My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers

 

5

CAMBOURNE HOUSE 1830

“Lord Cambourne has been detained, Mr. Hartley. Would you prefer to wait in the drawing room or perhaps the gardens?”

The Cambourne’s butler, a large, thin man who walked as if he had a stick up his bum moved towards the stairs and waited for Colin to respond. For the life of him, Colin couldn’t remember the man’s name, and the butler did not offer it, even though Colin had dined at Cambourne House at least four times in the last two weeks.

“The gardens I think.”

The day was bright without a hint of the dull, gray haze that usually colored the London sky. How anyone could live in a place where the sun rarely appeared mystified Colin. Trapped as he had been the last few months amongst the tall, smog-stained buildings and constant hum of thousands of people, he longed for the pure air of Ireland and Estervale. It felt as if he were slowly suffocating in London.

In truth, he could leave London if he wished to.

I don’t wish to.

Instead, Colin took the lease on a small but cozy set of rooms in a neighborhood peopled with shopkeepers and tradesmen. The partnership with Lord Wently was proving profitable and for the first time in his life, Colin had a bit of money in his pocket. Lord Wently assured him that more would be forthcoming.

Viscount Lindley was appalled at Colin’s accommodations. Repulsed might be a better word. The area, Nick claimed, was unfashionable. Tawdry. Colin didn’t even have a decent valet. And why, Nick questioned even though he surely knew the answer, did Colin insist on staying in London?

The butler strode towards a pair of French doors. “This way, Mr. Hartley.”

The house was still and quiet as Colin made his way inside, only the sound of his boots against the marble floor broke the silence.

A pair of maids came around the corner, bobbing in greeting as they passed, giggling softly into their hands as he smiled at them.

The butler halted slightly, brow raised in disapproval at the two women, and they scurried off, but not before shooting Colin another appreciative glance.

Bevers? Basin?He struggled to remember the butler’s name as the man lead him down the hall. The butler was a particular favorite of Miranda.

Ah, Miranda.

Just the thought of her shot a bolt of lust through him. He’d seen her only briefly last night at the ball hosted by the Earl and Countess of Braeburn. Sipping a horrible French wine, he’d never taken his eyes off her silk clad form as she spun about the dance floor with a young man Colin later learned was Lord St. Remy. St. Remy, Lady Cambourne had cheerfully informed Colin as she passed him on her way to the refreshment table, was the heir to the Duke of Langford. Colin’s eyes had lovingly traced every generous curve, wishing desperately it was his hands touching her waist instead of Lord St. Remy. Or any of the other overly pedigreed twits in the room , for Miranda was rarely without a partner.

She had probably danced until the wee hours and was still abed.

God. Miranda in bed. Preferably, his bed. He could see her in his mind’s eye, reclining back against a mountain of fluffy white pillows, her ebony locks trickling down her shoulders in wild disarray. He imagined lying next to her lush form. His fingers tugging at the silken bow on her chemise. The knot and the fabric would part to reveal her glorious breasts. He would—

“Mr. Hartley?” The butler raised a brow as Colin missed a step and nearly toppled a vase of moonlight roses.

Christ, this was madness.

Colin tried desperately to conjure up an image of Miranda as she had been, a chubby annoying child, with dirt on the hem of her dress as she chased frogs in the stream. But it was no use. All he could think of was the kiss they’d shared at the Dunbar Ball. The way Miranda’s body had curved into his. The way she breathed his name.

Nick, you miserable bastard. You sent Miranda to me. Deliberately.

Lord Cambourne had asked him to dine the previous night, and he’d only been able to smile stupidly at Miranda from across the table.

Miranda, for her part, never gave any indication that they’d shared a kiss. Or, that she’d allowed Colin to run his hands over her body.

Colin could still feel the swell of her breasts beneath his hand.

When she spoke, in the absurd circling way she favored, Miranda had the most endearing habit of using her hands, almost as if they were props in whatever story she related.

He couldn’t take his eyes off those lovely, slender hands. All he could think of was peeling back her gloves to see the swath of skin at her wrist. For Miranda’s fingers to slide down the length of his chest to the waistband of his trousers, touch the buttons—

He stumbled again, and this time Bevins sniffed the air, as if trying to ascertain whether Colin had been drinking.

The butler stopped at the end of the hall, swinging open a pair of French doors.

The smell of flowers and wet earth met Colin’s nostrils and he took a deep breath of the familiar aroma.

Bevins shot him a suspicious look. He’d probably count the silver once Colin left.

Nodding politely to the butler, Colin stepped onto the flagstone path and made his way into the gorgeous gardens of Cambourne House.

Stopping before a large rosebush, Colin attempted to think of something else besides the desire to bed Miranda. If he cleared his mind perhaps the raging erection straining against his trousers would abate. This was madness, this obsession with Miranda. It could not end well.

He took a deep breath, focusing on a yellow butterfly flitting around the rose buds. The butterfly, as beautiful as it was, had once been nothing more than a plump, annoying caterpillar before undergoing a metamorphosis, much like Miranda.

“Bloody butterfly,” he hissed, taking out his annoyance on the insect.

“Are you cursing at the butterfly, Mr. Hartley? Whatever has it done to you?”

Anticipation coursed through him, and his heart thudded almost painfully in his chest.

Miranda.

Damn it.

They had not been alone in each other’s company since the Dunbar Ball. If he visited her father, Miranda was a wisp of silk that floated by the study doors. She would greet him warmly, as one did a friend of the family. At a ball or fete, the few that Colin attended, Miranda was always surrounded by admirers, her mother hovering nearby to ensure the suitability of the gentlemen who paid her daughter court.

Colin was not considered even remotely suitable.

He turned towards her voice and found Miranda no more than ten feet from him, hidden beneath the branches of a willow tree. She was sitting on a worn patchwork blanket, her bonnet tossed to the side, a large book propped up on a pillow next to her. The title was stamped in gold across the front and on the spine - Ancient Embalming Techniques of the Egyptians. A small tray in front of her held slices of apple and several raisin cakes.

Colin’s heart seemed to lift out of his chest to race towards her.

“Good Morning, Lady Miranda.” He bowed slightly, begging his lower body to not tighten anew at the sight of her.

An impish smiled crossed her lips in greeting.

She looked impossibly beautiful. A thick braid of inky black hung over her shoulder, tiny wisps curling about her temples. She wore a simple muslin gown covered with embroidered flowers. The sheen of grass stains dotted her skirts, probably from laying out the blanket.

Or catching frogs.

Her deep green eyes sparkled in the late morning sun as she looked up at him.

“Good Morning, Mr. Hartley. What brings you to my garden? I’m sure it’s not just to curse at the butterflies.”

Miranda’s skin was luminous, with the glow of a fresh peach. Her cheekbones were dappled with light and shadow where the sunlight filtered down through the leaves above her head. Bees hummed and buzzed through the roses in the garden and several birds fluttered off at his approach.

Colin imagined this was what heaven would be like, at least his version of heaven.

“I had an appointment with Lord Cambourne this morning, but he’s been detained. I thought to await him in the gardens, it being such a beautiful day. I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“Oh, yes. That mysterious project my father is assisting you with. The one he won’t discuss with me.” Miranda pouted a bit but her eyes sparkled. “Perhaps you’ll tell me one day.”

It was oddly gratifying to know she’d inquired.

“Not mysterious. It has not yet come to fruition though, and so I don’t wish to make more of it than I should.” Colin liked the thought of telling Miranda, she who’d adored his stories at Gray Covington. “If it does, I promise to let you in on my secret.”

“I find myself incredibly intrigued, Mr. Hartley. I should adore being part of your project.”

She already was, though she didn’t realize it.

Miranda patted a spot on the blanket in invitation. “Sit with me. Father was called to his solicitor’s. He’ll be gone for a bit, I imagine. Mr. Chartwick, though a delightful man, can be quite talkative.” She giggled. “Oh, I suppose that’s the pot calling the kettle black isn’t it?”

Christ, I want her.

“I should probably come back and return at a more convenient time.” He looked toward the house.

“Don’t worry. Mother has taken off to spend the day shopping, probably for a more spectacular gown than my own to wear to Lady Allister’s ball next week.” A rueful smile crossed her lips. “One would think it’s her first Season and not mine.” A note of rancor laced her words.

“Just for a moment, then.” He walked over, folding himself into a sitting position on the blanket across from her. Taking off his hat, he tossed it next to her bonnet. The sun was warm and welcoming on his head.

The tail of the ribbon tied around her braid fluttered briefly in the breeze, bouncing off her bodice. He watched, entranced at the way each breath she took pushed the tops of her breasts up. To distract himself, he pretended to study the title of her book.

“Embalming techniques?”

She shrugged, and he could see she was embarrassed. Hastily, she put the book aside and covered it with her bonnet. “I suppose it’s a bit peculiar.”

He reached over and pushed her bonnet aside. “How often do you have the opportunity to discuss the ancient Egyptians at a ball? Between dances?”

“Stop. Now you’re just making fun of me.” She flushed a delightful pink and pushed her bonnet back on top of the book. “I know I’m odd.”

“No. Not odd.” His voice softened. “Unique. Think how boring the world would be if we were all the same. The only thing I do find odd, Lady Miranda, is that there is no one handy to practice embalming on. I do worry for some of your admirers. And I understand it’s an unpleasant business. Don’t they pull the brain out through the nose with knitting needles? Wouldn’t that create a mess if one is wearing a ball gown?” He could smell the scents of lavender and honey wafting from her hair.

She laughed, low and throaty, and a tremor of longing ran through Colin. Miranda was undoubtedly beautiful, though she had none of the artifice that beautiful women generally had. She seemed not to realize the effect she had on the male species, or at the very least, did not allow it to define her.

“It is incredibly messy. Though,” she continued excitedly, “the Egyptians did not have knitting needles. It was a rather long hook they shoved up the deceased’s nose.” She made an odd motion with her hands and his eyes followed the movement. Then a priest would move the needle about, mushing things up before pulling out the bits.” Her eyes widened to see if he was appropriately shocked. “I would definitely ruin my gown.”

“Do go on.” God, he wanted to touch her.

“I find it all quite fascinating. After they removed the brain, they would then make a small incision on the left side,” her hands brushed the spot just underneath her breasts and Colin’s breath caught, “to remove the other organs like the intestines and liver. They put them out to dry once they removed everything. Rather like making jerky. Do you know about jerky? I read something about the Americas and the natives there, Indians they are called. At any rate the Indians dry their meat in such a way, well really, they hang bits of it on a drying rack, and they call it jerky.” She shook her head, “I must apologize, Mr. Hartley, at times my thoughts wander. Mother says I’m a true featherwit as I cannot seem to hold together a conversation.”

“I disagree, Lady Miranda. Continue.” Lady Cambourne was a bitch who likely had never opened a book.

Miranda bestowed on him a dazzling smile.

“At any rate, I find the Egyptian version of the afterlife to be so colorful, if not a bit barbaric at times. They would sacrifice a person’s household with them, to serve them in the afterlife. I’m certain that Bevins would have an issue with that, his loyalty to my family notwithstanding.”

Colin couldn’t take his eyes off of her. “I’m certain of it.”

“My favorite is Anubis. Egyptian god, that is. Lady Sinclair has a statue of him that her husband purchased from an antiquities dealer. Most everyone finds the statue quite frightening, though I rather like it.”

Miranda’s lips were a delightful shade of red, reminiscent of a late summer raspberry.

“Anubis was the god of the underworld. Didn’t he have the head of a dog?”

“A jackal. Which I suppose is a bit like a dog. At any rate, whenever mother begins to remind me of my unladylike behavior, I slowly work embalming into our conversation. Or tell her about scarab beetles eating the mummies flesh away.” She leaned towards Colin, giving him a breathtaking view of the valley between her breasts. “It’s rather...gruesome.”

“I never realized how bloodthirsty you were, Lady Miranda. Had I known, I would have taken greater care at Gray Covington. I’m not sure I would have allowed you to bait your own fish hook. Although in retrospect, you did seem delighted at the time by the poor worm’s suffering.”

Colin wanted to kiss her. Touch the braid of her hair.

A very bad idea.

“Well.” A pink blush rose over her cheeks and she frowned, a worried look coming over her lovely face. She stopped speaking. Always an unusual occurrence with Miranda and always directly reflective of something troubling her. Idly she toyed with the strings of her bonnet.

“I suppose you should just go ahead and do it.” She nibbled a bit at her lower lip.

“Do…what?” This was torturous and unfair. He wished to be nibbling at her lower lip.

A small non-committal shrug caused her breasts to move deliciously beneath the muslin. “Don’t make me say it. I’m quite embarrassed.” She plucked at her bonnet again. “It’s all rather awkward isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure,” he tore his gaze from her plump lower lip, “exactly what you mean.”

“Oh, very well, Colin.” Miranda dropped all pretense at formality with the use of his Christian name. An anguished look crossed her lovely face and she gave a great dramatic sigh. “You wish to apologize. For your behavior at the Dunbar Ball. For kissing me. There I’ve said it, and I’m horribly embarrassed. It was rather poor of you to make me say such a thing.”

“Hmm.” He could see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

“You didn’t know it was me or you never would have done so. Kiss me, I mean.”

“Possibly.” That was partially true. He would have taken greater care and not pounced on her like a madman, but Colin thought he still would have kissed her. The attraction to her was like nothing he’d ever felt in his life.

“You likely thought I was an…” she struggled to find the right word and her forehead wrinkled, “an associate of Nick’s.”

“That’s a rather polite way of putting things.” He leaned in, inhaling deeply of the lavender and honey smell that wafted off her skin. “Nick did mention he was going to introduce me to a nice widow.”

Miranda’s face fell. “I knew it. You would have never-” Her hands waved, and she looked at him, unable to say what she wished. The color of her cheeks deepened to dark rose.

“Kissed you.” God, she was adorable. All flustered and pink. Reading books on how to create a mummy and torturing her harridan of a mother with tales of flesh-eating beetles. The night of the Dunbar Ball he was sure he could not have wanted her more. He’d been wrong about that.

Very wrong.

“Yes, how horrified you must have been,” she said, biting her lip again. “Fat little Miranda, who you had to steal raisin cakes for because her mother wouldn’t allow her dessert.”

“I wasn’t horrified. You were chubby.”

“Irritating and annoying.”

“Persistent.” Did she still think of herself in such a way? Looking at the regret in her lovely face, he thought she did.

“You are no longer that little girl,” he said quietly. “Do not think of yourself as such. Yes, you were a bit,”he gave her a soft smile, “annoying. But only because you were so intelligent. You still are. Intelligent, I mean. You cannot allow your mother to dictate who you are. I know that better than anyone.”

She lay her hand on his and the touch of her skin warmed him as nothing else ever had.

“That is something we have in common, I think.”

Light filled in the hollow places of Colin’s soul at her touch, like the sunlight that streamed through the tree branches above their heads. Her words sent ripples of pleasure through his body.

“You were so kind to me when I was a child.” A wry smile crossed her lips. “I think I may have even made you a paper crown because you were my prince. Demanded that you marry me.” Shaking her head and waving her hands she said, “I should be apologizing to you. I’m so sorry I tricked you into kissing me.”

“Tricked me?” He curled his hand around so that that their fingers touched.

Miranda’s eyes darkened a shade, “I should have introduced myself immediately. I let you think I was someone else. It’s just that you looked at me as if I were . . .” She shook her head in agitation.

“As if you were what?”

The sun flickered across her features, and her voice lowered, “You will find me ridiculous and forward I’m sure, but…I wantedyou to kiss me, Colin. I can apologize but I am not sorry. I know that you probably regret the entire episode.”

Miranda was so adorably luscious, pattering on, her fingers keeping up with her words as if she were conducting an orchestra. Surely, no man had been tempted so much. Leaning over, he brushed his lips against hers, in a brief caress, reveling in the softness of her mouth.

And to stop her chattering.

A small, blissful gasp left her lips. Her hands floated up to flatten against his chest as she bent towards him until he could feel the press of her breasts.

“Colin.” It was an invitation.

He truly kissed her then, slanting his mouth over hers. He braced his hands on either side of her, afraid that if he touched Miranda he would combust. Urging her to respond, Colin teased her lower lip, imploring her to surrender to him, to open her mouth.

She tasted of tea and honey with just a bit of tart lemon.

Miranda moaned into his mouth as his tongue touched hers. Her fingers closed over the lapels of his coat, pulling him towards her as she fell back against the blanket.

Colin fell against her, adjusting so that his body was adjacent to hers, the generous curves of her body fitting into the hardness of his.

“Ouch.” Miranda giggled against his mouth.

Without breaking the kiss, Colin reached behind her and tossed aside Embalming Techniques of the Ancient Egyptians.

“I always preferred the Greeks.”

Miranda wrapped her arms around his neck, mimicking the movement of his mouth against hers. Tentatively she nipped his lower lip, sucking the bruised flesh into her mouth.

A low growl sounded in his throat. “Miranda.” His voice was hoarse and heavy.

“Colin,” she whispered against his mouth, “did I do that wrong? I thought that was – well you did it to me. Am I not supposed to? It’s just so…marvelous. So much better than the dry peck on the cheek I’ve seen some men bestow upon a woman. Do not think I’m some green girl because I have had a kiss stolen before and—”

He took her mouth again, cutting her off, firmly and possessively. Trailing his lips from the side of her mouth to her jaw, he made his way up the slender column of her neck, marveling at the feel of her skin.

“Oh, my.” She sounded blissful. “Do you feel that?”

He felt a great many things, most of which he wouldn’t repeat. “What?” He nipped at the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

Miranda immediately arched against him.

“Tell me.” He busied himself tracing the inside of her ear with his tongue. She made the most delightful little noises.

“When you work a puzzle, sometimes it will take days or even weeks to find the two pieces that fit together properly. Because they were made exactly to fit only each other. The pieces make a lovely clicking sound when they snap into place, so you know they fit.”

Miranda took his hand in hers. The green of her eyes was the same color as the grass surrounding the blanket on which they lay.

“The pieces fitexactly. No other piece will do, you see.”

Yes.He did see, because Colin felt the connection as well.

He pressed his forehead to hers cupping one side of her head, loving the heat of her skin beneath his fingertips. How was it possible to want something so badly but be terrified all the same?

Nick’s widow friend did not exist. Of that, Colin was positive. It was rather annoying for Nick to be right once again.

“So, you do not regret kissing me,” she said softly, her breath wafting against his cheek.

“Miranda, there are many things I’ve done, and have yet to do that I may regret. But kissing you is not one of them.”

“That is a good thing, Colin, for I don’t wish you to brood about it.”

“I do not brood.”

“You do. You have for as long as I’ve known you, which is half my life. Just please, do not brood over kissing me. Or anything else.” Her voice lowered seductively.

“I do not brood.” He whispered before he kissed her again.