In Compromise with the Earl by Ava MacAdams

Chapter Six

It was almost a relief when dinner ended, and Quentin had asked him to join the gentlemen in the billiard room for cigars and brandy.

“That Lady Carmichael is a bore,” Quentin commented, referring to the young lady Oswald had been partnered with, as they walked over to the bar to fetch brandies. “I’ve been at soirees with her and she is notorious for talking about home remedies. I’ve danced with her and now I know all five proven cures for colic. I felt terribly sorry for you when I saw who you were seated with.”

“Well,” Oswald answered with a shrug. “If you were paying attention, I had very little work to do to maintain the conversation.”

Quentin laughed, “So, Lady Aphrodite, I suppose?”

“No,” Oswald said after a drink that he, luckily, managed to swallow. “God no. she only intervened before I made some half-cocked excuse to leave the dinner party. Lady Carmicheal was not exactly an exciting dinner partner.”

“Ah, I see.”

Oswald grew suspicious and narrowed his eyes at his newest friend. “What?”

“Nothing,” Quentin said and after Oswald glared, he admitted. “It just seems to me that the two of you have a connection that I cannot explain. You have met, what, twice now?”

“There is no connection,” Oswald defended. “She is a flirt and I do not abide with flirts.”

“If she truly did rescue you from the boring Lady Carmichael, I’d think she is more than a flirt.”

“A smart and intuitive lady can also be a flirt,” Oswald said, ready to end the conversation about Lady Aphrodite. He did not want to be reminded how he had broken his own rule and kissed her. “How about a game of billiards? We are here, after all. Care to go a round?”

Quentin glanced over to one of the three baized tables and shrugged. “Yes. But shall we play for something more interesting than a match?” he suggested.

While feeling a bit of trepidation, Oswald gave his friend a penetrating look. “Such as?”

“Whoever loses the game must answer a question of the other’s choice,” Quentin said.

Oswald arched a brow, “And if it’s a tie?”

“We both must answer.”

“And what is that question?” Oswald asked, his eyes narrowing.

“I’m not going to say,” Quinton replied while striding to the table. “Just as you are not going to ask. Are we agreed?”

His scarred eyebrow lifted. “All right. One game of twenty shots. Will you name the first shot, or should I?”

“I will,” Quinton lined up the shot, jabbed his mace and broke the set, his white cue ball hit the far end of the table and rolled back, stopping at an angle Oswald found perplexing.

“Your turn,” he said.

Removing his jacket as he found it a bit constricting, Oswald casually slung it over a chair and took his position at the table. He found his cue ball and aimed at his object pall, flexing with one solid fluid thrust.

The ball glided across the table, hit the object ball and sent in rolling into the pocket at the far end. Quentin grinned and lined up his shot that too sunk. “The game is on, my friend,” he grinned, making Oswald let out an exasperated huff.

They played alternate hands and at the twenty-point mark, Quentin sank the decisive ball. Men were still talking around them, playing cards and drinking, when Quentin gave a wide grin.

“I should have told you that I partially supported myself by hustling men at billiards during my time at Oxford.”

“I should have known,” Oswald snorted. “Did you let me win the first shot to lead me in?”

Quentin’s grin was the other earl’s answer, but instead of getting angry, Oswald laughed. It was the first time he felt so much amusement in days. “All right, all right, out with it. What is your question?”

Replacing his mace, Quentin said, “If it’s all right with you, I think I will hold off on asking you yet. I don’t think the time is right.”

Rolling his eyes, Oswald snorted. “It serves me right to get a cryptic fellow as my closest comrade in this place.”

“That is the first time I have been accused of being enigmatic,” Quentin snorted. “According to my aunt, I am blunter than a shot between the eyes.”

“We’ll have to wait to see if she is right,” Oswald said, while plucking his timepiece out from his jacket. “I think it’s best for me to retire, because who knows what fresh hell we will be faced with tomorrow.”

“I as well,” Quentin agreed.

Leaving the room, they headed to the West Wing and parted ways at the corridor with good nights, Oswald headed into his chamber. He strode to the window and dragged the curtains apart to let in the moonlight then went to light a lamp.

He suspected that Quentin was holding out to ask him a question about Lady Aphrodite, but what would he ask, and what would be Oswald’s reply?

Unready to ask any questions himself and unable to answer the question, Oswald brushed the issue off and disrobed. He donned his nightclothes, only a pair of loose trousers and slid under the sheets.

Slipping his hands under his head, he stared at the dark ceiling. In the quiet, he could not avoid thinking of Lady Aphrodite and her sparking eyes. Oswald admitted that he appreciated how quick with quips she was and her attentiveness. If pressed he had to admit that he loved her tenacity, but he did not like how she continued to question him about why he did not like her.

Plucking a hand from under his head, he rubbed his eyes and sighed. Aphrodite was a conundrum to him in so many ways, but what he hated to admit was that he wanted to know why. Was she a ladylike woman or was she an original? When did she learn to ride horses? How innocent was she?

“If she was willing to me kiss her, perhaps not innocent at all,” he muttered.

At the memory of how he had backed her upon the wall and kissed her neck, his senses filled with the scent of jasmine and the soft silk of her skin. Did she still taste as sweet as the flower? Was she as soft all over as he felt?

God, she was so petite and tiny. He would readily bet half his wealth that she was light as thistledown, and he could lift her with one arm. Her legs were slender and shapely, perfect for wrapping around his waist or over his shoulders.

How prettily would she sigh when he kissed her? Would she arch into his touch as his palms trailed down her spine? What scream would leave her lips when he slid inside her body? Would she cry out, dig her fingers into his skin? Or was she like Claire—so prim and ladylike even while they made love that she would lie like a slab of board and hardly make a sound?

Oswald grabbed a handful of his hair and sunk his fingers into his scalp and tugged hard enough that the pain stopped him from thinking. He could not imagine what it would feel like to be with Aphrodite, unless he wanted to end up like Ares. Disgraced and ashamed—for a second time.

He pulled his hands away from under his head and fell back against the pillows. What is it about that bloody chit? What was it about her that spoke to him? Or was it that he had been too distant from proper female company for so long?

Before he could ponder further, fatigue began to spread from the middle of his chest outward in unhurried waves. Turning on his side, his eyes, limbs—and while he hated to admit it, his soul—grew heavy. Sleep descended on him, and he was too tired to resist, he let it overtake him.

* * *

With the matchmaking exercise the Lady Pandora wanted them to do, Aphrodite had another viable reason why matchmaking was utter nonsense. She and a Lord, born and bred from the same area in London, were given direction to take a walk and find similarities between themselves.

What effect would it have to force them into recalling going to the same church or remembering that same beach, have on their compatibility? It turned out that the Lord—Lord something-or-other had a sweetheart at home and was only being forced to attend this farce because his grandmother did not approve of the girl, a vicar’s daughter.

In the end, Aphrodite told him. “I know the opinions of your family matter but in the end, they will not be living your life for you. I think you should do what makes you happy and if this girl does, then that should be enough.”

They had come to a section of the garden when the epiphany had dawned on the Lord, making him laugh. “You’re right. Why had I not thought of it that way?”

Now, as they had gone back to the drawing room, Aphrodite realized that Oswald was nowhere to be found. It took her a few moments of quiet inquiry to find that he had decided to go riding and explore the grounds.

She took a quick glance around then slipped from the room and headed up to her chamber. There, she changed into a pair of breeches, a shirt and the same boots as the day before. Taking care to not get noticed, she took a few empty corridors then slipped out into the back grounds.

Heading first to the stables, she entered to find Goliath’s stall empty. With a nod she went back out and looked around for any of the massive horse’s hoofmarks. From what she had witnessed yesterday, those powerful hooves ripped up ground as easily as she would tear paper.

She spotted some distinct marks and followed them, seeing them sink deeper into the ground as she drew close to the lake. The foliage was thick and the ground rich enough that she could smell the iron in it. As quietly as she could, she came around the trunk of a tree to see Oswald standing there with his massive horse at his side.

The lake was rimmed by juts of black rocks, and she watched as he walked out onto a large one. The sun was inching its way down to the horizon and she estimated was about four in the afternoon. The light framed his powerful body and rendered a halo around his head.

Goliath was drinking, unbothered, by Oswald’s side and she watched as his arms came around to his front. Cocking her head, she wondered what he was doing until he began to peel his shirt off.

Then he dropped the cloth on the stone behind him, revealing his back. She had to bite back a gasp. His back was leanly corded, and she could pick out the distinct planes of his back until they disappeared down his narrow waist and into his trousers. But there were scars too, old, jagged ones that flexed as he moved his arms.

She stood still, partially covered, as he did away with his boots and—her face flamed red—his trousers, baring his body. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at his dominating, incredibly masculine physique. Her eyes traveled from his shoulders to his back then to his narrow waist, tight buttocks, lean hips and thighs, long, muscular legs.

She inched closer, trying not to make too much noise with her boots and the dried leaves. Oswald stepped off the rock and into the lake, dipping his whole body down then coming back up with his dark locks matted to his head.

He took off to the other side of the pond and Aphrodite wondered if he had the strength to make it that far. Apparently, he could as he did the length twice before he came back and stopped a good length away from the rocky shore.

A devilish thought came to her and while Oswald went for another lap, she crept to where he had left his clothes, grabbed them and scurried away to the tree line where he would never get them. Then, she went back to the rock, sat on it and folded her legs to wait patiently.

Oswald was oblivious to what was happening, and he made two more laps before he swam back to the rock and stopped a good ten feet away at seeing Aphrodite. She grinned.

His eyes swept over the stone and at not seeing his clothes, his expression went thunderous. He swam to her and glowered hotly enough that her skin rippled with gooseflesh. “What the devil do you think you are doing?”

“Getting your attention,” she said, leaning in. “And now you cannot ignore or dismiss me like before.”

“Well, Shylock, what pound of flesh do you want from me?” Oswald came closer. His brows were lowered, a dark sapphire flame in his eyes.

“Tell me what I did to anger you,” she said. “I’ll apologize and give you your clothes back so we can go our merry ways.”

He seemed to consider it, but just as an emotion flashed across his eyes, so did his hands fly up, grab her and haul her off the stone, dunking her into the cold water with a horrifying splash.

For a moment, Aphrodite was frozen in shock, and when she registered what had happened, anger followed in its wake. She struck balled fists on his chest, with little result as it pained her more than it did him. “What have you done, you…you…you troglodyte!”

“The better question is, what are you doing to me?” he glowered as both of his hands framed her face—and for the first time, she was being kissed.

As their lips met her, Aphrodite couldn’t breathe, she could barely think. Oswald’s firm lips roved over softer ones with consummate potency. The feel of him, the heat of him, the connection of their lips overrode everything her mind could process. A tide of pleasure, much like the one pulling her to him, possessed her, so strong and heady that she lost her bearings.

She shivered when his tongue swept against her bottom lip. “Open for me, minx,” he ordered.

With her senses spinning, Aphrodite lifted her hands to circle his neck as she obeyed and opened her lips. His tongue plunged boldly inside and tried to match his movements. She shivered when the tip of his tongue ran over the sensitive roof of her mouth. Pulling away to gasp in a breath, she met his gaze, dark, sultry and…hungry. “Oswald—”

He took her lips again, kissing her with unapologetic possession. A strange sweetness from his kiss sparked heat into her blood and she clung to him as his kiss grew even more demanding. Instinctively, she followed his lead, letting him in deeper, meeting his tongue and tangling it with her own.

A rough, ragged sound tore from his chest, and he pressed her flush against him, his tongue seeking every corner of her mouth to stamp his mark of ownership. She was surrounded by icy water that did not stop heat from blooming at the center of her chest and the tips of her breasts tightening against him.

He pulled away to rest his forehead on hers. “What are you doing to me?”

She cleared her throat. “Well…that was enlightening.”

He chuckled, “Funny enough, that reaction could come from a weak, boring man, eh?”

Flummoxed, Aphrodite wondered why he had said that, but she heard a pointedness to the words, weak and boring. Then, the conversation she had with Lady Pandora came back to her and she went red.

“You heard that, did you?”

He nodded and stepped away, to gaze over her shoulder. “Your friend is right. You should stay away from me.”

“I lied,” she said. He turned and quirked a brow in a wordless question.

“When Lady Pandora said that you were weak, I said that I did not want such a man to be with me,” Aphrodite explained. “But I lied because I wanted her to stop being so insistent. I told her that nothing is black and white and that what we know of you is half a story. I told her that I wanted to know the rest.”

“You said that?” he asked.

“Yes, and that is true,” she replied, while reaching out to touch his face. “I lied to her because the truth is I do want to know you. I suspect that you’re still hurting from what your wife did and her death must have left you with many unexplained questions.”

He snorted. “If you can sense that, why can’t others?”

“It’s true, though,” she added. “I do want to hear the rest of the story, if you are willing to tell me, that is.”

A muscle in his cheek rippled and he looked contemplative. Just as before when he had hauled her into the lake, he effortlessly lifted her back on the rock. “Go back to the Manor, Aphrodite. T’is not good for you to be gone for so long.”

Her heart sunk as it felt like another rejection, but she did not say a word and instead, went to get Oswald’s clothes. She rested them on the ledge and then turned to head back. As soon as she neared the tree line, he called to her back.

“Are you sure about listening?”

She pivoted to see him dressed. The clothes were clinging to his wet body, outlining his powerful frame, yet his expression was hesitant. She smiled. “Yes.”

“This evening, at the pagoda,” he said, then turned to attend to his horse.

She didn’t mind how hesitant he was, that was sure; all she knew was that he had given her the chance she wanted, and Aphrodite was going to make sure she took it.