affection or pretty speeches to get what he wanted.
How disappointing that Mother had been right.
“Why in the world would Grandmother request you to call on her during a thunderstorm?” She’d often thought of what she would say to Colin, were they ever to be alone together again, but found she couldn’t quite form her questions. An ache started in her temple, a symptom of verbally sparring with Colin.
Colin begin to stride back and forth across the carpet, a big, golden cat, trapped by the rain in grandmother’s private drawing room. Even agitated as he was, Colin moved gracefully. If he’d ever deign to dance, he would dance beautifully.
“Lady Cambourne is assisting me in a personal matter.”
Miranda nearly choked. There was only one thing Grandmother could be helping him with.
Colin was looking for a wife. How foolish to think Colin came to Cambourne House for her. A knot formed in the pit of her stomach even as she grew angry with her grandmother. Which was ridiculous given that Grandmother had no idea that Miranda and Colin were once…something. Or that the Earl of Kilmaire had taken her virtue. No one knew.
Colin stopped pacing and settled himself with a jerking motion into the chair across from her. Muscles rippled beneath the smooth dark trousers as he stretched out the length of his legs and crossed them at the ankle. His mouth tightened as he looked at her, almost daring her to say more.
His tailor should be fired. The fit of his trousers was indecent. Miranda knew the warm skin that lay beneath the fabric. She had traced her fingers down the curve of his thighs to brush against the thatch of golden hair that lay between them. Her entire body flamed even as she pressed her fingers firmly into the leather binding of Lord Thurston. No amount of time would erase the memory of this man, unclothed before her, in the light of the fire.
She allowed it. All of it. There had been no hesitation in giving herself to Colin. It had been the most beautiful night of her life.
And now, he’d caused her to regret it.
Her fingers tightened along the edge of the book. She longed to toss the tome squarely at his golden head. She had a good arm for throwing, she mused, and was very good at skipping rocks and such. And she’d proven herself a crack shot as well though that’s not at all the same as throwing a book. But still, she thought she could hit his temple and—
“That would be unwise, Miranda,” Colin growled, guessed at the train of her thoughts while dropping all pretense of formality.
She still adored the way he said her name. Damn him.
“Do you really think I would risk damaging my new Lord Thurston novel by tossing it at your head? I wouldn’t wish to damage the spine. It was quite expensive. A first edition.”
"Yes, I recall well your reluctance to risk anything, especially where the finer things are concerned. You do so adore all that society offers as well as your place in it.”
It sounded like an accusation, but what, exactly, was he accusing her of?
“Is there something you wish to discuss with me, Lord Kilmaire? For I would have you speak plainly instead of with innuendo I cannot make sense of.”
“We have nothing to discuss, not now or ever.” The scar darkened until it resembled a crimson bolt of lightning shooting across his cheek. A hint of Irish had entered his words, a sure sign that Lord Kilmaire did not have a firm grip on his emotions.
‘You belong to me, Colin Hartley.’
‘Yes. All of my days.”
Miranda felt as if she were suffocating under the force of her emotions. How could that have been a lie? In addition to lovers, Colin had been Miranda’s best friend. The person she was closest to in the world. They’d gone to museums and lectures. Bookstores. Walks in the park. And now he wanted nothing to do with her. Perhaps he feared that Miranda would suddenly cry ruination to her brother, though it was a bit late for that.
Miranda was appalled to realize she was close to tears.
“In case you are concerned, I would never remotely insinuate that we once bore each other any affection, especially to Sutton. It is not something I wish to admit to.”
Looking into her lap, she blinked rapidly to stay the tears that threatened to spill. She was clutching Lord Thurston so tightly she was likely damaging the leather. Anger at his rejection warred with the pain she felt. He wished never to discuss the past, so be it.
“Miranda.”
Did she imagine the longing with which he whispered her name?
Whatever he had been about to say was cut short by the appearance of a lanky, ginger-haired lad, dressed in the Cambourne livery, swinging open the drawing room door.
“Lady Cambourne,” Harry, her grandmother’s personal footman announced as he made a short bow. Turning slightly, he held out his arm to lend his assistance to the elderly woman behind him, her cane thumping as she made her way into the room.
