Kiss the Earl (25 page)

Her gaze flew to his. “What?”

Kneeling on the floor of the carriage, Patrick gripped both her hands in his. “I have not asked you, because I did not think you would agree. But now I find that I cannot live with myself unless I do. Stay here with me, and be my countess.”

Her mouth opened, pink lips forming a soft
O
, and he continued.

“You will want for nothing, I can promise you. I will be faithful to you, be by your side always. I…” On the verge of declaring himself, his self-defense leaped up to prevent it. “I care for you so deeply. Please, Ella, say you'll stay with me.”

Her eyelids slammed shut, sooty lashes dusting her cheeks.

“I can't live here, Patrick. I'm sorry. I've worked too hard to give it all up, even for you.”

His heart crumbled to dust in his chest. “I see.”

And then, feeling quite the fool, he sat upon his bench and propped his ankle on his knee. Looking out the window, he tried to pretend he could not see the tears sliding down Ella's cheeks in the glass's reflection.

Her misery echoed his own, and it was abominable.

Patrick spent about an hour in the carriage, and Ella couldn't help but be grateful when he thumped on the roof and got back on his horse. It was hard enough to be miserable, but when the object of your misery looked just as miserable as you were, and was sitting there handsome and broody and close enough to touch, that was just torture.

Much later that afternoon, Ella was still stewing over the whole big mess. Could she have handled that better? Sure, she could have said,
Yes, I'll abandon everything I've ever worked for and every person I've ever known and loved to live here, where there's no health care and no rights for women and no comics or computers or cars.
But even though she loved him, she couldn't be sure that eventually she wouldn't resent him for causing her to miss those things.

The world she lived in was a constant blur of noise and information, culture and humor and growth, and while it was so far from perfect, it was home. And she didn't want to miss it. Asking her to give it up would be like…

Ella groaned. It was no different than what she'd asked him to do.

Slumping against the seat, Ella looked at the dark ceiling of the carriage. Patrick had more to give up than she did. This was an impossible situation, and there was no easy way out for either of them. Either she gave up everything she knew for him, or he gave up his responsibilities and legacy for her, or they both went back to where they belonged and got their hearts broken.

Ella sniffed. She'd thought he'd been about to say he loved her earlier. But he hadn't. “Cared deeply” didn't have quite the same weight, sadly. But maybe it was better that way. He didn't know that she loved him, and she intended to keep it that way. This was going to be hard enough on both of them as it was. Better to keep her heart under guard—maybe she could keep it from shattering beyond repair.

When the carriage rumbled to a stop a half hour later, Ella was relieved beyond words. She'd had to pee for at least two miles, and two miles took a lot longer here than they did at home.

“Hello.” The baron appeared at the carriage door to help her down. Ella was grateful for the assistance. Despite the fact that the carriage seats were cushioned nicely, she felt rattled to pieces anyway. “Here we are at the Green Man's Rest. A quite comfortable inn, clean, no bugs.”

“Good to know.” Ella smiled wanly. “I could use a break.”

The stones crunched beneath her boots and she held the baron's arm as they crossed the yard together. Patrick was inside, speaking with the innkeeper. His face looked dark, but with his voice pitched so low, Ella couldn't hear what they were arguing about. But when she and the baron came close, Patrick apparently gave in.

“That will have to do, then.”

“Of course, my lord. So sorry, my lord. We are quite full, you see.”

Patrick nodded tightly. “Please show my wife up to our room. She has had a long journey and no doubt wishes to refresh her appearance.”

Ella's mouth dropped open. Did she look that bad? Tiredness and the whole situation combined to shorten her temper, and she decided to hell with it.

“Well, you don't look so hot yourself, my lord. Is mud the new style for highborn snotfaces?” Ella looked pointedly at his less-than-clean boots.

Patrick grabbed her elbow and steered her after the clearly-trying-to-contain-his-laughter innkeeper. “You silly widgeon, I meant you probably needed to relieve yourself. I was being delicate—something I wish you would learn posthaste.”

She probably should have been embarrassed, but she was too tired to give a crap. “Well, maybe you should choose your words more carefully. And your boots do look awful.”

“Then I shall attend to them directly.”

He gave her a sharp bow and left her in the hallway, the innkeeper staring after Patrick with a fascinated look.

“We're newlyweds.” Ella shrugged as she accepted the key from the innkeeper. “You know men.”

“Indeed, milady,” the innkeeper said with a grin. “Now this is no doubt far rougher than your ladyship is accustomed to, but with the fete in Arbordale, we are quite full, so I was forced to accommodate you and your husband in this single room.”

“I see,” Ella said, looking around. Of course, there was only one bed. No wonder Patrick had looked so stern.

“I do hope you'll be comfortable. Please ring if I can do anything for you, anything at all.”

“Yes, I will. Thanks.”

The innkeeper left the room and Ella wasted no time in finding the chamber pot. Mrs. Templeton had packed a large stoppered bottle of lemonade for her inside the basket, and while it had been delicious, it certainly made the last part of the trip uncomfortable. They'd stopped a couple of times for the baron and Patrick to make use of the hedges and trees bordering the road, but Ella couldn't bring herself to squat in a field. For God's sake, she was a countess now. Granted she'd only be a countess for another week or two at best, but still. Squatting roadside wasn't how she wanted Patrick to remember her.

When she was done behind the screen, Ella washed her hands at the basin, then sat on the edge of the bed. In just a little while, Patrick would be only a memory for her. She sniffed. It was a hard pill to swallow, that was for sure. Her first love, and she wouldn't be able to do any of the things she'd dreamed of.

No going to the movies, no fancy dinners out, no introducing him to her mom and dad, no taking him to game nights with her friends, no introducing him to the crew she liked to hang out with at comic conventions. A tear rolled down her cheek and she dashed it away.

Her life wasn't going to be anything like she'd pictured it, and it was all because nothing could work out like it should. If only Mrs. Knightsbridge hadn't sent her through that mirror. She wouldn't be hurting this way now, because she wouldn't know how much she could have had.

A soft knock on the door startled her, and she rubbed furiously at her cheeks before answering.

“Come in.”

“If you please, milady, his lordship wanted me to fetch you to the private parlor. A nice supper is laid out for you.” The little maid bobbed a curtsy.

“Yes, of course. Just give me one second.”

Ella crossed the room and looked into the mirror. Gah, of course she looked awful. Splashing a little water on her face helped, and removing her hat did too. Feeling a little bit more put together, Ella turned to the maid and smiled.

“I'm ready to face the firing squad. Let's get this over with.”

And she meant so much more than the dinner. If she could just get home, she could get to work on pretending that none of this had ever happened—no jumping into the past, no Patrick, no love, and no heartbreak.

Most especially that last one.

* * *

Patrick was rather proud of himself. Though he could have asked the baron to dine with them and spared himself the difficulty of dining alone with his temporary bride, he did not. The baron asked for a tray to be sent up to his room and Patrick made arrangements for a private meal with his wife.

Making use of the small washroom off the taproom, he wiped the dust of travel away as best he could, taking special care to knock the dried mud from his boots. She'd not delivered her opinion very tactfully, but he couldn't deny that she'd been right. He looked dreadful. A change of clothing would have been most welcome, but he wasn't about to go into their shared bedchamber and invade her privacy. Better to wait for the neutral ground of the private parlor.

When his appearance had been repaired to the best of his ability—he'd missed his valet, Wharton, sorely over the past month, and would probably kiss the man's feet when next he saw him—Patrick made his way to the room on the second floor of the inn. Their meal had already been laid out on the table, covered with silver domes to keep it warm. Ella had not yet arrived, despite his having sent a maid to show her the way, and he took advantage of her absence to pour himself a fortifying glass of brandy.

This tangle of a situation surely called for alcoholic assistance.

The sun had made use of Patrick's distraction and slipped past the horizon without his notice. The sharp burn of brandy fired its way down Patrick's throat as he watched the last red rays scorch the clouds. A beautiful evening, really, but every day that died reminded him of how little time he had left with Ella.

Why had he married her? It was akin to handing a starving man a loaf of bread and telling him under no circumstances could he eat it. Patrick downed the rest of his brandy, then slammed the glass down on the table. He was a fool, and he'd pay for his foolishness for the rest of his life. Eventually, once she'd gone and their sham of a marriage was over, he'd take another wife. He may even come to love her, but it would never be the same. Nothing would ever be right again once Ella left his world.

At the sound of the door squeaking open, Patrick turned.

“Good evening,” he said with a deep bow.

“Hi,” she said, rather shyly he thought. “Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long.”

“Not at all. I only just arrived myself.” Patrick rounded the table as he spoke, pulling out the chair for Ella.

She sat, offering him a quiet word of thanks.

As he sank into his own seat, he wondered what the devil he could say to make this better—any of it.

Spreading the napkin across her lap, Ella spoke without lifting her gaze to him.

“I've been thinking about this. You and me, and this marriage thing, I mean.”

“Oh yes?” Patrick fought to keep his voice mild.

“Yeah. I know we both had a lot of misconceptions going into it, and I think we should try to iron some of those out.” Still not looking at him, Ella reached forward and lifted the nearest silver cover. At the sight of the roasted hog's head, she let out a disgusted cry and dropped the thing with a clang. “What the hell is that?”

“That, my dear, is our dinner. Allow me to serve you.”

Ella shuddered. “If that's on the menu, I'm really not hungry enough to brave it.”

“Do not worry,” Patrick said with a smile as he lifted the dome nearest him. A much less intimidating fish lay there. “You shan't starve in my company.”

Once each of their plates had been filled—Ella's with a noticeable lack of pork—they began to eat in silence. As Patrick chewed, he wondered what she would say. There was no doubt that the both of them had imagined things to be much different. He'd hoped that she'd agree to stay with him, knowing the whole while she wouldn't, and she obviously had hoped he'd follow her into her world. What else could she mean?

He didn't have to wonder long.

“Right. So, marriage. You and me. Temporary.”

That last word rankled, but he could not fault her truthfulness, so he only nodded. But a thought sprang to mind, and he wasted no time in voicing it.

“I do wish you to know that if any pregnancy occurs from our premarital relations, I will do my duty by both you and the child. You do not need to fear being set aside.”

If she'd been avoiding looking at him before, there was no such lack of eye contact now. Shock and anger burned together in her eyes.

“Well, gee, thanks. What a guy.” She stabbed a potato with her fork. “But you don't have to worry about that, because I'm on the shot. God, you won't understand that. I've taken a medication to prevent me from getting pregnant.”

He looked at her long and hard, but there was no lie in her countenance. She chewed placidly, despite the occasional glare she tossed his way.

“Then perhaps it is best that our union is only for the moment,” Patrick said, hating the cold note in his voice but truly unable to prevent it. “I need an heir for the earldom, and if you are unable to provide one—”

The loud scraping of her chair interrupted his speech. With palms planted on the table, she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yeah. Maybe it is best. Because if you felt about me the way I…” She stopped, shaking her head wildly, then started again. “If you cared for me the way you should care for your
wife
,” she spat the word, “then it wouldn't matter if I couldn't have kids. So the fact that this medication only makes me temporarily unable to get pregnant is completely moot at this point.”

“You can bear children?” His relief was instant, as well as his guilt. “Ella, I—”

“Save it. I'm not interested.” She tossed her napkin atop the hog's head. “It's a really good thing we're not going to be married for long, because right now, I don't like you very much.”

She turned on her heel and made it halfway to the door before she stopped. Glaring at him, she returned to her seat, picked up her plate, and finished her grand exit.

With Patrick left to finish his meal alone, he had plenty of time to consider his sins, and regret every one bitterly.

Especially those that drove him to keep her at arm's length. It was killing him, and he was fairly sure it was killing her too.

He nursed his brandy, a hand rubbing against the raw feeling in his chest. He'd made a huge bungle of their marriage. But was it too late to set it right for the few days they had left together?

Leaving his half-full glass on the table, Patrick stood and walked to the door. He'd apologize, say what he must to make things right between them. If he only had days to be with her, he'd rather they be filled with tenderness and laughter than anger and bitterness.