Kiss the Earl (21 page)

He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone bone-dry.

“I think I shall leave you and ride into Town on my own tomorrow.”

“What? No! I cannot ask—”

“You did not ask. I am telling you, I shall go alone.”

Patrick gritted his teeth as Iain stepped closer.

He spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “Tend to your business here, man. Do not lose yourself over pride.”

As Iain left the room, Patrick stared after him. The Scottish bastard. He should mind his own affairs.

“Well, it looks like you're stuck with me,” Ella said, a large dose of bitterness in her words. “So sorry. I'll do what I can to stay away from you, so you can't make any more ‘mistakes.'”

The door slammed behind her, leaving Patrick alone.

Damn, what a mess he'd made of things. He glared at the half-packed case on his bed. At least he could work toward mending things with Ella on the morrow.

If there was anything to be mended. At this point? He was unsure.

Ella was livid with Patrick. In fact, even the thought of his stupid face made her hands ball up into fists, which was kind of awkward since she was trying to pin her hair up just then. She made do with glaring at her reflection, a mouthful of hairpins making her look like she had an impressive set of fangs.

“Shtupid earl,” she said, stabbing herself in the skull with a pin. “Shtupid, handshome ashole.”

There. It was off her neck at least. Removing the extra pins from between her lips, Ella stared in the mirror.

Mrs. Templeton had brought her two more dresses—from where, Ella had no clue, but they both fit her pretty well, even if this pale green one was a little tight in the chest. Ella tried to move the bodice around a little. It seemed like an awful lot of boob on display for a regular day dress, but Mrs. Templeton had assured Ella it was fine.

“He doesn't deserve to see these.” She wasn't talking to herself, she reasoned. Elspeth was there, sunning herself on the windowsill, her golden eyes blinking slowly in the sunlight.

Turning to the cat, Ella propped her hands on her hips. “He was a jerk last night, you know. I didn't ask for him to come in here, but he did. I didn't ask him to sleep with me—well, until he was actually acting like he wanted to sleep with me. And then he just expects to leave me here like nothing happened? I mean, what an ass. Am I right?”

Elspeth yawned.

“Stupid cat,” Ella muttered as she grabbed the lacy shawl Mrs. Templeton had laid on the back of a chair. “You're about as much help as Aquaman in the desert.”

As she made her way down the stairs, Ella pulled the shawl closed over her chest. With a side-eyed glare at the scowling former earl's portrait, Ella knotted it. For some reason, donning her armor made her feel more secure, like she had the upper hand. He might want to see her cleavage, but there'd be no boobs until she got some respect.

Ella halfway grinned. She felt kind of like Lysistrata—she'd been reading a lot of Greek plays recently.

But when she entered the breakfast room, her half smile instantly vaporized. Patrick was already there, a plate full of bacon, kippers, eggs, and toast in front of him. He laid his newspaper beside his plate, standing when she entered the room.

She ignored him, and once she'd filled her own plate from the sideboard and sat down, he sank back into his chair.

“Ella—”

“Save it.” She stabbed a fluffy bit of egg with her fork. “Not interested.”

Chewing mechanically, she looked everywhere but at him—at least, not directly at him. She had a pretty decent view of him reflected on the back of the silver tea service. He was staring at her, not saying anything, a thin line between his brows as if he were confused or angry, or maybe both.

Well, welcome to her freaking world.

“Do you know what really pisses me off?” She blew her vow of silence all to hell as she turned and pointed at him with her fork, but she didn't give a good damn. “It's your whole ‘gentleman' spiel. You act like there's no way you'd do anything dishonorable, like following the rules of society and your rank and whatever means the world to you, but then you can just have a one-night stand with me and pretend it never happened. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that?”

“Ella,” he said, straightening the newspaper beside his plate, “I never intended for last night to happen.”

“Well, it did. And personally, I liked it. More than liked it. It was…” She stopped and looked down at her plate, well aware of how hot her cheeks had become. Oh well. She was definitely screwed either way. “It was incredible. I don't know how you could decide you were just going to leave me here alone if it felt anything like that for you.”

His chair legs scraped against the floor as he stood. She looked up and up, until she could see his eyes. He was angry—well, more than angry. Livid was probably a better word. His beautiful green eyes were aflame beneath narrowed brows as he rounded the table to stand beside her.

“I didn't want to leave you alone, Ella.” His hand circled her wrist, and he pulled her to her feet. “I needed to.”

“Needed to?” She barked an incredulous laugh, hoping he couldn't hear the nervous tremor in it. He was still holding her wrist tightly, high between them, but it wasn't painful. In fact, his touch was burning her bare skin. She wanted more of that touch, high on her arm, beneath the armor of her delicate lace shawl, all over her body. But he couldn't know. She needed to keep the upper hand here.

If she'd ever actually had it, which she doubted.

“Yes, needed to. I have duties, Ella—to the earldom, to my family name. I am not free, as you are at home; I cannot travel and do as I wish. My life is laid out for me, the path made clear since I was just a boy. My father—” He dropped her wrist, and the loss of contact was almost painful. But she stood her ground as he continued.

“My father was not an easy man, but he impressed upon me the need for circumspection, for gentlemanly behavior.” Patrick reached into his pocket and pulled his watch free, rubbing the face with his thumb absently. “I have lived my life by that code for as long as I can remember. But don't you see, Ella? It has all gone wrong.”

He dropped the watch back into his pocket and stepped close to her.

“Ever since that night I found you, I have fought myself, and it is wrong. My name is being bandied about in the papers as all of society thinks me to be an abductor of young women, but the truth of it is, there is a young woman right here that I find myself enamored of.”

Ella's heart beat faster, but she was scared to say anything that might interrupt the most honest speech she'd ever heard come from Patrick's lips. So she stood there, silent as a statue, waiting for him to finish.

His palm slid up her neck, stopping as he cupped her cheek. She looked up into his eyes, afraid to breathe.

“Ella,” he said, bringing his other hand up to her face. “I have wanted you like I never have another.”

“And I want you,” she finally whispered back. “So what is our problem?”

He moved closer even as he whispered, “This is wrong. We come from different… We cannot…”

But apparently they could, because he kissed her then, and Ella's confusion fled in the heat of their passion.

It didn't matter. The reasons why they couldn't didn't matter then.

All Ella knew was she wanted him, he wanted her, and together they were magic.

It was all that mattered.

* * *

He'd lost all sense. That was the only thing Patrick could think as he bent down and crushed his lips against Ella's. Her hungry body pressed against him, the skin of her cheeks soft and hot against his palms.

The delicious fog of lust descended on him, and he was no longer a gentleman bedeviled by his position, by his feelings for a woman wholly unsuitable, one not even from his own century. Now he was a creature of pure instinct as he indulged his hungry hands and let them feel their way over her beautiful body.

The first thing he did was untie that silly shawl. The delicate lace that had lain over her lovely bosom showcased more than it hid. But now that it was gone, there was only the soft skin of her chest beneath his hands.

Lovely, that.

As his fingers found her nipple through the fabric of her gown, she gasped into his mouth, and he took the opportunity to enter her mouth with his tongue. She tasted sweet. He possessed her hungrily, his sweeps and advances meeting salvo after salvo with her own, as if she burned for him as much as he for her.

He could not wait. He would not. Gripping the skirt of her dress, he lifted his head just long enough to pull the offending garment from her body and toss it aside.

“Patrick, what are you doing?” Her surprised gasp echoed in the breakfast room.

“I cannot wait,” he said, repeating the motion with her shift, then removing her drawers. She stood there in naught but stockings and slippers, and never had a sight so delicious been seen in the morning glow of the breakfast room.

“But what if someone comes in?”

“They won't.”

And he was reasonably certain that was the truth. Iain had left at first light, Cook was off to market with Mrs. Templeton in tow, and Sharpwicke was down in the stables on an errand Patrick himself had set him to. The footman was the only variable, and if the boy had any sense, he'd not step foot in this room.

Patrick prided himself on having a staff with great sense.

Ella shifted her weight, and Patrick groaned at the beautiful sight. Her skin looked golden in the morning light, her dusky nipples jutting out proudly. Her hands at her sides, her chin held high, she said not a word. She looked like a pagan goddess. Well, a pagan goddess in slightly saggy stockings and slippers.

She was perfect.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her again, this time making full use of her nudity as his hands roamed her skin. That curve of her hip, the full flesh of her buttocks… He kneaded and squeezed and pressed her hard against him. There never was such a beautiful feeling as Ella's naked body, he decided as he cupped her breast and kissed her harder. Never.

Lifting her, he set her on the table well to the side of her mostly untouched plate. Eggs on her naked back would hardly be an aphrodisiac—although if the aching hardness at his groin was any indication, it wouldn't be a deterrent either.

“Are you going to get naked too?” She propped herself up on one elbow, smiling at him. Her coiffure was sagging on one side, the tail end of one green ribbon dusting her cheek. She'd never looked more decadent—or more lovely.

“I'd like nothing more,” Patrick said with a grin of his own. He pulled his coat free, pressing a kiss to her bare belly as he did so. She laughed, a joyous sound that warmed him all the way to his toes. But as his fingers worked on the buttons of his waistcoat, his kisses trailed a bit lower, toward the nest of curls at the base of her belly, and her laughs turned to hungry moans.

Jerking the waistcoat off, he tossed it aside. Ella reached up and began to destroy the delicate knot he'd created in his cravat that morning, and he worked at the buttons of his breeches. Soon, he would be as nude as her, and then he'd stand between her beautiful thighs and press into her welcoming warmth…

They both froze as a loud pounding started at the front door.

“Fairhaven! I know you are here, you damned cur!”

“Crap,” Ella said, her eyes wide as she scrambled to sit up. Patrick jerked his breeches back into position, anxious fingers fumbling on the buttons.

“Fairhaven! I demand you face me!”

“It's Brownstone,” Patrick said grimly as he helped Ella to her feet. “Hide. I must speak with him.”

“But, Patrick, he might—”

“He will behave as a gentleman, trust me. Hide.” Patrick pressed a quick kiss to Ella's forehead just as hasty footsteps sounded outside the room.

The footman's voice was almost a squeak as Patrick's hand closed over the breakfast room's door handle. “My lord Brownstone! Hello, I must see if the earl is at home—”

“Of course he's home, you little pup, and now he shall answer to me for ruining my daughter.”

As Patrick pulled open the door, a red-faced Lord Brownstone nearly plowed into him.

The baron was a full head shorter than Patrick, but he was almost as round as he was tall. His bald pate was mottled red with temper, his cheeks trembling with rage as he glared up at Patrick and brandished a wicked-looking pistol.

“You sniveling blackguard! My precious daughter is here in your home. Do not dare deny it!”

“It is lovely to see you as well, my lord Brownstone,” Patrick said mildly. “Do come in.”

“Don't play the fool with me, boy. She is here and I shall find her, make no mistake!”

The baron shoved by Patrick and stalked into the breakfast room. Patrick's heart sped with alarm.

“Brownstone, you are overset. Amelia is not here, and she has never been. Come with me into the sitting room and have a glass of brandy. We can discuss Amelia's possible whereabouts and—”

“The hell you say. If she is not here”—the baron bent by Ella's plate and Patrick's blood went icy—“then what the devil is this?”

Ella's dress dangled from the baron's meaty fist.

Patrick's mind flew, trying to calculate a response far enough from the truth to protect Ella's reputation but close enough to be believable.

“I'll find her,” the baron growled, bending low. Patrick moved between the man and the table to block his view, but he wasn't quick enough. A pale foot moved past the edge as Ella drew back.

At the baron's strangled gasp, Patrick turned just in time to see a naked streak of womanhood dashing from the room.

“You disreputable swine!” Crushing the gown in his grip, Lord Brownstone flew around the table and stopped directly in front of the younger man, pointing the gun at his chest. “I don't care if you are a bloody earl. You'll wed her immediately, you despoiler of virgins!”

“But…but that's not Amelia!”

“Do not worry, my girl,” the baron yelled, shaking the gown toward the ceiling. “He shall marry you. I'll arrange for the special license at once. No daughter of mine will be dishonored in such a way!”

“It's not Amelia, Lord Brownstone. That isn't your daughter. It's—”

The baron stalked from the room, and in his place appeared three burly footmen wearing the Brownstone livery. They glowered down at Patrick, obviously meaning to keep him from doing a runner in the baron's absence. In a state of pure shock, Patrick sank down into his chair.

What the devil had just happened?