Kiss the Earl (28 page)

Her swollen, spasming heat around his erection was too much. Pressing into her as deeply as he could, Patrick found his own release with a hoarse shout, pouring his seed into Ella's welcoming body.

They lay there, spent, damp bodies cradled close, for a very long time. And when Patrick would have eased from her arms, she only tightened her grip.

“Stay,” she said. “Please. You promised.”

He nodded and lifted the covers over them both.

Tomorrow would very likely see the baron discovering Amelia's tale, and it may very well be his last day on earth. He could not imagine a better way to begin his final day alive than waking in Ella's arms.

As he closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, he found himself praying that somehow, someway, this would not be the last time.

The closer they got to London, the more Ella's stomach tightened, the clammier her skin felt, and the harder she clenched her teeth. It was drizzling rain, so both Patrick and Lord Brownstone were riding inside the carriage with her. If not for the certainty that things could possibly blow up at any moment, Ella would have really enjoyed sitting this close to Patrick, watching the scenery go by from the dry warmth of the carriage. But now? It was all she could do to keep a blank expression on her face.

Waking up naked in Patrick's arms had been so incredible. He'd smiled and kissed her, and she hadn't even worried about morning breath or feeling awkward or anything. She just kissed him back, and they made love as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was, except for the fact that they were heading straight for trouble.

“There we are,” the baron said, smiling broadly as the carriage bumped down the cobbled street. Ella looked out the window. The buildings had gotten much closer together over the last mile or so, and now they were crammed together like people on a subway car during rush hour. A few brave souls hustled down the lane while others crowded beneath overhangs, waiting for a break in the rain. “No place like London, is there, m'lad?”

“Indeed not,” Patrick murmured politely.

Ella shot him a hard glance. He'd been as quiet as Elspeth on the hunt for toes all morning. Even after they'd made love, he'd pressed a final kiss on Ella's lips, dressed quickly, and left the room without a word.

Not that she knew what to say to him in any case. Trouble was coming, and damn his freaking noble, gentlemanly nature, he'd play by his society's asinine rules and probably get himself killed.

Ella set her jaw. Not if she had anything to say about it. She might only be his temporary wife, but she loved him, and she wasn't about to let him throw his life away over something so trivial.

“I instructed the driver to convey us to your home first,” Patrick said to the baron. Ella perked up as she listened. “I had hoped to speak with Amelia and assure myself of her well-being.”

And
hopefully
convince
her
not
to
lie
about
Patrick
anymore
, Ella added silently.

“Of course, of course. She'll want to meet your new bride, as well, clap eyes on the girl who stole a march on her, what?” The baron guffawed, but Ella frowned.

“What exactly do you mean by that, my lord?”

Patrick poked her leg in a clear warning, but she ignored him. “I thought Amelia and Patrick were just friends?”

“Of course they are, my dear Lady Fairhaven, and I meant you no disrespect. But my Amelia has always been fond of Patrick, quite admired him, she did. Despite his recent lack of circumspection”—the baron looked hard at Patrick, but the earl didn't blink—“I believe he and Amelia would have made an excellent match of it.”

“But the point is now moot, is it not, my lord?” Patrick reached over and deliberately took Ella's hand in his.

“Quite.” The baron's forehead creased thoughtfully as he stared at their joined hands.

As fast as she politely could, Ella pulled away from Patrick's grip, pretending to need to adjust the buttons on her cloak. It wasn't that she didn't want to hold his hand; she did. But the way the baron was looking at them, and the way Patrick was acting, just didn't make her feel good. It was almost like she'd swallowed a handful of bumblebees and was uneasily waiting for the searing pain to sting her insides.

Wrapping her arms across her middle, Ella sank back against the cushioned seat and wished all this was over.

Only a few minutes later, the carriage lurched to a stop in front of a large brick home. Lord Brownstone's London manor. A footman opened the carriage door, and all three passengers disembarked, Ella helped to the ground by a stone-faced Patrick. As he pulled her hand through the crook of his arm, Ella stood on her tiptoes and whispered, “Don't you dare let her lie about you, Patrick. Promise me.”

Just inside the front door, Patrick stopped and looked at her. The baron was chatting with his butler as he removed his hat and coat, so they were unobserved.

“I will do what I must,” he said, and pressed the briefest of kisses to her stunned lips.

It wasn't the promise she wanted, and it wasn't even close to enough. But Ella didn't have a chance to argue about it, because just then a beautiful young woman appeared at the top of the stairs.

Ella's heart sank. It wasn't that the girl was beautiful, even though she was, all reddish-auburn hair and perfect, porcelain skin. It wasn't even her perfect figure—slender-waisted with full, high breasts—and graceful movements as she descended the stairs. The reason Ella's mouth went dry and she felt like throwing up was the look on Patrick's face as he laid eyes on Amelia. The brittle mask was gone, and in its place was a smile so bright it almost hurt Ella's eyes.

No. It hurt her heart.

Patrick had never looked at Ella like that, and he never would. At that moment, Ella was desperately glad she'd never told Patrick how much she loved him. Because he would never feel the same way about her. That was obvious, because right now, his whole heart was there in his eyes.

And it was all for Amelia.

“Poppet,” the baron rushed forward to greet his daughter, who'd just reached the ground floor. “Where the devil have you been?”

“You've led us all a merry chase, Amelia,” Patrick said, still with that beautiful smile. Ella's fists tightened. She didn't know who she wanted to slug more, Patrick or Amelia, whose doll-perfect features were stained from an obvious recent bout of tears.

“How dare you, sir.” Amelia glared at Patrick. He lost his smile then, but Ella couldn't be happy about it.

Here
we
go. Shit's hitting the fan.

“Showing your face in my father's home after what you have done? The unmitigated gall!”

“What do you mean, poppet? What has he done?”

Amelia pointed a trembling finger at Patrick. “This man compromised me. He promised me marriage, took me from my home, and then left me before wedding me.” And then she covered her face and “cried,” great big alligator sobs shaking her shoulders.

Ella's jaw sagged in shock. Had that girl seriously just thrown her so-called best friend under the bus, just like that?

“You damned bounder!” The baron's face went mottled red with rage. “You lied to me!”

“No, Amelia's the liar here!” Ella couldn't stay quiet a second longer; now that the shock had receded, pure anger had flooded into its place. “Patrick didn't compromise her and I know it, because he's been with me this whole time.”

Amelia looked up, face curiously dry considering the histrionics she'd just enacted. “Who are you?”

Ella marched straight up to the taller woman and looked her dead in the eyes.

“I'm Lady Fairhaven, and you're messing with the wrong woman's husband.”

* * *

Fearing what Ella would do, Patrick grabbed his wife's arm and pulled her away from Amelia, whose face had gone chalk white.

“What did she just say?”

“You heard me,” Ella snarled like a demon beast straight from the fires of hell. She pulled against Patrick's grip, trying to get closer to Amelia. But Patrick knew better than to release his wife. “You're lying, and you need to 'fess up right now.”

“Ella, enough. Allow me to handle this.”

Ella whirled on him, her blue eyes alight with temper. “Then handle it, Patrick. Don't just stand there and let her lie about you!”

His own patience at an end, Patrick turned to Amelia. “I am sorry, but…” He stopped at the pleading in his friend's eyes.

God, what a mess. Could he really destroy Amelia's chance at happiness? This was what he'd agreed to… It seemed so long ago now. But things were so different. It wasn't just his reputation. Things had changed.

But a gentleman didn't break his promises. He'd learned that long ago.

His mind made up, he looked beside him. “Ella, return to the carriage.”

His wife's mouth opened in shock. “Patrick, what—”

“The carriage. Now.”

His tone brooked no argument. With one last dirty look at Amelia, then Patrick, Ella glided from the foyer with all the grace and hauteur of a queen. Once the door had closed behind her and the footman who accompanied her, Patrick turned to the baron.

With a silent prayer for forgiveness for the lies he was about to tell, Patrick spoke. “Amelia is quite ruined. And I am responsible.”

The baron gasped. “The devil you say.”

“No, it is true. And I cannot marry her, because I am already wed.”

Although he was expecting it, the force of the baron's blow was substantial enough to knock him backward a step.

“I will see you at dawn,” the baron snarled, even as Amelia clutched his arm and shouted, “No!”

“I expected as much,” Patrick said calmly.

“Papa, no, you cannot call him out. You know that Patrick is a crack shot.”

“So am I.”

Amelia's tears were quite real this time. “There is no need for this. I may be ruined, but George still wants me. We've been posting the banns at St. Barnabas Church. No man in society may be willing to overlook this, but George…”

As if Amelia hadn't spoken, the baron stared straight at Patrick. “I trusted you, and you lied to me. You are no gentleman, sir. I demand satisfaction.”

Patrick's anger roiled, but his word proved stronger than his rage. The man's sense of outrage was justified, considering the story Amelia had spun. The one he'd just corroborated. He satisfied himself with a tight nod toward Lord Brownstone.

“I trust your rogue of a Scots cousin will be your second. I will send my own man to him this afternoon for the arrangements.”

“As you will,” Patrick said simply.

With a bow to Amelia, who was trying to calm her raging, blustering father, Patrick turned and walked straight out the front door and into the downpour.

Once he'd climbed into the carriage and sat beside Ella, he thumped the ceiling and the driver stirred the horses.

“What happened?” Ella's question was delivered without malice, but with definite lack of warmth.

“We meet at dawn.”

“Are you crazy? You could die for this! Don't you understand that?”

“Of course I do!” He looked down at her, clenching his jaw. “I do not do this lightly, Ella. There are aspects of this situation that you cannot understand.”

“So help me understand them.” She leaned close to him, her forehead lined with worry as she gripped his sleeve.

He looked away. The desperate sincerity in her eyes was too much for him. Staring straight ahead, he spoke.

“I cannot destroy Amelia's chance at happiness.”

“So you're saying her happiness is worth more than your
life
?” Her voice pitched high on the last word, her grip on his sleeve tightening as if she could pull him from the brink with sheer determination.

“I do not expect you to understand.” Patrick didn't say anything else. How could she understand, when he'd only given her half the story? This duel was about more than Amelia's lies and secrets. It was about happiness. About love. He could not have a life with Ella, but if his sacrifice could ensure his dearest friend her fondest wish? He'd given her his word as a gentleman. His promise, his value. And if he fell tomorrow, he'd not have to see Ella leave him.

A coward's exit? Perhaps. But she could not stay, and he could not go.

The drive took longer than usual because of the rain, but it still was not long. Patrick ushered a silent, grim-faced Ella inside his home in Town, then gave her a quick bow.

“I must visit Iain and make arrangements for the morning. I shall return in a few hours.”

“I don't guess you'll let me go with you.”

By her tone it was clear that wasn't a question, but Patrick shook his head anyway. “I will dine with you this evening.”

Though her back was straight and her jaw set, the broken look in her eyes nearly felled him. Stepping close, he brushed a kiss across her lips.

“I'll come back to you soon.”

She nodded, then turned away.

After a quick word with the butler and housekeeper to assist their new mistress into her home, Patrick climbed into the carriage and then set off for Iain's bachelor lodgings.

The raindrops rolled down the window beside him, fat and slow. As London rolled by, soggy wet and somehow remaining dirty and full of smoke, Patrick wondered if this was the last afternoon he'd spend in these environs. After evading death on that muddy field in France, he'd believed himself charmed, thinking he'd die of old age in his bed, surrounded by a passel of children and loved ones. As a man who had spent his life in control, living in a measured manner—other than those escapades fueled by Amelia—dying in a duel had never even crossed his mind.

But as he descended the carriage and ran through the rain to Iain's door, he could not deny the reality of the situation. He might well die on the morrow, and he must take steps to ensure Ella's well-being if he did.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Fletcher, Iain's valet-cum-butler, greeted him. Iain's apartments were comfortable but small, and as Patrick shrugged off his damp greatcoat and hat, he was reminded of his own home. Whom would it belong to if he died on the morrow?

“I need a moment with Iain, if he is about.”

Fletcher nodded and showed Patrick into the small sitting room. It was sparse, though what furnishings were there were comfortable.

In only a few moments, Iain appeared.

“Thought I might see you here.” His cousin grinned and clapped Patrick on the shoulder. “Now that Amelia is sorted, you'll be wanting to see that witch woman for Ella, yes?”