The Earl is Mine (22 page)

But the serviette thief wouldn’t stop. It kept going—and so did the serviette.
Why, it’s unraveling
, Pippa realized.

Standing next to the distraught earl, she gaped in amazement. The serviette wasn’t a serviette, after all. It was long and narrow, and it was … it was—

Her eyes got wider—

So did Marbury’s.

So did Mr. Dawson’s.

And even the footman’s.

The hound flopped down in the doorway with the fabric hanging out of its mouth and trailing across the floor.

It was a
cravat
. Before Pippa could even begin to wonder what had happened, she rushed over and tugged upon the cloth until the dog let it go.

“Thank you,” she mumbled to the pilferer. She balled up the sodden rag, terribly embarrassed by the turn of events. Apparently it had been rolled tightly and placed—

Inside Marbury’s trousers.

That gentleman, for once in his life, was silent. Mr. Dawson blinked. Pippa knew—

Pippa knew she had to say
something
. She inhaled a deep breath. “Good for you, Lord Marbury,” she said doggedly, “for wearing the latest trend—er, the er, the
cravotch
. It’s all the rage in Europe.”

“Cravotch?” Mr. Dawson asked, his eyebrows almost to his hairline.

“Yes, the cravotch,” Pippa said. “Cravat … crotch. It’s a word recently invented by a stylish French wit.” She gave a weak smile. “Er, only the best valets know it. Yours must be very good, Lord Marbury. Very knowledgeable.”

“He is,” the fellow said smugly, “and I can’t wait for him to arrive. I think I’ll bring him to breakfast, too.” He swiped at the remaining food particles on his pantaloons. “Now if you don’t mind, Mr. Dawson, I believe I’ve been through enough this morning with the dogs, all in the name of authentic research, which is crucial if one wants to design a doggy cottage
par excellence
. And now, I must go repair my person. Harrow?” He held out his palm for the offending—or was it glorious?—garment.

She offered the cravat with great relief, and he snatched it up, stalking toward the door with his pride somewhat intact—she hoped.

A commotion in the entryway at the front of the house caught her ear—some laughing and talking between a man and a woman. Beneath the strips of cloth binding her breasts, Pippa felt her entire upper body tighten. It sounded like Gregory—and Lady Damara.

At the breakfast room door, Marbury nearly barreled into the cozy pair. Lady Damara had her arm possessively through Gregory’s, and Pippa’s heart nearly stopped. They looked beautiful together—she with rosy cheeks and a few tendrils about her ears, and he, his usual vigorous and very male self.

“Westdale,”
Marbury said between gritted teeth.

“Marbury,”
Gregory replied with no venom, only mild amusement. “What’s that in your hand?”

Marbury arched one brow high. “You mean … you don’t know?”

“No,” Gregory said patiently. “It merely appears to be a sodden lump of linen.”

A delicate furrow appeared on Lady Damara’s pretty white forehead.

Marbury gave a short laugh. “Oh, Westdale, I pity you.” He looked back at Pippa. “Harrow, what kind of valet are you? Not sharing the latest in modish fashion with your own employer?” He looked at Gregory’s breeches—which left little to the imagination—and his eyes widened. “Well, excuse
me
if he had good reason for his silence,” he muttered.

And he rushed past the pair, jostling Lady Damara so that she nearly lost her footing and gave a small cry. Gregory caught her other arm to steady her, and Pippa inwardly gasped as she watched Lady Damara manage to pull him closer, close enough that there was not a bit of space between her bountiful breasts and his strong biceps.

Her heart blazed with jealousy. Were they a pair? They certainly acted like it. Why else did it take them a few seconds to separate, as if they were longtime lovers who couldn’t bear to be apart? And when they finally did—Damara giggling and cooing silly things about how she couldn’t wait to show Gregory the amusing portrait of Lord Thurston’s great-grandfather in the upstairs gallery—Gregory made a gallant sweeping motion with his hand to encourage the lady to walk in front of him to the sideboard.

Pippa was furious with Gregory—although she didn’t know why. He was merely being a gentleman. Small acts of chivalry didn’t mean that he was smitten with Damara. And, of course, it followed that neither did any cordial behavior he showed Pippa mean he had a
tendre
for her.

But something in her didn’t like that logic, as soothing as it was supposed to be.
That’s because you
want
Gregory to have a
tendre
for you!
a tiny voice in her head said.

“Good morning, Mr. Dawson.” Gregory spoke in a pleasant manner to Pippa’s new friend, who returned the greeting. “And good morning, Harrow. May I assume you accompanied Mr. Dawson to breakfast this morning?”

“Indeed, he did,” said Mr. Dawson before Pippa could speak—which was a good thing. Because her throat was choked with all sorts of emotions, and she wasn’t sure her valet’s voice would be steady.

“Good thing, too,” went on Mr. Dawson. “He saved Marbury’s pantaloons
and
his pride. Ask him to tell you more about it. He’s too modest, otherwise.”

“No,” said Pippa, before she realized she was speaking out of turn. “I refuse to speak about the Cravotch Incident.”

“Cravotch Incident?” Lady Damara asked. “What’s a cravotch?”

Pippa simply stared at the wall behind Lady Damara’s head.

Gregory chuckled. “Harrow’s not your usual obedient servant,” he said to his female companion. “If he doesn’t want to cooperate, he won’t.”

“He
is
very odd,” she said, staring at Pippa as if she were a fascinating painting in a museum. Then she looked up at Gregory, her eyes as wide and exotic as a Siren’s. “You surprise me all the time, Lord Westdale, with your unorthodox choices. Hiring cheeky servants must be the least of them.” She lowered her lashes and gave him a coy look. “I love a man who dares to venture into risky territory. I wonder how far you’re willing to go in other areas of your life?”

Her voice became breathy on the last few words, which she spoke so lightly that most people would merely nod their heads at the remark. But the subtle arch look Lady Damara threw Gregory wasn’t missed by Pippa. She didn’t excel at flirting herself, but she remembered Eliza and her strategies to capture a man, and at the moment, Lady Damara was doing her best to ensnare Gregory.

“Well, I
did
go to the American frontier,” Gregory said.

Surely, Pippa thought, he knew what Lady Damara had been hinting at—and it wasn’t a plea for him to tell her about his time in America! Her eyes narrowed but she continued to look completely absorbed in the chair rail that marched along the wall.

“That was an adventure,” he went on. “I could tell you about it sometime. Especially the part about killing the rattlesnake that entered my tent while I was sleeping.”

Pippa’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She wanted to hear about that!

But Lady Damara’s smile faded. “Yes, I suppose you could.”

“Later, perhaps,” he said. “Shall we dine?”

“But wait,” Pippa blurted out. “You forgot to mention that you’re incredibly inventive in your design work, my lord. That’s the territory where you excel at breaking boundaries.” She knew she was in dangerous territory but couldn’t stop herself. “Too bad the mediocre commissions you’ve accepted don’t reflect that vision.”

Gregory’s face froze.

Lady Damara’s wide eyes grew even wider. “How
dare
he!”

“Yes, well, sometimes Harrow pushes his own boundaries too far for my taste.” Gregory’s jaw was tight, and his mouth a thin line.

But as a valet, she could conveniently look over his head, which she did. One part of her hated that she’d upset him, but the other knew she needed to wake him up, somehow. She didn’t have much more time in his company.

“As I was saying, Lady Damara”—Gregory’s tone was muted but polite—“shall we dine?”

“La, I never eat,” Lady Damara said with a pretty sigh.

Pippa hated her.

“Especially sweets,” Lady Damara added.

Pippa hated her all the more.

But like a good servant, she kept her eyes averted when the couple glided by her. It was maddening, truly, for she longed to toss Gregory a scornful glance to let him know that she didn’t care: He could fall in love with the wily, undernourished Lady Damara. He could have a wicked liaison with her, too.

Pippa had more important concerns to worry about than what Gregory did with his time—her own future was at stake. Every second that passed made her long more and more to leave this blasted house party, where she’d be forced to watch Lady Damara work her charms on the Earl of Westdale.

She walked to her designated corner and did her best to sit meekly down, succumbing only briefly to the temptation to cast a highly disapproving glance at Gregory’s back at the sideboard. Lady Damara’s shoulder was touching his upper arm.

The woman was such a hussy!

Or perhaps it was that there was no room to spread out. Yes, that must be it. A footman had come in with another hot dish and was busy situating it on the sideboard, and when he’d finished, he withdrew.

Pippa breathed a sigh of relief when, instantly, Gregory moved over to increase the space between him and Lady Damara, who picked up a grape from a bowl of fruit and popped it in her mouth.

“How rude of me,” she said.
Yes, it was,
Pippa agreed. “But I simply couldn’t resist. They’re at the peak of ripeness. Do try one, Westdale.”

And she held up a plump, juicy grape.

Pippa found herself riveted to the scene, her own mouth hanging open in horror. But she slammed it shut when Lady Damara actually pushed the grape into Gregory’s mouth, allowing her fingertips to caress his lips while she held it there. And she wouldn’t let go—not until he bit the grape in half.

No
, thought Pippa.
No, no,
no
!

Lady Damara’s lilting queen of the fairies laugh rang out. “We’re like Zeus and Hera. I could feed you all day long and never tire of it.”

Gregory mumbled something unintelligible in return, and when he turned around to carry his plate to his seat, Pippa couldn’t help herself.

She sent him her best death stare.

She’d only done it once before, and that was when she was fourteen and he’d been nineteen. On the night of Uncle Bertie’s birthday dinner, he’d brought her a book of poems by Shelley and said, “No doubt your young girl’s heart must be pining away for the man. My stepsisters are constantly sighing over his poetry. You have that treacly look about you right now.”

And everyone at the table had laughed.

Well, she’d been practicing for weeks how to look at him at the table to tell him with her eyes that she loved him! It had nothing to do with Shelley, that look—it had been about him. And then he’d made fun of her!

Treacly, indeed.

And now that same look came back to her, but tenfold, because she was furious at herself in a way she hadn’t been when she was fourteen. He’d told her he was to be avoided. Why did she keep ignoring her head? And as for her heart, it was firmly committed to following her dreams. Mother’s sad face flashed before her eyes. In the space of two husbands, she’d changed completely, from a fabulous actress to a shy rabbit.

No man would keep Pippa from
her
dreams.

Gregory’s expression, when he caught her gaze, was inscrutable.

Damn
him.

She’d like to put his Irish self into that doggy cottage with the Irish wolfhounds. And she’d dearly love to drop a plate of eggs all over him and let those dogs clean up after her.

Chapter Sixteen

Dawson rose from his chair. “Harrow and I were about to go on a walk. Any recommendations?” He looked between Gregory and Lady Damara. “I’m torn between the lake and the woods.”

Lady Damara’s cheeks turned shell pink when she looked at Gregory. “I highly recommend the folly myself.”

“Do you?” Mr. Dawson looked mildly intrigued. “So the lake, then.”

She nodded. “There’s something about that pile of stones that sets my heart racing. It’s difficult to believe it’s been there only four years and not four hundred.”

But she looked at Gregory as if
he
were the one who set her heart racing. Had he kissed her at the folly? Pippa seethed just thinking about it. She knew how Gregory kissed. He’d send any girl’s heart racing.

“The folly’s an attractive piece,” the womanizer in question remarked. “I wonder who designed it?”

Mr. Dawson hesitated. “A nobody, I imagine.”

“It stopped a little short of being ironic, in my opinion.” Gregory shrugged. “A folly should represent more than an homage to the past if it’s to be noteworthy.”

“Are you suggesting this folly falls short of the designer’s intention?” Mr. Dawson asked.

Pippa was listening intently.

“Perhaps not,” said Gregory. “Perhaps he purposely made it nothing more than a pile of stones and thought no one else would notice. After all, that’s about all that most people expect from a folly. I get the feeling the past isn’t a subject that excited the designer’s interest terribly much.”

More houseguests entered the room along with their host and hostess, whose eyes were agog at seeing the valet among the diners. Pippa gave them a low bow and made her escape while Mr. Dawson fielded the usual polite inquiries after his health and other guests remarked on the lovely sunshine and cool temperatures.

She hurried to the entryway, where the butler and two footmen stood guard not only of the house but the upper-crust British way of life. The far side of the front door is where she waited for Mr. Dawson. The butler and two footmen glared at her, and she did her best to look humble.

“Who the deuce do you think you are?” the butler hissed. “Eating with the proper folk. Lady Thurston is very upset, I’ve no doubt.”