The Earl's Bargain (Historical Regency Romance) (13 page)

For she knew that when his quest was over,
she would return to her dreary life of meetings with those
man-hating bluestockings who had been her only social life. Now,
companionship with such women held little allure.

She supposed they had filled a deep and
retching need in her at the time. Now, though, she felt another
need, though she could no more put a name to it than she could
understand it. All that she knew for sure about it was that it had
something to do with Harry.

Calling him Harry seemed quite natural now,
though she found it hard to countenance, as would others who might
hear her address him in such a manner. So sitting there in the
private parlor of the Cock and Stock, she came to the decision that
she would never address him so familiarly in front of others. It
would be like her mother's miniature portrait, something she could
pull out and take comfort in when she was alone.

"This is the most I have seen you eat on the
journey," he commented, his eyes not removed from her clean
plate.

"Then the four-mile walk must have tired me,
I dare say." There was levity in her voice and an amused glint in
her eyes.

He cocked his brow. "A pity it was so
exhausting for you. I found it rather invigorating."

She laughed then moved forward ever so
slightly and with a feather-like touch ran gentle fingers across
his bandaged arms. "I cannot tell you how deeply I am indebted to
you."

* * *

Her gentle touch was much like that which
she had used when she had tended to his wounds upon their arrival
at the inn. Instead of allowing him to look at her knee, she
permitted him to carry her up the wooden stairs to the room his
coachman had secured for them. And there on the high feather bed
they had sat facing each other. He had followed her instructions to
remove his shirt so she could minister to his wounds. He wasn't
sure, but he thought her breath swooped as his shirt fell to the
counterpane.

She had been quick to gain control of
herself as she deftly cleaned and bandaged his mangled arm.

A pity he had not recovered as quickly as
she had. His close proximity to her and the feel of her soft breast
brushing against him as she bent over his arm affected him
emotionally as well as physically.

Once she finished bandaging his arm, she
bent over and lightly kissed his arm, then looked up at him, a
flush creeping up her face. He could tell she was embarrassed and
wished he could put her at ease.

"I'm. . ." she stammered. "I didn't think of
what I was doing," she explained. "I used to kiss Ellie's wounds
after I bandaged them when she was little."

He set his hand on her frail shoulder.
"You've nothing to apologize for. My mother did the same to me when
I was small, and to this day I believe it aids in the
recovery."

When his remarks did not seem to put her at
ease, he ruffled her hair and laughed. "Rather amusing that you
think of me as a child."

"Oh, no!" she protested, looking up at him.
"There's nothing at all childish about you. In fact, I believe you
must be the bravest man I have ever known."

He made light of her compliment, changing
the subject. "I believe we should ask for another bottle of
wine."

"Pray, Harry, it's already made me
lightheaded."

He became pensive. "I like it when you call
me Harry."

"I confess, it seems most
inappropriate."

"But there are those who find John Stuart
Mill's actions inappropriate, though you and I know his vision is
correct."

"You speak of his efforts on behalf of birth
control?"

He nodded.

"You had not told me before that you
approved of the younger Mr. Mill's efforts."

"You never asked me before," he said.

He could almost see the years of woe peel
from her like layers off an onion as her voice became animated, her
face lively. "Tell me, how do you feel about slavery in the
colonies?" she asked.

"Until I met you, I confess I had never
given it a thought." He caught the serving maid's attention and
told her they needed another bottle of wine.

"And now?" she asked.

"Now I have decided it is not a good
thing."

"Why?" she challenged.

Darn the chit!
What was he supposed to say now? He'd never given
thought before to African men. Then he remembered Thomas
Paine's
Rights of Man
. He had not read the blasted thing, but the title gave him a
clue as to its contents. "Regardless of the color of the skin, a
man is a man, and as such should have the right to be his own
master and to be treated with dignity." He was completely surprised
at his own eloquence. Perhaps he would have made a good show in
Parliament.

"Oh, Harry," she beamed. "I cannot wait
until we have your voice in the House of Lords."

He experienced a wretched feeling in the pit
of his stomach. He had so carefully earned the girl's trust, and
now as he held it as securely as a vault, he was about to trample
it. Which just confirmed his own low opinion of himself. A pity he
was not the man he pretended to be. That man could have been quite
noble. Not conniving like Harold Blassingame, the Seventh Earl of
Wycliff. Former pirate of the high seas. Murdering and stealing his
way to an extremely comfortable station in life.

The return of the serving lady saved him
from having to make a response.

"Tell me, if you will," he said to the
serving woman. "Is there a Lord. . .What was that man's name, my
dear?" he asked Louisa.

Playing along with him, Louisa said,
"Goodness me, I cannot at all remember it."

Harry pretended to act drunk. "Can't
remember the chap's name. What is the name of the local lord in
these parts?"

"We have no local lord, sir," the woman
said. "The closest one's Lord Harley over in Binghampton some forty
miles from here."

"Is that in Cornwall?" Harry asked.

"Oh, no, sir. It's in Devon."

He watched somberly as the woman poured two
more glasses of claret, wishing for the first time in a long while
that he could drink himself into oblivion.

* * *

Edward Coke sat next to Miss Sinclair in his
curricle as he made his way back to her house after Jeremy
Bentham's first talk of the series. It had been difficult, indeed,
not to burst out laughing at the most peculiar assortment of
individuals he had ever seen in his four-and-twenty years. Reminded
him of the first day he had stepped foot at Uncle Robert's former
townhouse and faced Mrs. Phillips' room full of man-hating
bluestockings. For today he had seen many of those same faces. At
least he believed he had seen many of the same women. Though if
push came to shove, he would have to say he hadn't actually looked
-- really looked -- at any of their ugly mugs, either that first
day or today.

Then, too, today there were any number of
gaunt men that he'd wager a quid were Methodists. Not a Weston coat
in the whole lot of them. In fact, they dressed so somberly they
could have been at a wake.

Though none of these peculiar things had
Miss Ellie Sinclair seemed to notice. He slid a glance at her
rather taking little face. Unfortunately, the chit was still
ecstatic over the peculiar little man they had heard speak this
afternoon. She kept telling him how enlightening was Mr. Bentham,
how brilliant was Mr. Bentham, how this had been the happiest day
of her life.

For the life of him, he could not understand
the attraction in Mr. Jeremy Bentham. The man's cravat was a
disgrace, and he'd wager a quarterly the Bentham fellow had never
run to foxes in his life. Probably didn't even know how to
fence.

Nevertheless, Edward continued to feign
enchantment over the weasel for the girl's sake. He had grown
rather fond of her. Not just because she was the prettiest thing
he'd seen in a very long time, but there was about her a certain
innocence he found delightful.

And, besides, Harry had said he was to look
out for Miss Sinclair during her sister's absence, and he had
always done whatever his elder cousin asked.

However, looking out after her was far
easier said than actually done. He supposed it was because she was
country bred, but the girl was possessed of a ridiculous notion
that all men had designs on her virtue. He'd like to ring the neck
of the governess -- Miss Grimm was it not? -- who filled the poor
girl's head with such nonsense.

He'd had the devil of a time getting Miss
Sinclair to consent to allow him to escort her to the series of
lectures. He glanced behind to assure himself the Phillips' cook
was riding in Harry's gig, keeping a sharp eye on his actions with
Miss Sinclair. Did the fat old hog also think he had designs on
Miss Sinclair's virtue?

He inwardly sighed over the realization that
he had to endure three more of these horridly dull talks. The
things a man does for the lovely lady.

* * *

The longer Harry sat in the fire-lit room
looking at Louisa, the room's only other occupant, the more
persistently he wanted her. That, he told himself, would never do.
He had finally earned her trust, and he was not about to destroy
it.

He looked down at the bandages on his arms.
Which reminded him of the feel of carrying her over the moors. His
arms had grown tired, and his breath seemed to come only at great
difficulty, but he would do it all over again without a moment's
hesitation.

Though Louisa had little fat, there was
about her tiny body a real softness, a frailness, too, that evoked
every protective instinct he had ever possessed, instincts he'd not
even known he possessed. Yet they were instincts he enjoyed
awakening.

He would always cherish the memory of
holding her against him, of her arms secure about his neck, her
sweet face resting against his chest as they made their way across
the moors to the Cock and Stock Inn.

The more he looked at her face bathed in the
glow of the candle, its light flickering in her hair, the more he
remembered the heavenly feel of her in his arms, and the more he
realized how difficult it would be to sleep with her tonight.

He took another swig of the wine. "I shall
carry you upstairs now." He moved to her and gently lifted her into
his arms and carried her to their chamber. "I go to the tavern
now," he said simply.

Her eyes seemed melancholy when she
nodded.

As Louisa dressed for bed, she heard rain
beginning to pelt the window of their tiny room. By the time she
had put on her woolen gown and slipped beneath the bed's chilly
sheets, a full-fledged storm whistled and roared outside the inn.
Then thunder boomed and lightning blazed across the night sky, and
she pulled their blankets tightly around her.

Her thoughts drifted back to the day's
events. She was sorry she had yet to aid Harry in his search
because she wanted to repay him for all he'd done for her.
Otherwise, she looked back over the day with no regrets.

She regretted that the trip must come to an
end. She had never enjoyed anything so much. She remembered the
fear that had robbed her breath when she had watched Harry descend
the cliffside, fearing he would fall to his death any minute.

Looking back on it, her heart unaccountably
swelled with pride over his actions. He had not only earned her
trust today, he had earned her deep and abiding admiration.

Then she thought of the utter contentment of
being swept up into his strong arms and of being held against his
solid chest. Had anything ever felt so good in her life?

Despite the whooshing winds outside and the
hard rain coming down on the roof over her head, she smiled.

Soon Harry would be lying
beside her
.

She went to sleep with the candle burning
beside the bed, a smile playing at her lips.

That is how Harry found her an hour later.
He was grateful she was asleep. Had she so much as said a single
word to him, he would have been powerless to prevent himself from
scooping her into his arms and destroying the progress he had
made.

He stood for a moment
looking down at her.
The
wine
. She must have drunk nearly a bottle.
No doubt it had made her very sleepy.

Which was a good thing.

Fully dressed, Harry stood before their bed
the following morning, offering Louisa a cup of hot tea.

She opened first one eye, then the
other.

"Good morning, my dear," he said.

She rubbed her eyes. "I'm not your
dear."

"I expect you have the headache from the
wine you drank last night." He handed her a glass. "Here, I've made
you an elixir that has served me well when I've . . .shall we say,
overimbibed?"

She shot him an angry look, pulled herself
up to a sitting position, and took the proffered drink.

"How's the head?" he asked.

"Quite as awful as you think it is." She
drank from the glass, then made a face of disgust. "That odious
concoction had better work."

"You have my word on it that it does." He
continued to watch her, thankful her woolen night shift climbed up
to her throat.

She swung her leg over the side of the bed,
and to his surprise she began to lift the wool to reveal her knee
-- with not a shred of modesty on her part.

Then he saw that her knee was bruised and
swollen, and he moved to her, kneeling at her feet. He gently moved
her calf down, then back up. "I don't believe it's broken," he
said. "Since you did not scream with pain at movement, I'm guessing
it only hurts when you put weight on it."

She nodded solemnly.

"Stay off it for a couple of days, and I
believe it will mend," he said.

She frowned, then reached for the cup of tea
he he'd brought and took a sip. "The chamber's far colder now than
it was last night."