Her Errant Earl (2 page)

Ah, his wife.

Had he thought her plain? Pembroke had to admit that in the
time he’d been away, his mind had not often flitted to his bride. It was true
what she’d said. He hadn’t wanted a countess, and he certainly hadn’t wanted
her. Victoria came from an eminent New York family but aside from that was
rather unremarkable. She hadn’t been as bold as some of her fellow American
heiresses. She had seemed mild of temperament, given to quiet musing, dreadful
dresses, books and sketches, the sort of lady he sought to avoid at house
parties and balls.

The sort of lady one might abandon in the country for five
months at a time.

Pembroke liked fast women who wore bright colors and low
décolletages, women who had husbands who didn’t mind. But his father had
hand-selected Victoria as his wife, largely for her dowry of half a million
pounds. Pembroke had been given an ultimatum—marry the chit or be disinherited.
While there wasn’t a great deal of coin rattling about in the family coffers in
those days, Pembroke still couldn’t afford to be cut off. So he’d married the
American girl, determined to do his duty and then return to his old life once
more.

But Father expected him to produce heirs and was not pleased
to see his august decree so openly flouted. Even Pembroke had to admit that his
affair with Maria had been ill-advised, particularly since he’d allowed her to
live in his Belgravia townhouse and she’d destroyed a number of costly family
paintings when he’d tossed her over. The scandal of allowing an opera singer to
live in his family home had been a direct attempt to perturb the old bastard.

It would seem he’d only succeeded in spiting himself. Once
again, the duke had threatened to take away Pembroke’s access to funds. This
time, he’d vowed to do away with his entire inheritance save the entail unless
Pembroke finished his duty and provided the duchy with a proper heir.

Which meant returning to his shy mouse of a wife and bedding
her. Initially, that had seemed an easy enough, if slightly unpalatable, task.
But the quiet young lady he’d left behind had turned into a book-wielding
virago. His nose still smarted with the sting of her unexpected blow.

A sneeze interrupted Pembroke’s frustrated musings. Good
Lord, was that dust he spied on his
Louis Quinze
chair? Where the devil
was his valet, anyway? With a sigh of long-suffering impatience, he crossed the
chamber and gave the bell pull another forceful yank. He wanted his bed
prepared, damn it. He’d traveled all evening and he was bloody-well tired, and
his wife had thrown him out of her sweet-smelling, comfortable high tester.

This was not going to do. Not at all. He’d be back in his
wife’s bed before week’s end, he vowed. And before the fortnight was through,
she’d be with child and he’d be back in London, living the life he loved.

* * * * *

Victoria was enjoying her morning ritual of drinking a cup of
chocolate while reading her correspondence when she came upon a letter from her
dear childhood friend Maggie, Marchioness of Sandhurst. Maggie’s words swirled
beneath her eyes, blurred by a combination of anger and tears.
How dare he?
Had he not already treated her poorly enough? A fresh onslaught of betrayal hit
her like a runaway carriage. The letter dropped from her numb fingers and she
yanked the bell pull.

She scarcely even paid attention to her toilette as she
dressed with the help of her lady’s maid in unusual speed. By the time she
marched into the breakfast room with the letter in hand, she had worked herself
into a fine fury.

Pembroke stood at her entrance. “Good morning, my lady.”

Victoria ignored him and politely dismissed Wilton, the
efficient butler she’d grown to admire over her months spent at Carrington
House. When they were alone, she strode to him, waving the letter as if it were
a battle flag. “Perhaps you would care to read this.”

He raised a brow and took the letter from her to scan the
contents. “The Marchioness of Sandhurst is a damned meddlesome gossip,” he
pronounced.

“That is all you have to say for yourself?”

“Need I say more? I feel confident my opinion of Lady
Sandhurst is quite warranted.”

The arrogant cad. She’d had enough. Before she even knew
what she was about, she slapped him. The satisfying sound of her palm
connecting with his face echoed in the silence.

He rubbed his jaw, watching her like a hunter intent upon
his prey. The charm of last night was gone, replaced by a dangerous arrogance.
“Do you not think you’re being a tad dramatic, my dear?”

“You allowed your…” She paused and closed her eyes, unable
to say the word aloud.

“Mrs. Rosignoli,” he supplied.

Her eyes flew open, her entire body shaking with roiling
emotion. “You dare to speak her name?”

Pembroke raised a brow. “What would you have me call her?”

She had tolerated his abandonment. She had ignored Maggie’s
letters about her husband flirting with widows and lonely wives. But this, she
was quite certain, was beyond the pale. He had openly lived with a courtesan,
opera singer or no, and had shared her bed. He had touched the woman, kissed
her, allowed her to live in the family house. And still he dared to view it all
with a carelessness that made her long to slap him again.

She took a deep breath, her corset nipping at her sides.
“Never again speak of her to me.”

He shrugged. “It will be as you wish.”

A physical ache took up residence in her breast. She didn’t
know whether to cry or rage. She wished she had never consented to marry him.
She wished to God she had remained a spinster and gone back to the city she
loved and so dearly missed. At least her life had not been a mockery in New
York, with no one to hurt her.

Her vision grew dark around the edges as if she were about
to swoon. She needed to escape. How had she been naïve enough to allow him to
kiss her last night? How stupid she’d been.

“This marriage has become insupportable to me,” she said on
a rush.

He calmly turned back to the table as though she hadn’t said
a word. “I recommend you collect yourself and enjoy breakfast with me.”

Did he truly think there would be no consequences for his
actions? That she would sit and eat kippers and toast as if nothing untoward
had occurred? True, she was at his mercy as his wife. But that did not mean she
would calmly lie down for slaughter. “I don’t care what you recommend,
Pembroke. I may be subject to your whims, but know that you disgust me.”

He smiled but it did little to relieve the harsh planes of
his brooding expression. “I believe I’ve already disproved your claim.”

She gasped, shocked that even he would stoop to such a
level. “How dare you?”

Pembroke gave another shrug. “Why bother with duplicity?”

“I daresay duplicity is all you’ve been bothering yourself
with, my lord.”

“You go too far,” he warned, standing at last.

He towered over her diminutive stature, but she didn’t care.
“It is you who has gone too far. Was it not cruel enough to discard me as if I
were no better than an outmoded waistcoat? Now you come to me in lies and try
to make love to me as if you actually had a care for me when all along it was a
farce. Did you laugh to yourself, thinking you made me the fool once again? Did
you even think about me when you were living with your paramour?”

Pembroke closed the distance between them with one angry
stride and caught her against him, trapping her in his arms. “Stop this
nonsense, Victoria. I’ll not hear another word of it.”

She was in no mood to be subdued. She struck out at his
chest with her fists, wanting to pummel him. “Then you shall have to sew my
mouth shut, you rotten cad.”

“Or I shall have to kiss your mouth shut.”

His mouth was sudden and hard, almost bruising over hers.

Victoria was determined not to give in to him this time. She
pushed him away. “Lovemaking is not a cure, Pembroke.”

He gave her a wry grin. “Perhaps it is a symptom then.”

She studied his eyes, unable to fathom his thoughts. “A
symptom of what?”

“Of being a rotten cad.” He took her hands in his. “We are
husband and wife. We cannot forever be at odds.”

“Your actions have proven otherwise to me.” She tried to
escape from his touch but he was persistent and stronger. “I understand you do
not care for me, and I never cared for you. I never wish to ever be in your
presence again.”

“Victoria.” He reached out to grip her waist and pull her
into his tall, lean body, anchoring her against him. He lowered his head until
their noses nearly bumped. His breath was a hot, invisible curtain drawing over
her lips.

Despite her anger and disillusionment, she was breathless,
caught in his smoldering gaze. “I think that I hate you,” she whispered.

“Before you can hate someone, you must have loved them
first,” he said, his eyes dropping to her mouth.

She tried to squelch the rampant stirring of desire his nearness
and heated glances produced. “You speak like a man who has learned from
experience,” she observed.

He shook his head slowly. “I have never loved anyone.”

She supposed she shouldn’t be disappointed to have final
confirmation that he’d never harbored a tender feeling toward her. But the
revelation still stung. Surely he must have loved someone at some point in his
life?

“Not your mother?”

His expression was impassive as ever. “My mother only had
time for her lovers. What was there to love?”

“Your father the duke then,” she suggested, thinking of the
dignified, silver-haired man she had met on only a handful of occasions.

“I neither hate him nor love him.” Pembroke’s beautiful
mouth drew into a sneer. “I feel nothing for the man.”

She was once more baffled. “How can you feel nothing? He is
your blood.”

“He has not inspired anything in me other than ambivalence.”
He met her gaze again. “And a desire to be the thorn in his lion’s paw.”

Victoria thought she understood. Something had happened
between the duke and her husband. Pembroke surely lied when he said he felt
nothing. It seemed odd indeed that she would have been married to the earl for
so many months while so much of his life remained unknown to her. She had to
believe there was a reason behind his lack of faith.

Or perhaps that was her heart wanting to believe. She was
very confused. She was also having difficulty focusing her thoughts while
trapped in the seductive spell cast by being in his arms. It would not do.
She’d finally found her strength, and she couldn’t abandon it now.

She gathered up her courage to say what she’d decided she
must. “I don’t want to be married to you any longer, Pembroke.”

He stilled, his hands tightening on her cinched waist.
“What?”

He seemed genuinely aghast. Victoria felt the heat of his
large hands even through the French silk of her day gown, the layers of her
undergarments and the stiffness of her corset. She wished she was not so drawn
to him. “I no longer wish to be your wife,” she elaborated, her voice as
pinched as her waist felt.

“I’m afraid you’re a bit tardy in that realization, my dear.
We’re irrevocably wed. We’ve consummated our union.” His gaze was scorching
upon her. “Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

Oh he was a wilier opponent than she had realized. He knew
all too well that mentioning the consummation of their marriage would bring
with it an onslaught of memories. Pleasurable memories. She’d had no complaints
in her marriage bed other than that her husband had disappeared from it and
chosen to share it with others instead. She could not forget his faithlessness,
particularly after he had flaunted it by living with that woman.

“You abandoned me,” she pointed out, “and I have ample proof
of adultery.”

“Complete shite,” he said. “Everyone knows divorce is only
granted when one of the parties is a fair candidate for the lunatic asylum.
More importantly, how can I have abandoned you when I’ve returned?”

It was true that divorce was rarely granted, particularly in
the English aristocracy. Indeed, seeking divorce was rarely attempted. Husbands
and wives could do as they wished in seeking bed partners as long as the
scandal was not too great. It was Victoria’s experience that the Marlborough
House Set, including the prince himself, made adultery into a sport. She simply
hadn’t realized she’d been marrying a man who subscribed to the same belief.
She had not taken her vows lightly, despite the financially motivated
underpinnings of their union.

The way he held her in his arms now could not sway her. Must
not sway her.

“I want a divorce,” she said with quiet force.

His mouth flattened. “Preposterous, if not altogether
impossible.”

“You don’t want a wife,” she pointed out, trying to wrestle
away from his grasp without success.

“I do.” He feathered a light kiss over her lips. “I’ve come
back to Carrington House because I want to start anew.”

She didn’t want to enjoy his kiss, especially now that word
of his opera singer had made his betrayal all too real. But the plain truth was
that she did. His lips on hers sent desire through her. She wanted him in an
elemental sense. That much she could not deny.

“Pray do not prevaricate any longer,” she whispered, more
uncertain than ever. “It hurts me too much.”

Hell.

He didn’t want to hurt her. That was a new sensation for
Pembroke, caring. Ordinarily, he was damn good at not having a care. He’d made
a life out of it, at any rate. But his formerly plain wife had donned a silken
dress that showed off curves he hadn’t realized she possessed, and her breasts
were a luscious temptation against his chest. His cock was rigid in his
trousers, a reminder that despite the vagaries of their situation, he truly did
want his wife.