The Reluctant Countess (7 page)

“What the hell
are
you doing on that ledge?” he asked, because suddenly he needed to know.

“I … I cannot tell you, my lord,” Sophie whispered. “Pray do not ask me again, and please hold on to something,” she added. Seeing him standing on that small ledge—seemingly at ease with a drop of some sixty feet below him—was making her feel very unwell.

Patrick could see her gloved hands shaking as they struggled to clutch the downpipe.

“Cannot or will not?” he questioned softly.

“Cannot.” Sophie shivered. It was cold and she was clad in a very thin gown.

“Come, enough of this nonsense. You are shivering and in imminent danger of falling, now place your hands in mine, I will bring you down safely.” His tone was deeper, words clipped, but he was still surprised when Sophie lowered both her arms toward him. Before she had a chance to withdraw them, he had swung her off the ledge to safety and onto the balcony below. Nimbly, he followed.

For Sophie, reaching the safety of solid ground presented a double-edged sword. She was relieved to be safe, yet uncertain what the earl would do now. Straightening her skirts, she made a fuss of brushing off any dirt and repinning her hair. Finally, she could find nothing else to repair and was forced to lift her eyes. She met the intensity of his gaze and took several steps back until her bottom collided with the railing.

Manners dictated she thank him. She would do that and leave … quickly. “Thank you, my lord, f-for you … your assistance.”

Patrick had waited patiently while she arranged her skirts and tidied her hair. He had even enjoyed the small graceful movements. Now, however, he wanted answers. Taking the two steps necessary to bring her closer, he caught and held her glance.

“Why were you on that ledge, Sophie?”

Oh lord, he was close; she could smell his scent, the spicy essence that was his alone. She could also vividly remember the touch of his lips and how his hands had felt on her bottom, and … 
Oh this was not good, not good at all
. She had nowhere to run, she was trapped. Although he was not touching her, she could not move or breathe. Where was the armor she could usually pull around herself when someone or something threatened her?

“Please, my lord, I wish to g-go back into the ballroom; Lady Carstairs will have missed me.”

“When you have answered my questions, madam, I will let you return.”

“You have no right t-to hold me here.”

“Answer the question, Sophie,” Patrick said gruffly, because he was running out of patience, and being this close to her was making his body ache. Her subtle scent was teasing him, the hint of roses casting a spell over his senses.

“I … I gave you no leave to speak so freely, my lord.”

He did not speak, just stood there all dark and dangerous, looking at her with those deep, fathomless eyes.

“I … the ladies …,” Sophie blurted out, and then clamped her lip firmly between her teeth to stop any further outpouring of words.

“The ladies what?” Patrick prompted, placing both hands on the balcony railing, effectively caging her inside his arms.

“Please,” Sophie begged, her words almost a sob, “let me go.”

“The ladies what?”

Sophie knew she would have to speak or risk staying here all evening. She could see the determination in his eyes; he would hold her here until dawn if necessary. Why could she not just chill him into silence like she had done with others? Why was he the man who could reduce her to a senseless idiot?

“They were saying things I did not want to hear.” Sophie kept her eyes focused on his lips. She would tell him what he wanted and then she would leave.

“And you care what they say?” God, she was sweet. She was nibbling her bottom lip and the gesture nearly dropped him to his knees.

“Y-yes.”

This vulnerable countess was at such odds with the façade she usually presented him that he felt his defenses slip further. Damn, she was a confusing bundle of womanhood.

“Why?” he questioned looking at her mouth. She had tortured her bottom lip until it was full and rosy.

“They do not like me.”

“Did they threaten you?” Patrick questioned, relieved as he watched her shake her head. “Then why did you end up on that ledge?”

Sophie felt his breath brush her lips.

“I … I did not want to face them and listen to their vicious words. They often insult L-Letty as well and I will not tolerate that.”

“Why do you care what they say?” Patrick leaned further forward to breathe in her soft scent, the essence of Sophie.

“I … I.” Sophie swallowed as his lips brushed her hair. “I usually do not care, but tonight I did not have the strength to face them.”

“No doubt you used all your strength avoiding me and throwing yourself into the arms of the nearest male.”

“I did not!” Sophie gasped, then blushed as he lifted one eyebrow, because that was indeed what she had done.

He had to taste her again, just one touch, a brief kiss. Lowering his head, he placed his mouth softly on top of hers and knew instantly that one touch would never be enough with this woman. Nectar was his first and last thought before he deepened the kiss.

At the touch of his lips, Sophie felt her knees tremble. He might appear ruthless, but once again his touch was soft; he was coaxing a response instead of demanding one. His tongue traced her lips, its heat searing through her.

“Open for me, Sophie,” Patrick whispered, his breath stroking her face.

Sophie could do little else but obey, remembering the delicious feel of his tongue in her mouth.

Patrick slipped his arms around her waist and she came willingly as he pulled her closer.

“You want this, Sophie,” Patrick growled as he placed heated kisses on her smooth skin.

“Please.” Sophie shivered as his kisses reached the rise of her breasts above the neckline of her gown.

Patrick cupped their fullness, then traced the swell, scraping one nail over a taut nipple.

“Ohhh,” Sophie sighed, as the most exquisite sensation rippled through her body.

“Of course, she will probably take him to her bed, Coulter is impossible to resist when he puts his mind to something … or should I say someone,” a high-pitched voice said from somewhere above them.

Both Patrick and Sophie stiffened as the voice drifted to where they stood. Sophie moved first. With a small cry, she wrenched herself free and ran across the balcony into the shadows.

Patrick cursed. Those women were nothing but gossip-mongering bitches.

“No!” Sophie lifted her hands to ward him off as he followed her.

“Never again, my lord,” Sophie vowed as she walked backward until her hands encountered a door handle. “I will never again be in a position where you … ah.”

“Can ravish you?” Patrick said, a wicked smile playing about his lips. “Where I can lick your breasts, and kiss your lush mouth and make you mewl those sweet little sounds into my ears?”

“Please,” Sophie begged, “no more, my lord.”

“I want you, Countess, and I will stop at nothing to have you,” Patrick vowed, taking a deep breath before he continued. His body was an inferno. “You are no sweet maiden; you know what happens between a man and a woman, but maybe you have never experienced this level of passion. And it is rare, Sophie. Do not fight it, my sweet, when we could both find so much pleasure together.”

Sophie gripped the door handle behind her as Patrick moved closer. “I am afraid that is not possible, my lord, as I will be returning to Monmouth shortly.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. “It is a dangerous game to tease a man, Countess.”

“No!” Sophie cried. “I … I would never.”

Patrick watched her slip through the door and away from him. Returning to the balcony, he looked out into the darkness below. He could have taken her right here on the balcony, if those
harpies above hadn’t made their presence known. Feeling frustrated, he ran his hand through his hair, trying to make some sense out of what was happening to him. He wanted her so badly the woman had him tied in knots. Patrick had never behaved in such a rash manner before; never had he given a lady power over him. His liaisons were planned and then carried out in a bed, yet here he was, attempting to make love to Sophie where anyone could have walked in on them.

Her response was that of an innocent, yet how was that possible when she had a child?
Was
Timmy her brother? When he had accused her of teasing him, her face had been etched in horror.

He would not go near her again tonight. Tomorrow he would take her driving and he would get answers to the questions that plagued him, because there would be nowhere for her to run.

* * *

“That little baggage!”

“My lord?”

“Nothing further, Fletcher, thank you.” Patrick waved his butler away, his eyes still on the note in his hand.

“I will bring your tea, my lord,” Fletcher said, then quietly shut the door behind him.

Scanning the few lines of flowing penmanship, Patrick thought he might swap the tea for something stronger.

“So that is how you wish to play this hand, Sophie, Countess of Monmouth. ‘My son has taken a chill and it would be unwise to leave him in such a distressed state, therefore I must decline your invitation to go driving today, my lord,’ ” Patrick said, reading aloud.

“Is there something you wish to tell me, Coulter?” demanded a voice from the doorway. “Were you in fact treading the boards when you decreed that you must study, whilst I was reveling it up with my fellow scholars?”

Patrick carefully folded the letter and turned to face his unexpected guest.

“Is it an apparition? Surely the estimable Viscount Sumner is not standing before me at”—Patrick made a great show of checking the clock that hung above his desk before he added—“eleven o’clock.”

“Shut up, Coulter. My mother has come to town and you know what that means.” Viscount Sumner groaned, sinking into a leather armchair. A small, scruffy white dog followed, leaping nimbly onto Stephen’s lap before turning two circles and settling into a small coil.

“Good morning, Bidders,” Patrick directed to the small canine who had his back to Patrick. Clearly the dog had his master’s manners. “I will have Fletcher make up a room.”

“Very good of you.” Stephen propped his chin on one hand while he stared morosely into the fireplace.

“How many has she brought with her this time?” Patrick asked, reaching for his bottle of whiskey and pouring two healthy amounts into glasses. To hell with the hour! If ever two men needed a drink it was they.

“Ten, and three are sisters, but I fear more will follow,” Stephen replied, taking a large gulp of the whiskey Patrick had just handed him.

Stephen, unlike Patrick, had a mother who was still alive and seemed—in his opinion—hell-bent on making her son’s life one of abject misery. She often turned up with no warning, a full entourage of people and guests accompanying her, and invaded Stephen’s town house demanding attention. She was a larger-than-life, gregarious woman who had a zest for living that sometimes gave her only son palpitations.

“Actually, I like your mother,” Patrick said with a fond smile. She was the direct opposite of what his own very formal parents had been. Lady Sumner hugged and kissed Patrick whenever he was in hugging distance; she loved him like he was one of her own children. He remembered his childhood visits to the Sumner estates—they had been filled with love and laughter, something his own family life had lacked.

“Done!” Stephen said. “She is yours as of this moment.”

Patrick snorted, enjoying the burning feeling as the liquor traversed his insides.
How dare that little raven-haired witch give me the runaround
. His mind once again returned to Sophie and their passionate interlude last evening.

“I saw your countess last night. Actually, I rescued her from the clutches of that pernicious peacock of a cousin of hers,” Stephen said, still looking into the fire, which was a good thing as he couldn’t see the reaction his words had produced in Patrick.

“I must admit to having trouble thinking of Myles as a viscount.”

“Rescued?” Patrick questioned, taking the seat opposite Stephen.

“He really is a sniveling snot, Colt. Sort of reminds me of a reprehensible, repulsive rodent.”

“I think we have established your ability for alliteration, my friend,” Patrick said in clipped tones. “How did you rescue her?”

Stephen pulled his eyes from the fire at Patrick’s tone. He then looked at his friend for several seconds. There were few people who could read Patrick’s implacable gaze; unfortunately, Stephen was one of them.

“So that’s how the wind blows.” Stephen whistled softly.

“Don’t make me break your nose again, Sumner.” Patrick’s growl was fierce, which caused Bidders to lift his head and send Patrick a small beady-eyed glare.

“I would like to see you try,” Stephen drawled.

“I believe my house may be full, sorry,” Patrick added, his eyes now black as midnight and totally unrepentant. “Seems you will have to reside with your mother and her friends after all.”

“Bastard,” Stephen’s words held little malice as he stroked the soft fur of his companion.

“Now we both know that is not true,” Patrick said softly.

“Myles had her cornered on a terrace, seems she had gone out there to escape the sweaty masses and find a rare breath of fresh air. I walked out with the same intent and Myles had her up against the wall and seemed to be forcing himself upon her.” Stephen was quite pleased with the hiss of indrawn breath from Patrick as he finished speaking. To his knowledge, the man had never shown a genuine emotion for the fairer sex in his entire life.

“I’ll kill the little weasel,” Patrick hissed. “Rip his limbs from his body and use them to strangle his scrawny, sweaty, spotty little neck.”

“Now who is alliterating?”

“What?” Patrick barked as he grappled with his anger.

Deciding now was not the time to needle his large friend further, as his feelings for a certain luscious countess were obviously still very new, Stephen continued with his story.

“I went to stop Myles, but the countess beat me to it and lifted her knee into his groin, with deadly accuracy I might add,” Stephen said, wincing.