The Earl in My Bed: A Forgotten Princesses Valentine Novella (3 page)

Dear Owen,

I saw Jamie today. The sight of him hale and hearty fills me with confidence that you are well and will soon be returned to us. He says you receive my letters so I pray they bring you some comfort. I know you’ll be home soon and we may once again . . .

Paget paused over the page, unsure what to write, what to say next. She did not wish to make any promises, nor could she be anything less than warm and affectionate. Not while he struggled for survival a continent away. She wouldn’t be that cruel. Or callous. She needed to give him hope and encouragement.

Sighing, she rose from the desk, determining to finish the missive later. A walk would clear her thoughts. While the weather held at any rate. A low, gray sky had hung about all morning, threatening to trap her indoors the remainder of the day. She’d let gray skies bully her no longer.

She passed the housekeeper, Mrs. Donnelly, in the narrow hall. “I’m going for a stroll.”

“It’s going to rain,” Mrs. Donnelly cautioned.

“I’ll be quick.”

Mrs. Donnelly shook her steel-gray head. “You’ll get yourself soaked.”

At the door, Paget flung her cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood. “It won’t be the first time. If I wait for a sunny day, I should never step outside.”

Mrs. Donnelly awarded Paget with one of her less-than-fierce scowls. After all these years, the glares failed to instill fear in Paget. With so few memories of her own mother, Mrs. Donnelly had served in that capacity . . . and never having children of her own, she was a tad indulgent.

“You’ll not look so cheeky when you’re brought low with the ague. Aye, you’ll likely be dead.”

“True.” Paget nodded grimly. “I rather suppose I won’t look cheeky from within my grave.”

“Ah, you impudent lass. Hurry on with you, then. Perhaps you will beat the coming deluge.” She stabbed the air in the direction of a window.

“I won’t go far,” she promised with a smile as she stepped out into the murky morning. She took off at a fast clip, her mind drifting back to the half-written letter she’d left on her desk.

Her thoughts didn’t linger there long, however, before sliding in another direction. James.
Jamie
. No—the Earl of Winningham. She must remember him as such. It wouldn’t do to slip and address him so informally again.

She pulled her fur-lined hood over her head. Her body soon warmed as her legs trod over the familiar road. She came to the part of the road lined with apple trees. In the winter, their barren branches met and tangled together overhead to create a canopied effect. Even skeletal, she still loved the stretch of trees. It was one of her first memories upon arriving in Winninghamshire.

She recalled driving down the lane with her parents on either side of her and looking up at the canopy of branches. It had been wondrous. More dream than real. She had felt as if she stumbled into one of the fairy tales her mother told her before bed. The apple trees had been in full bloom. A gentle breeze sent petals fluttering through the air. Several had caught in her lashes and she fancied she was entering the realm of some fairy kingdom. When she first spotted the Winningham manor, she was certain of it. She’d imagined a princess lived in the great stone mausoleum and had been quite disappointed to learn only princes resided within. Three princes much too old for her to play with. She smiled ruefully. In the beginning at any rate. At age six, Owen had no time for a three-year-old. However, by the time she was seven, there was nowhere she went without Owen and Brand. The ever-taciturn Jamie had kept to himself.

Carriage wheels sounded behind her, coupled with the steady clump of hooves. She stepped to the side of the road and paused, recognizing Sir John’s conveyance. It slowed to a stop as it came abreast of her.

The baroness stuck her head out the window, a ridiculous confection perched precariously atop her head. This one was more feathers than hat.

“Paget! What are you doing? It looks to rain! Come within at once.”

Paget smiled at her friend. “I’m fine. I’ll be home before the rain arrives.”

Alice Mary rolled her eyes. “You always say that and then end up soaked.”

Paget frowned. Had Alice Mary and Mrs. Donnelly been talking?

Sir John then peered out the carriage window beside his wife, the two of them crowding the frame. “Indeed, join us, Miss Ellsworth. We can see you home.”

“Better yet, return home with us,” Alice Mary encouraged with an eager bobbing of her head. “I’ve countless tasks to prepare yet for the ball and could use your assistance. Now that the wretched Earl of Winningham accepted our invitation, I can delay no longer.”

“Come now, dearest,” her husband chided.

Alice Mary pouted. “I know it’s uncharitable, but he has never been a particular favorite of mine. He was always so mean to Paget . . . looking down his nose at her. At all of us in the village. Remember, Paget? I dread seeing him again.”

Paget nodded, not bothering to reveal she had already seen the earl. That would only sentence her to an inquisition.

“He’s just reserved in nature, dear,” Sir John offered.

“You are too kind, husband. Aloof and rude is a more accurate description.” She sighed. “But no fear. I shall be a consummate hostess and don a smile even for the likes of him. Oh, so many decisions yet . . . Shall the ice sculpture be a Cupid? Or is that too passé?” She wrinkled her pert little nose. “I was thinking the gentlemen might find a sculpture of Aphrodite much more diverting. I don’t want this to be like any Valentine’s ball before—” Alice Mary brushed a conciliatory hand against her husband’s cheek. “No offense intended, darling.”

A smile twitched Paget’s lips, perfectly aware that Alice Mary’s apology was in reference to the fact that Sir John’s mother had planned the ball in previous years. This was Alice Mary’s first year as the new baroness. Paget knew taking the reins from her mother-in-law filled Alice Mary with equal parts delight and trepidation.

Sir John took his wife’s hand and pressed a fervent kiss to the back of her glove. His eyes glowed with his usual devotion and something else. Something secret and deep.

Paget fidgeted, her face warming.

“Of course not, darling,” Sir John assured.

Alice Mary blushed prettily, basking in her husband’s adoration.

Paget cleared her throat, feeling awkward—not a new sensation when she was around her childhood friend lately. When she was in the company of her new husband, Alice Mary was no longer the same girl. Since she’d become the baronet’s wife—a definite coup for the daughter of the village’s only physician—an invisible barrier had risen between them. All at once she was a matron whilst Paget was still a maid. And not just any matron, but a glowing matron with secret smiles.

Paget knew it was only partly because Alice Mary was now a married lady while she was not. It was more because Alice Mary was a
happily
married lady. A happily besotted, cannot-stand-to-be-apart-from-her-husband lady.

Quite simply, they were enamored of one another. Paget suspected this was the grand passion she read about in novels. It was there, evident in their shared glances, the small touches between them. The very air around them was charged with something even Paget, for all her ignorance on the matter, recognized as desire.

It intrigued her. Her single kiss with Owen had been nice . . . but, well . . .

She yearned for more than
nice
.

She wanted what Alice Mary had and that wasn’t something she could ever have with Owen. He was like a brother to her. Not a lover. In his absence, she had come to realize this. She only hoped he had reached the same realization in the years since he left Winninghamshire. She did not wish to hurt him.

Alice Mary tore her gaze away from her husband, appearing to suddenly remember Paget’s presence. She motioned for her to join them. “Come now, Join me—”

“Thank you, but I told Mrs. Donnelly I’d be home shortly. I wouldn’t want to alarm her.”

“Oh, very well. But you must call on me this week. The sooner the better. I really need you, Paget. Decisions must be made. I haven’t a moment more to spare.”

Paget smiled, doubting very much her friend
needed
her to make such weighty decisions as what type of ice sculpture she should commission, but she would humor her. “Of course. I promise.”

“Very well. Enjoy your walk.” She glanced to the skies. “Were I you, I would hasten for home.”

Paget nodded, but overtly avoided agreeing. “I shall call on you tomorrow.”

Satisfied, Alice Mary nodded and sat back in her seat. Sir John called out farewell and knocked on the ceiling. The carriage lurched forward.

Paget watched as the newlyweds rounded the lane and vanished from sight. Instead of turning for home, she set out across the countryside, burrowing deeper into her cloak and relishing the bite of wind on her cheeks that made her feel so very alive. She ignored the darkening skies, telling herself she would turn back for home soon. She simply wished to walk off some of her restlessness. An unidentifiable energy buzzed through her. Her strides quickened as if she could somehow exorcise the sensation from her limbs and imbue herself with the serenity that had once ruled her.

For some reason an image of the earl rose in her mind. She snorted. Of all men, he shouldn’t be the one to occupy her thoughts. So he was handsome . . . and virile. He wasn’t the only gentleman in these parts, and he certainly was not the one to cure her restless nature. It was purely coincidence that her encounter with him coincided with her longing for . . . something. For more. Adventure. Excitement. An end to her dull existence.

Her breath fell harder as she walked. As if she could forget her encounter with the earl and Alice Mary and Sir John and the longing consuming her. As if she could once again be satisfied with her life.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

T
he rain fell in heavy sheets, coloring the landscape an opaque gray. Jamie squinted against the deluge and wiped at his face. It did little good. Visibility was still low.

He’d departed early this morning on foot to visit Mrs. Neddles, his former nurse. Now almost eighty, she lived a village over from Winninghamshire. She was still as sharp as ever. He’d never forgotten her. She’d done a great deal for him, especially after his father remarried and Owen came along—when Jamie often felt invisible, lost in the middle of Brand and the new son. Mrs. Neddles had given him additional affection and always tried to lure him from his shell.

In the gray haze, he spotted a tight copse of trees in the near distance. He vaguely recalled it from his youth. It would do until the worst of the storm broke.

The rain pelted him like icy needles as he strode ahead, mindful of where he stepped on the spongy ground.

At the fringe of the copse, the ends of the branches gathered close and dipped low. He ducked his head as he stepped beneath the canopy.

Immediately he was protected from the worst of the rain. Water dripped sporadically through the ceiling of tightly tangled leaves and branches. The world seemed quieter, the patter of rain a distant thing under the umbrella of foliage.

He assessed his surroundings. The copse consisted of four or five trees hugged close together. A giant oak, too large for him to even wrap his arms around, loomed like a parent over the others.

He approached, contemplating settling his back against it, when a figure stepped out from the other side of it.

Deep brown eyes blinked at him in surprise. A surprise that only mirrored his own.

Paget peered up at him. “My lord . . .”

“Miss Ellsworth. What are you doing here?”

She lifted a slim gloved hand, her voice lifting above the patter of rain. “I imagine doing the same thing you are . . . s-seeking shelter until the rain dissipates.” Her teeth chattered, a testament that not only was she wet but cold.

The hem of her cloak—and what he could detect of her dress—was muddied almost to the knees. With her hood pushed back, the ties pulled at her throat, reddening her flesh. He imagined the hood was heavy from rainwater.

“I would offer you my coat, but I feel it is as wet as your cloak.”

She shook her head. “Quite right, but I thank you for the thought.”

“You are welcome.”

An awkward silence sank between them as the words of their polite exchange faded.

Wild strands of hair spilled loose to frame her face. Wet as it was, the pale hair appeared almost brown. She was a mess and seemed to know it. Her hand patted at her hair as if that would help tidy the damage. Her dark eyes darted from him to the ground and back again. As if she did not know quite where to look.

It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed her in a state of disarray. This was the Paget who climbed trees with Owen. But she’d been a girl then.

She was no longer that barely-out-of-the-schoolroom girl he’d last seen. She was a woman now and a feast for his eyes. His gaze strayed to the gentle swell of breasts pressing against the wet bodice of her dress. Gooseflesh puckered the milk skin there. His body immediately responded. His cock stirred against his trousers. With a mental curse, he jerked his gaze out at the horizon. The branches hung low, obscuring anything above shoulder-view and granting him only a limited glimpse of the landscape.

He inhaled deeply. They were well-shrouded from the world. Not that there was likely to be any other passersby even if they were not. Not in this storm. A fact that filled him with apprehension. He was alone, isolated with the first female to rouse his interest since returning to England.

Her soft voice stroked his frayed nerves. “I was warned that it would rain—”

“And still you decided for a stroll?” he countered, his voice sharper than he intended.

He had not anticipated another encounter with her so soon. After the last, she’d found her way into his thoughts far too often. If he wasn’t careful he might form an attachment. Unacceptable, that. She belonged to Owen. She always had. And when he returned home there would be nothing to keep them apart. No war. Not the span of a continent. And certainly not him.