Kiss the Earl (29 page)

“I've come to speak with you about Ella, but I'm afraid the business with Amelia is far from sorted.”

As Patrick recited the tale, Iain's face grew darker. And when he arrived at the news of the duel, his cousin's expression went blacker than pitch.

“You've less than no brains, you know.”

“I know.” Patrick stood by the hearth, the small fire warming his skin but not touching the cold knot in his chest. “But I must do this. Amelia will be free to wed her vicar, my guilt for my participation will be absolved, and there will be no need to dissolve my marriage with Ella.”

“So you've wed the chit, and you mean to die in the morning?”

Patrick tightened his fist. “We've wed, yes—we were forced to when Brownstone caught us in a compromising position. And I do not mean to die, but I must prepare for the possibility.”

And then Patrick made his cousin promise to send his wife to her own home. And, failing that, to care for her as if she were Iain's own sister.

Patrick would not leave his love unguarded. Not while there was breath in his lungs or blood in his heart. As long as Ella was in his world, he would ensure her protection.

Death could be no worse than living without her.

Ella had to hand it to him. He said he'd be back in a few hours, and exactly three hours later, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the door. She didn't even bother pretending that she hadn't been standing in front of a window in Patrick's beautiful and expansive library, watching and waiting for him to come home. Not that she'd had the ability to enjoy the beauty of the home she'd been unceremoniously dumped into a few hours before. She had spent the entire time he was gone pacing the floor and wondering how in the hell she could ever stop this ridiculous duel.

She had considered begging, drugging Patrick, or tying him up to keep him from leaving in the morning, but she knew none of that would really work. She might be from another time and place, but she understood masculine pride and Patrick's own sense of honor. He would never, under any circumstances, agree to not show up to that duel tomorrow morning.

Ella stormed down the hallway toward the foyer, hoping she could catch Patrick before he disappeared somewhere. She didn't know what she was going to say to him when she faced him, but she had to get there, had to try. He might not think his life was worth saving, but she knew better.

But of course, when she rounded the corner that led to the foyer, Patrick wasn't there.

“Sorry to bug you, Yardley, but do you know where Patrick went?”

The butler, a long, thin man with a nose as red as the Flash's costume, smiled down at Ella. “Yes, my lady. He is now meeting with his secretary, I believe.”

She fought the urge to groan. “Any idea how long that'll last?”

“Usually for no more than two hours.”

Two hours? Tightening her fists at her sides, Ella took a deep, controlled breath. “Okay. Two hours. No biggie. What time is dinner?”

“Eight, my lady. I've instructed Poppy, the upstairs maid, to assist you with dressing. She will attend you by six.”

Ella's eyebrows climbed high as she looked at the butler. “Is it a costume dinner or something? Two hours seems like a long time to get dressed.”

If the butler thought her odd, he at least had the grace not to show it. He merely shook his head. “Not fancy dress, my lady, but a proper dinner with Lord Fairhaven.” After a bow that really belonged more in front of a queen than plain old Ella, Yardley turned and walked away.

Damn it, time was running out, and she still didn't know what to do. Ella bit her lip as she considered. It was almost five now, just an hour before she had to meet Poppy to get ready for dinner. What could she do in an hour?

Sinking down on the polished bottom step of the staircase, Ella shivered. If she were back home, this would be much easier. For one thing, handcuffs would have already been invented. Restraining orders too, so she could keep Lord Brownstone away from her husband. Cupping her chin in her hands, Ella stared down at the bright wooden floor. It was polished so beautifully that she could almost make out her reflection in it, despite the gloominess of the day.

Feeling so helpless wasn't like her, not at all. She was smart and quick on her feet—mentally speaking—so why was this so hard to solve? Letting out a bitter laugh, Ella pushed herself to her feet. She was so desperate, for a minute there, she'd almost considered praying for a way out of this, and she wasn't a religious person at—

Her palm smacked loudly against her forehead, and she winced. How blind could a girl be? Of course there was a way out of this, and she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it before.

A new sense of hope threaded through her, and she rushed down the hall to find Yardley. First and foremost, she needed information. Without that, she couldn't do anything, and it wasn't as if Google was handy. She still planned to try to talk Patrick out of it, but failing that, there was now an idea in her back pocket.

And that was more comforting than a Twinkie and a macchiato. And those were pretty darn comforting.

The rest of the evening passed faster than Ella had ever thought was possible. Even the two hours of dressing before dinner went quickly: a luxuriously deep bath in front of the fire, talking and laughing with Poppy, a bright young maid who actually had a career plan—she wanted to be a housekeeper—and then putting on a beautiful silver dress that Poppy had brought into the room in a large box, wrapped in tissue paper.

“From your husband,” Poppy had read aloud from the card that accompanied it. “'Tis a lovely dress, milady, and will look beautiful with all that black hair of yours.”

When the look was completed, Ella had to admit, Poppy had been right. It was a beautiful dress, and with her hair all piled on top of her head with little curls falling from it, Ella could almost pass as lovely.

Eating with Patrick soon dismissed all thoughts of her appearance from her mind. She did, after all, have a job to do.

But her husband didn't seem inclined to listen to her well-thought-out arguments against the duel. Course after course, she talked and gestured and sometimes even yelled, but he just looked at her with those big green eyes and shook his head.

“I cannot, Ella. You do not understand.”

By the time dinner was over, and Ella was climbing the stairs to her room again, she was irritated beyond belief.

“Pigheaded, obstinate idiot,” she growled under her breath. “Should have known better than to think he'd actually listen to reason.”

Poppy helped her out of the dress, which was good since there was no way she could reach the thousands of tiny buttons that fastened it, all the way from her neck to her butt, and then the maid produced a slinky green silk nightgown. With a wicked wink, Poppy laid it on the bed.

“I think you'd tempt an angel with this on, milady. I doubt your husband would refuse you anything, were you wearing this when you asked!”

I
doubt
it
, Ella thought, but outwardly she just nodded and pulled on the lacy confection.

After Poppy had gone, Ella pulled on a robe she found in the wardrobe and poked her head out into the hall. She had to find Patrick and talk to him again. This might be her last chance to do this the easy way.

But no matter what, she'd stop this duel. His life—and her happiness—depended on it.

* * *

The longest evening of Patrick's life was finally drawing to a close, but he couldn't muster the energy to be pleased. In the darkness of his study, lit only by the roaring fire on the hearth, Patrick stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. In the firelight, the brandy in his hand glowed a fierce gold, colors swirling and changing as the liquid lazily sloshed in the cut-crystal glass.

Perhaps he should get foxed, completely off his head with drink. Maybe then he could forget that hellish dinner with his wife.

A mocking smile stretched his lips as he thought of her. He'd done a wonderful job there, hadn't he? Plucked a stranger from the streets, ruined her, and given her his name with every intention of abandoning her at the first opportunity.

“Here's to you, Father.” Patrick toasted the portrait of the second Earl of Fairhaven, which hung above the fireplace. Even in the darkness, his father's grim countenance looked disapprovingly on his son. “Does it please you to know that you were right about me? Disgrace and villainy, that's what I've brought to the Meadowfair name, despite how hard I tried…”

Frowning, Patrick drained his drink. It didn't matter now. Tomorrow he'd likely be dead, because he could not, would not, shoot another man in cold blood. He'd seen too much death in the Peninsula to do it to his oldest friend's father, no matter how much the baron might wish it once his precious daughter wedded a poor and common clergyman. Baron Brownstone's death wouldn't be at Patrick's hand, and certainly wouldn't be tomorrow.

With only a brief sense of lightness in his brain, Patrick left the study and walked slowly, and too steadily, up the stairs. Not even a little bit foxed. Damn. He'd hoped to obliterate the memory of Ella's first pleading, then raging requests to cancel the duel. She'd done her best to persuade him, but there was no helping it now.

He paused outside the countess's bedchamber. The thought of going in to her was appealing, there was no denying that. The doorknob was cool against his palm as he gripped but did not turn it.

Slumping his shoulders in defeat, he dropped the handle and stepped back. No. She would not welcome him tonight, not after the way he'd ignored her wishes.

Better to leave it as it was. He'd given her a kiss before she left the dining room, one that hopefully conveyed all he felt without his voicing the words.

The hallway stretched long and dark before him, very much like his heart. He'd never found the courage to tell her his true feelings for her. After all, she was leaving soon, no matter what happened to him on the morrow. Her knowledge of his love could do nothing but burden her, and Lord knew he'd done that enough to last her lifetime.

So, as he entered his bedchamber, he did so with the knowledge that his last night on earth would be spent alone.

“Hey there, sailor.”

At Ella's soft voice, Patrick whirled. There she was, sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing a gown that revealed much more than it concealed.

“Ella, what are you doing here?”

She untucked her feet from beneath her and stood, the emerald-green fabric sliding down her legs as she moved toward him. “I'm visiting my husband. Do I need a reason?”

Stopping mere inches from him, she looked up into his eyes—nay, straight into his soul. As though they had a mind of their own, his fingers brushed a lock of hair back from her face, then traced their way down the softness of her skin, along her jaw, down her neck.

“Perhaps you do not.” Patrick smiled in answer. He bent low to kiss her, but she pulled away before his lips could touch hers.

“I want to kiss you, but before I do, I need to tell you something.” She bit her lip, glancing away. “Mind if we sit down?”

Together they walked to the bed, and Patrick sank down beside her. Sitting cross-legged, she faced him, grabbing both of his hands in hers.

“I debated about telling you this,” she started, looking down at his hands instead of at his face. “But then I decided that it was important that you know. If you're determined to do this dueling thing in the morning, then I know there's a good chance you'll be wounded or even killed.” Her voice went thin, and it was all Patrick could do not to pull her into his arms. But he waited, saying nothing, until she was able to continue.

Looking up into his eyes, she drew in a deep breath, then spoke. “I love you, Patrick. I don't know when it started or why—well, I do know why, but it's the truth. I realized it a few days ago, but I didn't say anything because, well…” She shrugged one shoulder. “It's impossible. We're impossible together. But that doesn't change the way I feel. I know that you might not feel the same way, because of Amelia—”

At that, he couldn't remain silent any longer. “Amelia? What does she have to do with any of this?”

Ella tried to pull her hands away from his then, but he wouldn't release her. “I know you care about her. Maybe even love her.”

“I do not love Amelia. I never have, and I never will.”

The faintest light of hope appeared in Ella's eyes, and that sight nearly felled Patrick. “You don't?”

He shook his head even as a beautiful warmth spread through his chest. “I do not. We have never been more than friends, and honestly, I've never viewed her as a woman I could marry, I could kiss, or…” He cupped Ella's cheek tenderly. “Or I could love as I do you.”

She bit her lip. “You do?”

He nodded as the happiness flooded him. “I do love you, Ella. But, like you, I thought there was no need to burden you with my feelings, because there is no future for you and me. As much as it kills me, my heart would not listen to reason. I love you as I have no other, and I cannot imagine ever loving another as I do you.”

“Patrick,” Ella whispered, her own hand covering his. Her lids slid closed, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “What are we going to do?”

In answer, he wound his arms around her and pulled her into his lap, his lips crushing down upon hers. He kissed her with all the love and longing he felt, with every wistful thought and dream he'd had of their improbable future, with all the fear and resignation he felt about the duel in the morning. All that he was and would ever be, he poured into that kiss, and she accepted it, her mouth opening to take him in, her body warm and fitting perfectly against him.

He stripped the green silk gown from her body, and undressed himself quickly. Ella watched, eyes dark with hunger as she looked at him. And when he stretched out beside her, they shared kisses and touches that meant so much more than mere pleasure. With each caress, Patrick pledged his love to Ella, and she returned each with equal fervor.

And when he entered her, slowly, inexorably, she sighed with pleasure. Their eyes locked, their bodies thrust together, retreating only to surge once more. It was more than a meeting of bodies; it was a meeting of hearts, souls, essences knowing one another and combining for one brilliant, shining moment.

They reached the peak together, Ella's throaty cries combining with Patrick's deep growl of pleasure. Shaking, damp with sweat, Patrick lay beside his wife, his love, and looked into her eyes.

“I will love you forever,” he whispered, then drew her close. “No matter what happens tomorrow morning, you will always have my love.”

“I know,” Ella whispered back, burying her face against his chest.

They fell asleep that way, naked bodies tangled together, hearts full yet anxious for the day to come.

The joy of the night could only temporarily shadow the worries of the coming morning.