Sex and the Single Earl (11 page)

Sophie gazed around the crowded ballroom, humming a little tune under her breath. For a night that had begun so poorly it had turned out rather well, especially after she decided to ignore Simon. She had danced every dance, and flirted with so many men she couldn’t even remember some of their names. Even better, her behavior had obviously infuriated Simon, although she didn’t really give a fig about that. Her supposed fiancé stood across the opposite side of the dance floor, scowling at her and everyone else, and generally looking as bad-tempered as a gouty old spinster.

As she took another sip of Lord Penfield’s excellent champagne, Sophie contemplated sticking her tongue out at His Royal Imperiousness, the starched-up Earl of Trask. Now
that
would give the old biddies something to gossip about. Besides Lady Randolph’s plunging décolletage, that is.

She had almost convinced herself to do it when she heard the first bars of the waltz. Spinning on her heel—which made her head swim—she grabbed Nigel’s sleeve.

“The orchestra is playing a waltz. Isn’t that marvelous? Mr.

Dash, please ask me to dance.”

“Charmed, I’m sure, Miss Stanton.” Nigel plucked the champagne goblet from her hand. “But I’ve a feeling some one else has plans for you at the moment.”

She frowned at him. How dare he take her champagne from her?

“What plans? Lady Jane went home an hour ago. Robert and Annabel will be taking me to St. James’s Square in their carriage.” She peered around the room, looking for her brother and his wife. Not surprisingly, Robert had taken Annabel onto the dance floor.

She sighed. He never missed an opportunity to waltz with Annabel, no matter how unfashionable it was to dance with one’s wife.

“What did you do with my champagne?” she groused.

“I think you’ve had quite enough to drink tonight, Sophie.” Simon’s voice fell with a menacing growl on her ears.

She suppressed a shiver and spun around to face him.

Must remember not to turn so quickly.

“Simon.” She fixed a smile on her face, staggering against him. “How delightful. Are you done frightening everyone on the other side of the room? Mr. Dash, would you be so kind as to give me back my goblet? I’m feeling rather flushed from the heat.”

Simon glowered at Nigel, who bowed and slipped away through the crowd. Taking her champagne with him.

“Coward,” she muttered.

Simon must have caught her remark, for his lips pulled back over his teeth, rather like the feral dog she saw in the street just the other day.

“Oh, good Lord,” she huffed, “I suppose you’re going to deliver me another lecture. You can be such a bore sometimes, Simon.”

He grasped her elbow and began to maneuver her through the room toward the door. “Get ready to be bored, then. But not here. I’m taking you home.”

“What if I don’t want to go home?” As his big hand tightened around her arm, a reckless exuberance raced through her body.

“You’ll go home if I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you.” His face told her the threat was not an idle one.

“Very well,” she grumbled, craning her neck to look at a passing waiter who carried a large tray of champagne goblets. “But I must say good night to Robert and Annabel. They were supposed to take me home.”

“I’ve already spoken to your brother.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” she said in a snippy voice. How thrilling that she could sound as nasty as Lady Randolph so often did.

Oh, good Lord. Speak of the devil.

Sophie suddenly caught sight of the countess talking to Mr. Puddleford, of all people. Lady Randolph gently waved an enormous white fan in front of her equally enormous white bosom. Mr. Puddleford’s wide eyes seemed riveted by the spectacle of so much exposed flesh. Perhaps Sophie should make a detour from Simon’s absurd rush to the door and warn the naïve widower of the terrible danger he faced.

Just then Lady Randolph looked directly at her and smiled, a smile so contemptuous that Sophie’s fingers itched to slap her. Sophie glanced up at Simon. He had obviously seen that look as well, for a dark flush suddenly glazed his cheekbones.

She looked back at Lady Randolph as the viperous witch slid her hand over Mr. Puddleford’s arm, causing the poor man to visibly gulp. Something must be done, and done immediately.

Thrusting her bosom up as high as she could, Sophie caught Mr. Puddleford’s eye and winked. The widower gasped and dropped his wine goblet, sending it crashing to the floor. Sophie heard Simon literally grind his teeth. She gave his arm a little squeeze and smiled to herself as he unceremoniously dragged her from the ballroom.

It took only a few minutes, thank goodness, for the hackney to carry them to St. James’s Square. Simon looked ready to throttle her. Not that Sophie cared about that, although it was a tad uncomfortable wedged up against his unyielding body while he was in such a nasty temper. Anger radiated from him, filling the space of the coach with the crackling energy of an approaching storm. It was a miracle, really, that he didn’t set her garments on fire with his fiery glare.

He took her arm in a firm grip as he handed her down from the coach. She should probably be nervous, but the thundering scowl stamped on his features only made her want to giggle. Just like she had giggled when he had hauled her from Lady Penfield’s ballroom under the scandalized gazes of half of Bath.

“I still think it very rude that we didn’t say good-bye to Lord Penfield,” she said. Her words sounded oddly slurred, as if her mouth couldn’t keep up with her brain. “He looked quite taken a back when we rushed by him without a single word. I so wanted to thank him for serving such delicious champagne.” She sighed as she thought of all those lovely goblets of sparkling nectar being consumed without her.

“Your drinking days are over,” Simon growled as he towed her up the steps of the townhouse.

“How dare you—” Sophie broke off her tirade when the door swung open and Yates stood back to admit them.

“Good evening, my lord, Miss Stanton. I hope you enjoyed the ball at Lady Penfield’s.”

“We certainly did.” Sophie smiled at the dignified older man. How odd she had never noticed before that Yates had quite a lot of hair growing out of his ears. “The ball was splendid, it truly was. Until his lordship,” she directed a scowl at Simon, “decided we had to leave. Quite before anyone else, I might add.”

Yates cast a startled glance at Simon’s thunderous countenance. His eyes popped wide for an instant before his usual mask of schooled indifference slipped back into place.

“I’m glad to hear it, miss. Would you like some tea in the drawing room? Lady Jane has already gone to bed, but I can have a tray brought up immediately.”

By this time Simon had shrugged out of his greatcoat and pulled Sophie’s cloak from her shoulders. He tossed the garments to the butler.

“No tea, Yates. That will be all.” He grabbed her hand. “See to it that we are not disturbed.” He herded Sophie up the stairs to the gold drawing room. She twisted to see Yates staring after them, his mouth hanging open in astonishment.

She repressed another giggle. Not that she had much breath left over to laugh with. Simon had been rushing her about ever since he ordered her home from Lady Penfield’s. It was beginning to make her head spin in the strangest way.

After pulling her into the drawing room, Simon closed the door with carefully restrained force.

“What are you snickering about now?” he demanded. His handsome features were set in lines as grim as she had ever seen. She stared at him as he deftly twisted the key in the door.

“Why are you locking the door, Simon?”

“I don’t want to be disturbed.” His face still looked stern, but the gleam in his hawklike gaze as it focused on her sent ripples of sensation dancing across her skin.

“Have you ever noticed Yates has hair in his ears?” Not that she actually wanted to discuss the butler’s ears, but she needed something to distract herself from those predatory eyes.

Simon muttered a few words she didn’t catch. No doubt one of his typically unflattering comments about her.

Turning her back on him, Sophie began to wind her way in slow circles around the old-fashioned pieces of furniture scattered about the room. Light from the lamp set on a pedestal table barely penetrated the shadows. As she drifted by Lady Jane’s harp standing next to the pianoforte, she trailed one hand across its strings. Ghostly echoes of long-ago music drifted through the air.

Simon muttered again and walked over to the fireplace, crouched down, and set a spark to the logs that had been laid in the grate for the morning. He straightened and then leaned his arm along the gilt-edged mantelpiece. A brooding expression marked the fierce angles of his utterly masculine face as he followed her progress around the room.

Sophie decided to ignore him. She still felt captured by that exuberant recklessness, and dancing around the room kept her from flying apart into a thousand shimmering pieces.

“Just how drunk are you, by the way?” Simon drawled in a polite voice. “I only ask because I want to know if it’s worth attempting a coherent discussion with you.”

Sophie spun on her heel and glared at him. “I’m not drunk at all, you insufferable beast. For once I decided to have some fun, and not sit in a corner and wait for you or any other man to notice me. Not that you were likely to pay any attention to me in the first place, what with Lady Randolph draped all over you like a…like a paphian!”

She winced. Yelling made her temples throb.

“Sophie, what the hell is the matter with you tonight? I ask you to marry me, and the next thing I know you’re inhaling champagne and flirting with every rake in Bath. No doubt the scandalmongers will be dining out on your antics for the next two weeks.”

“I’m sure I don’t care what a lot of vulgar mushrooms say about me,” retorted Sophie. “And you shouldn’t care either.”

“I care a great deal about the conduct of the next Countess of Trask, and how that conduct reflects upon me.” His eyebrows arched over his patrician nose. He resembled nothing so much as a statue of a Roman senator, if a statue could ever look to be in a towering rage.

“Well, perhaps I don’t want to be the Countess of Trask. Perhaps I don’t want to marry you after all.” The words fell from her lips before she could stop them.

Silence descended between them, one so charged with menace that Sophie couldn’t suppress a shiver. Simon stepped toward her.

“That decision has been made, Sophia.”

His voice was soft, but the hint of steel clashing on rock made the breath catch in her throat. How dare he try to intimidate her?

“I can still change my mind.”

He took another step forward. “You will not cry off, Sophie. I forbid it.”

Simon’s brawny physique loomed large in the shadows cast by the fire, his hooded eyes barely concealing the ice in his midnight gaze. But ice could burn flesh and spirit almost as much as flame.

All that restrained menace sent tingling sensations racing down her spine—the same kind of shivers that happened whenever Simon kissed her. She sucked in a breath, suddenly craving the feel of his mouth on her lips and his hands on her body.

She was about to ask Simon to kiss her when he planted his hands on his lean hips, and shook his head in disgust. “I should have known better than to let you talk me into keeping our engagement a secret. If you think you can go about acting like a foolish chit you must be out of your mind.”

The delicious feeling in the pit of her stomach evaporated. “If you can flirt with Lady Randolph after you’ve asked me to marry you, then I can flirt with whomever I want.” She flounced back across the room and threw herself onto the settee.

“What the deuce are you talking about? I was not flirting with Bathsheba, I mean, with Lady Randolph.” Tugging impatiently at his cravat, he jerked it from his neck as if it were strangling him. He followed her to the settee, stopping at its foot to tower over her.

Sophie lay back against the cushions, dangling her foot over the edge, swinging it back and forth.

“You were. I saw you. She was draped all over you like—”

“I know. A paphian. Where you pick up such language is beyond me. I shall have to take a good look at your reading material—”

She sat bolt upright and glared at him. He glared right back.

“—and your friends, when we’re married. Once more, I was not flirting with Lady Randolph. Bathsheba is merely an old friend. We’ve known each other for years, and I have always enjoyed her company. She is one of the leaders of the ton, and you know it. I fail to see why you dislike her so much.”

“And have you always been ‘just friends’?” Sophie threw her head back to gaze up into his face. She could feel her hair starting to come loose from its knot, the tendrils escaping down around her shoulders. “And are you still ‘just friends’? You looked quite cozy to me, and to everyone else at Lady Penfield’s, I dare say.”

His lips compressed into a hard line. “Whatever my history may have been with Lady Randolph—which is none of your business, by the way—there is nothing between us now. I give you my word.”

She gave a snort, recalling all too vividly the triumphant smile Lady Randolph had sent her way—and the embarrassed flush that had stained Simon’s cheeks. She leaned back against the plump cushions and studied his grim expression.

“You’re such a hypocrite, Simon. You’re as dictatorial and snobbish as your grandfather, who, I swear, was the most insufferable man to ever set foot in the House of Lords. No one could ever live up to his standards, especially after your cousin Sebastian died. He made your life a misery; do you remember?”

Simon turned as still as a marble statue. Except for his eyes. They blazed with a fury that made her wonder if she
had
lost her mind to provoke him so thoroughly.

“And just like your grandfather,” she plunged on, driven by a terrible mix of emotions she couldn’t begin to explain, “you do whatever you want, whenever you want. And, apparently, your ridiculously correct code of conduct doesn’t pre…pre…” For some reason her tongue felt thick and clumsy. “…preclude a flirtation with your former mistress, despite our engagement!”

Those imperious eyebrows of his ticked up another notch. The anger began to fade from his countenance, replaced by a familiar look of irritation.

“May I remind you,” Simon intoned in a patronizing voice, “that you were the one who wanted to keep our engagement a secret? What the devil do you want? Bathsheba Randolph arrived at Lady Penfield’s at the same time as I did. I gave her my arm to escort her into the room. What would you have me do? Be rude to her?”

“Yes.” Sophie lurched to her feet. Simon grabbed her by the elbows to steady her. “I would like you to be very rude to her.”

“Well, I won’t. And stop acting like a silly girl,” he exclaimed, giving her a slight shake.

He used to shake her like that when she had misbehaved as a child. Really, he couldn’t possibly be more arrogant.

“You know what I think?” she retorted. “I think you should marry Bathsheba.” She heard the reckless anger in her voice. Felt it thrumming under her skin.

Simon’s dark brows practically shot up into his hairline.

“You suit each other so well, after all. You’re both selfish and arrogant, and think only of yourselves. Yes, that’s the best solution for everyone. You marry Lady Randolph, and I’ll do exactly what I want. And that doesn’t involve you telling me how to live my life.” She flung that last bit at him, but her heart hammered so violently she thought it would burst from her chest.

His big hands circled her arms, strong fingers flexing into the shivering flesh below her puffed sleeves. The rest of him remained motionless, except for one muscle that pulsed in a jaw carved from granite.

As she stared into eyes as black and hot as pitch, she had to force down a pathetic squeak that threatened to escape from her throat. What had she done? Simon always kept an iron grip on his temper, but had she finally pushed him too far?

They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. She couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t even bat an eyelash. All she could do was gaze helplessly into features that looked, at this moment, as if they belonged to a demon sent to drag her to the depths of hell.

Then his lips parted, and a soft breath whispered across her cheeks.

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

She couldn’t move, mesmerized by the heat in his eyes, a heat that glowed not only with anger, but with another flame she was beginning to recognize. His hands tightened around her arms, and he lifted her up on her toes. His warm mouth brushed her ear. Every part of her body began to tremble.

“Answer me, love. Do you really want me to marry Bathsheba?” His voice was soft and compelling.

“N…no.” She cringed at the breathless quaver in her voice. But the idea of Simon in Lady Randolph’s arms…it would kill her.

A laugh rumbled in his chest. She felt the vibrations deep within her own body.

“Good. I assure you I have no desire to marry anyone but you.” Slowly, his mouth descended to hers, and Sophie gave herself up to the velvet madness, opening to him with a desperation she had never felt before.

He murmured soft, indistinguishable words against her lips as he eased her back down on her feet. Every inch of him burned against her, and the rigid length of his masculinity nudged her belly. At the feel of
that
, of him pressed into her, her legs began to shake with an exquisite weakness. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed back, loving the feel of her smaller limbs enclosed in his powerful embrace.

Simon ran his tongue between the edges of her lips, silently urging her to open for him. She sighed, and welcomed the hot champagne taste of him as he plundered her mouth. His tongue stroked deep inside, then retreated to lick her lips before sliding back in once more. She whimpered, her head falling back under his sensual onslaught.

The tiny sound that escaped her seemed to gentle his touch. One hand slid up her back, forming a sheltering cradle for her body. He pulled her closer, and her nipples contracted into buds as they pressed into the brocade of his waistcoat. The thin layers of her gown and her chemise were as nothing against the firm contours of his broad chest. She felt his tension, the flex of his muscles, the rise and fall of his breath.

He kissed her, his mouth consuming her with a fierce passion, and Sophie’s own breathing turned into a stuttering gasp. She trembled as unfamiliar, delicious sensations compelled her to dig her fingers into his shoulders. Simon deepened the kiss, molding her to his will. She clutched at him, tasting the residue of his anger, feeling it in the iron of his hands. But his fury had transformed into something else, into a searing masculine possession. Her instincts screamed at her to surrender, to melt into his greedy embrace. Swept under by a strong, sweet current of longing, Sophie gave in to his demand, even though she knew his convulsive grip would leave more than one mark on her softer flesh.