In Compromise with the Earl by Ava MacAdams

Chapter Five

After taking one glance at the giant four-poster bed and distinctly masculine furnishings and deeming it fit, Oswald spun with alacrity and headed out to the stables where his horse, a black thoroughbred was ripping up large clods of dirt and grass with powerful hooves as he ran wild.

Goliath was a beast that recognized one master—him, and was he ready to let the fury within him match the ferocity the horse could muster. He knew it was prudent to change into a fitting riding gear, but it did not matter. Turner would deal with any stain later.

He strode out on the lawns and headed to the horse trotting in the paddock, its mane wild and flying with its pacing. Oswald let himself into the paddock and stood still, knowing that his horse was going to come to him.

With a wild whinny the horse came to him and nudged his hand. Pleased, Oswald rubbed its ears. “I don’t have any apples for you, Boy. Come with me.”

He walked to the stables and entered it, breathed in the oddly familiar, pungent smell of sweet hay, leather saddle and horseflesh as he moved through the stable. The hard thump of his footsteps on the straw-covered floor stirred up tiny clouds of dust as he walked.

The stables were empty, not a stable hand in sight. It seemed as if Lady Ravenwood only held this place open for those who visited by with horses. It did not perturb Oswald, rather he preferred it that way. Spotting his saddle resting on a ledge, he grasped it and began to dress his horse. It was a methodical act that took little thinking, and his thoughts began to stray.

Lady Aphrodite, with her petite perfection, lush bosom, slender waist and hips, was sight of womanly curves and lush femininity. It thrilled him—but she was also a lesson in caution.

Claire had been like that too, had coaxed him with her seductive glances and shy smiles during their courtship, and after their marriage, her soft tears and tender cries that he did not love her enough. He loved her enough to destroy himself in the process. Damnation—he was never going to put himself in that position again.

“You don’t have that problem, do you?” Oswald asked his steed while securing a girth. “Insolent ladies who are probably more risk than reward.”

“And who are you calling insolent?” Lady Aphrodite said from behind him.

Devil and Damnation!

Tuning, his eyes landed on her, but with infinite slowness his gaze traveled from her fine lawn shirt-covered torso to down to her slender waist and hips and incredibly long legs covered in butter-brown breeches and a gleaming pair of black riding boots. Her blonde hair was unbound and fell around her shoulders in a tangled mass of curls.

“Never mind,” he said, reaching to lead Goliath out into the open—but she stepped into his way.

“If you would just tell me what I did to offend you, we will part in peace,” she said. “You needn’t raise your hackles every time you see me again.”

“Hackles,” he parroted emptily. “You mistake anger for indifference, My Lady. Let me assure you, if my hackles were up, this would be a completely different situation.”

She crossed her arms under her bosom, unduly drawing his eyes to it. “You still have not told me what I have done.”

“There is no need to,” he said. “Now, please move before Goliath steps on your head.”

“No.”

“No?” he asked.

She tilted her chin up and defiance flashed in her eyes. “Are you old enough to have lost your hearing? I said no.”

Moving his hand with lightning quick speed, he reached out and grasped her piquant chin. Tilting her face up, he gave her a stern glare that said he was reaching the end of his rope and that enough was enough.

“You had best watch your tongue, young lady,” Oswald growled as he was quickly losing patience with the mouthy little chit.

Red stained her arched cheekbones, and her eyes flashed rebelliously at him. They were standing boot to boot, with neither backing down. Her pure defiance; clean, feminine scent; heaving breasts; and red cheeks nearly undid him.

She glared. ”And if I don’t?” His fingers flexed with the need to shake her for being so stubborn, for standing in his way. He wanted to haul her out of the way…or haul her into his arms and kiss her until she swooned.

“Well for starters, I could turn you over my knee,” Oswald said. “Little hellions like you need a firm hand.”

Her mouth dropped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t I?” he countered, his voice soft and low, yet unmistakably threatening. He would not lay a hand on her, of course, but she didn’t know that. Instead, he dropped the leading reins and advanced on her.

With every step he took, she took one backward until her back came against the wall. She laid her hands flat on the wall while he bracketed her head with his elbows. As he leaned in, she made a strangled sound, and he saw her cheeks flush with arousal rather than aversion.

Claire seemed sweet and passionate too, yet she played you like a fool.

“Sometimes, little lady, you need to leave well enough alone,” he said quietly.

Her chin notched up—again, and her breath came panting through her bitten lips. It was alluring and despite his warning to stay far from her, his body reacted. “Another thing I have not mastered.”

He snorted, despite the arousal thrumming through his blood. “I’m not surprised. What are you doing here anyway dressed like a tomboy?”

“I came to see if I could ride that horse,” she said. “I thought it belonged to Lady Pandora and I was going to see if I could take a ride.”

He grasped the reins and shot her a pointed look. “And what do you know about riding a stallion?’

Her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink, and Oswald realized the double entendre in his words. But then a smirk curved her lips. “I have a chestnut and a bay stallion at home, both eighteen hands. I ride both without trouble.”

Oswald knew her words were a goad, he saw it in her eyes. Though warning bells rang in his head, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from drawing her even closer. Instead of meeting her parting lips, he dipped his head to her neck and laid a closed mouth kiss there.

Her shiver made him proud as he lifted his mouth to her ear. “Stay away from me, little lady.”

Pulling away, he grasped the horse’s reins and steered Goliath out into the yard without looking back. Quickly, he stuck his boot in the stirrup and swung his leg over. Seated he steered the mount in the direction he wanted and spurred the horse on.

Soon, the run turned into a gallop and a sprint. Goliath loved running and as he hit his stride, they were flying. All he felt was thrill, the worries and distress he held like rocks in his chest felt light. He knew it was a temporary change, and that as soon as the rush in his blood died down, the heaviness would come back, but not yet.

Not as the wind was rushing through his hair and clogging his ears, not when the land rushed by in blurs, not when the power and control he had over his horse made him feel like a king. It was moments like these that allowed him to be free, that made him feel undefeatable, that made him forget the past and not even care about the future. It made him feel alive.

It took three runs to remember that he was being watched. When he turned and brushed the hair from his eyes, he saw Lady Aphrodite, standing near a post, the wind lifting her hair and an enigmatic look on her face.

He slowed Goliath and rubbed a hand down his neck while watching her nod decisively to herself then start on the path back to the Manor.

What had she decided on, he wondered? To stay away from him as he had asked, or to keep pushing and prodding until his control shattered like so much worthless glass?

Seated high, he watched her go, while hoping to high heavens that she had decided to avoid him. It was best for both of them really—she was young, vibrant and would not do with an old, wounded man like he was. Lady Ravenswood had warned her off well enough and he hoped she would listen to them both.

He did not need her to upset his life, Oswald was sure. Now, if only he could believe it.

* * *

“I think the gold-embroidered satin would be best, My Lady,” Lydia said while lifting a few gowns. “For a good second impression.”

Half-listening to her maid, Aphrodite brushed her fingertips over the spot where Oswald had kissed her earlier. He was not there, but at the thought of him her skin tingled, and she swore she felt him still. The warmth of his lips, the wicked rasp of his stubble across her skin, and the warm woodsy-citrus scent of his cologne.

“Hm?”

“Your dinner attire, My Lady,” Lydia said, oblivious to Aphrodite’s distracted air. “The gold embroidered gown is lovely.”

Aphrodite rose from her curricle chair and her peach robe flowed with her. Taking the dress she mused over it, “It’s nice, but I don’t want to blend in. Where is the purple silk?”

Lydia blanched. “My lady, that dress is—”

“Utterly scandalous, I know,” Aphrodite said. “But I want to gain someone’s attention and that dress might be the key.”

“But—” Lydia said, “if His Grace is going to be attending, don’t you think it will cause more problems than gains? You do want to dissuade him, don’t you?”

Aphrodite gritted her teeth. That dratted Duke. “Fine, fine, I’ll go with the gold.”

She removed the robe and donned the dress and plucked at the delicate puff sleeves. Lydia had already fixed her hair in an updo with a thread of diamonds laced through it. Reaching for stick of kohl, she added a little under her eyes to make the blue of her irises stand out.

Dabbing at the line, she smiled. “I think that should do, don’t you?”

“I think you’re splendid,” Lydia said. With a nod, they left the chamber, made short work of the corridors and descended the main staircase where she and Lydia parted ways, she to the dining room and her friend to the servants’ quarters.

Once she arrived at the dining room, she was surrounded by the other twenty-three who had come for what might be a last chance of finding a match. A centerpiece of lilies, topping the lace tablecloth on the long table, sent a faint perfume into the air, and a gas chandelier shed a bright, even light over the place settings.

Instead of trying to make friends among the other ladies, Aphrodite sought out Oswald, but her eyes landed on Jameson Blackwood, Duke of Stathmore, her constant irritation.

He was undoubtedly the type of man that caused women to swoon, with his fair, wheat-blond hair, tanned skin and long, dark eyelashes that were prettier than her own, rimming bright green eyes; he was everything a woman dreamed about.

Instead, to Aphrodite, he was a nightmare that kept coming back and she still had not found a way to banish it. Firming her lips, she kept looking and spotted Oswald in a corner, speaking to the red-haired man she faintly remembered being at the first meeting.

“Lady Aphrodite,” Duke Strathmore said seductively from behind her. “We meet again.”

Aphrodite wanted to scream. Turning around, she plastered a smile on her face. “Your Grace,” she curtsied.

“Ah, ah,” Jameson tutted.“You know that I do not ask that of you.”

“We’re in public,” she said through clenched teeth and a smile. “I don’t think my father would appreciate it if I discarded years of training.”

He shook his head. “And since when are you afraid of breaking the rules?” As he said it, Oswald and the other gentleman had come near, close enough to hear the Duke’s words. She pinked.

What would be going through Oswald’s mind at hearing that? Did he think that she had dallied with Jameson? That she was compromised? God forbid.

Thankfully, Lady Pandora swept into the room with a smile. “Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen. Dinner is about to begin, please take your seats.”

After searching and finding her name, Aphrodite was placed with a gentleman who introduced himself as Ernest, Baron of Whitstone. She laid the linen napkin over her lap just as Oswald, by accident or design, sat across from them.

She caught Oswald’s deep-blue orbs that looked almost black under the candlelight. Intrigue and desire camouflaged as a gentleman in a superfine coat.

The first course of turtle soup was served, and the delicious scent wafted up and made her stomach clench, reminding her that she had hardly eaten anything that morning.

They ate in relative silence for a time, the small hum of conversation around the table sporadic. Apart from the few comments Lord Whitstone made, that she replied to, they were quiet. She got the impression that he was a very shy man and felt compassion for him—no wonder he was there with the rest.

“What a pleasant evening,” a lady sitting beside Oswald said. “Tell me, Lord Tennesley. Do you possess a very elegant dining room? I feel you must.”

While reaching for his wine, Oswald blinked with what Aphrodite thought was a flash of alarm. To compound her suspicions, he went white.

“It’s the usual sort of dining room, I suppose,” he said after collecting himself. “There is a table and there are chairs.”

“Tiered crystal chandeliers above? Aubusson runner underneath?” the lady sighed as if in a dream.

“I suppose,” he said stiffly after a drink. “I’ve never much noticed.”

“I’ve always thought about mahogany wood with silk draping and filigreed wallpaper,” the lady went on. “Perhaps match the drawing rooms in the same tones, or even contrast the tones to make such a more interesting décor.”

Oswald looked bewildered, tongue tied and ready to run. Taking pity on him, Aphrodite interrupted, “Pardon me, My Lord, but earlier you were mentioning the stud stable you bought your horse from but never told me the location. My father is looking for another set of geldings.”

Relief flooded his face and though both knew she was speaking untruths, he took the saving branch with gusto. He told her about a farm in Leeds and Lady Aphrodite nodded.

On the part of the lady who had been talking to him, her face kept souring the more Oswald spoke to Aphrodite instead of her. Cleverly, she kept the conversation going until dinner ended.

The lady beside him left in a huff but Oswald stayed, nursing a glass of wine. “Thank you,” he muttered.

Shrugging, Aphrodite said over the rim of her wineglass, “You don’t strike me as the sort of man who gives a whit about walls or skirting or gilt.”

“I don’t,” he snorted. “I don’t think I ever will. Such frippery is not my forte.”

“Neither is it mine,” she replied.

The red-headed man from before came over and politely interrupted them. After introducing himself as Quentin Draven, Earl of Easton, he said, “A few other Lords are congregating in the billiards room. Care to join?”

After giving Aphrodite a swift look, he stood and tugged his jacket. “I think I will. Good evening, Lady Aphrodite.”

She lifted her glass. “You too, My Lord.”

As soon as he left, Jameson took the seat near her. “Who the devil is he?”

While irritated, Aphrodite hid it. “He was just telling me about his horse.”

“For half an hour?” Jameson said. “What a bore. What man talks about horses for that long of a time? Horses are nothing more than a footnote to me.”

Unable to bear more of the Duke’s smugness, Aphrodite rested her glass. “Would you excuse me? I find myself fatigued and I must retire.”

He slanted a look at her. “Why do I suspect that is a lie? Are you not happy to see me, dear Aphrodite? We’ve had such a good connection in the past few years.”

Connection? What connection beside you flaunting your wealth to me?

“Nevertheless, I must rest, Your Grace, have a good night,” she said, ready to part from him.

He stayed seated but his words landed squarely in the middle of her back as if he had touched her. “Run all you want, but you will be mine. I will not lose you this time.”

His words sank inside her with the cold bite of a threat instead of the promise she knew he meant it to be. She swallowed as the cold truth sank in; if things went as planned, he would do it too.

Unless…I can find a way to stop him. I must stop him or I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. But how?