This Earl Is on Fire (4 page)

“Why, yes. An astute observation. My uncle's less formal demeanor left its mark upon me, I'm afraid,” Boswick said from across the room. By the sound of it, he was pouring liquid into a glass. “I hope you forgive me if I made you uncomfortable. I'm not one to stand upon ceremony, but I will respect your wishes if you'd rather have your own physician. However, I do recommend that you remain here for another day, at least. Your injuries are severe enough that any strenuous activity might worsen your condition.”

The news sent a fresh spear of alarm through Liam. And even more disturbingly, his first impulse was to wish for the sound of Adeline's voice—
correction
—Miss Pimm's voice. He would do well to remember that she was a marriage-minded debutante. Weren't they all?

Which posed a conundrum: how could he avoid her if he remained here?

It wasn't as if he was frightened of Miss Pimm and her wiles. Since the age of eighteen, he'd worked hard at becoming unpalatable to respectable families. What he had not managed to accomplish on his own, the scandal sheets assisted with the rest. Of course, there were always those who were more eager to forgive his venial sins in favor of his title and wealth. As of yet, he did not know if Boswick was one of those.

The uncertainty of it left him with the sense of being a trapped animal and at their mercy.

“Water?” Boswick asked, nudging Liam's hand with a glass. “Or would you prefer something to ease the pain?”

“I'd rather remain clear-headed, but thank you.” Liam took the glass and lifted it—not without effort—to his parched mouth. When Miss Pimm had issued her final taunt earlier to hope that he wouldn't get too thirsty, a desire for water had all but consumed him before he'd faded into fitful exhaustion. Now, each sip felt like vindication. In fact, he would enjoy draining this cup in her presence, ending with a satisfied
ah
.

Unfortunately, lifting his arm high enough to drain it proved too painful. So he swallowed his last mouthful with a wince instead.

“Shall I send a missive to your physician?” Boswick asked as he took back the glass.

“No. That won't be necessary,” Liam answered, surprising himself. The truth of it was, he rather preferred Boswick's straightforward methods over his own physician, Fortier's, tendency to fuss.

“Then one to your family. Surely, they must be concerned by now.”

Liam shook his head, suppressing a wry grin. “My family and close acquaintances are accustomed to my frequent absences. Sending word would only cause undue alarm to my Aunt Edith. I would, however, appreciate if you'd send word to my steward, Mr. Rendell.”

“Rendell?”

Curious about the surprise in Boswick's voice, Liam asked, “Do you know of him?”

“Yes. In fact, we rented this house through Rendell. He was courteous and—out of respect—never once passed along the owner's name. Now, I can only presume this is your property.” Then Boswick recited the address in Knightsbridge.

Liam nodded as certain aspects of how he came to be here fell into place. “Then that explains the reason I ended up on your doorstep instead of my own. Sudgrave Terrace is my property—though my living quarters will be in the middle bay—for when I am in this part of town.”

“This part of town? How many houses do you own?” asked a familiar velvet voice from the doorway. Or at least, where he imagined the doorway stood. Liam wondered how long she'd been listening and if her curiosity about his estate was something he should be warned against.

“Adeline, you have better manners than that,” Boswick said in an undertone of reproof.

“Perhaps, but I wish that I'd lingered in the hall a moment longer, and then I would have heard you ask him, Father.” Her tinge of playfulness returned on a laugh. It had gone absent during the moments before they'd parted hours ago. Then she'd left Liam, irritated, in pain,
and
thirsty. Had her outrage over his supposed insult been part of an act?

“And what are you doing with that tray?” Boswick asked. “Here, let me help.”

Liam heard a small sigh in response, followed by a shuffled step and the clink and rattle of dishes.

“I managed to carry this all the way up from the kitchen,” she said with a lilt of evident pride. “I'm certain I could have made it three more steps, Father.”

An aroma filled the air. Something sweet and warm, with the barest hint of pear. Liam drew in a breath, feeling his chest expand more than before. He told himself that it had nothing to do with her presence, but more to do with the scent he caught. His stomach growled.

“Since you noticed that our guest was awake and still bustled in here without a word of greeting or to ask for an introduction,” Boswick chided, “I can only assume you've already exchanged pleasantries.”

That wry grin tugged at Liam's lips once more. Their
pleasantries
had been somewhat varied. He preferred the ones from the beginning of their acquaintance, rather than after their introduction. In fact, he would feel more at ease if he still thought she was a servant's daughter.

“Of sorts,” she answered, her tone clipped. “The earl awoke briefly—only long enough for a drink of water. Since he seemed ill-suited for company, I did not want to wake you, Father.”

Knowing that pain awaited him should he laugh, Liam fought the urge. Gentleman's daughter or not, he liked her razor wit.

Boswick cleared his throat. “Our guest might have required my assistance.”

“I sent her away with a desire for solitude,” Liam said in her defense. Though why he bothered, he didn't know. He should have let her be chastised by her father. After leaving Liam to suffer an unquenched thirst, she deserved it.

“Ah, that explains it then. I imagine you were in even more pain earlier, Wolford,” Boswick said, the gruffness gone from his tone. “Which leads me to my errand. I'll send a missive to Rendell posthaste.”

As Boswick's footsteps moved toward the door, Liam felt the ghost of an old manipulation rekindle his ire. Miss Pimm had not been told to leave the room. “Surely it would not be appro—”

“Father,” she interrupted, her voice turning colder by degree. “His lordship is worried that he will be forced into marriage with me if we are left alone. I pray that you would ease his mind in that regard.”

Boswick's footfalls stopped. He was quiet for a moment. “My apologies, Wolford. With a man in your condition, the thought had not occurred to me. Nor had it occurred to me that your experience might have been otherwise. And should that be true, I am sorry.”

The fact that Boswick read him so easily and spoke so sincerely left Liam feeling exposed. He shifted against the brace of pillows at his back.

“I will tell you, however,” Boswick continued, “that my daughter is too precious to give away to just any man. I would not use her either to gain an earl for the family or for any reason.”

Liam suddenly felt like a speck of mud. While typically an excellent judge of character, Liam might have faltered in this circumstance. The past tended to blur one's vision, he supposed. “Forgive me, Boswick. I meant no insult. You have every right to call me out.”

“No need,” his host answered, his tone straightforward, forgiving. “It is good for men to have an understanding of each other. That is the place where trust begins.”

Then Boswick's footfalls started again, echoing in the hall and down the stairs. All the while, Adeline said nothing. Liam knew she was still in the room because of the crisp scrape and clack of porcelain dishes moving from one place to the next.

It did not escape his notice that he'd insulted her as well. That was,
if
he chose to trust his host completely. He felt a sense that he ought to, and yet experience cautioned him from being too hasty. So for now, it would be best to pretend more faith than he could freely give.

“Are you as merciful as your father, Miss Pimm?”

“Perhaps.” Her tone was bland, revealing nothing. Then she hesitated, and in the pause, he heard a chair groan across the floorboards near his bedside. “I will forgive you on one condition.”

“What would that be?” he asked, wary. If he had a mirror as well as his eyesight, no doubt he would see that his complexion had gone pale.

“You must promise not to marry me.”

Relief came out on a puff of air that was part laugh. “You are a debutante in London for the Season. Your goal can only be to capture a husband.”

“I already explained that I will not have you. So please stop
volunteering
,” she teased, issuing a huff of feigned exasperation. “Besides, some debutantes might want to visit London solely for the adventure.”

“Adventure?”
He knew she must have still been teasing. “What adventure could be gained from attending a few balls and parties?”

“Plenty, if you've never been.” The playful note vanished, replaced by curtness.

But what debutante had never been to a ball? “Are there no assemblies in your village?”

“I have not had the inclination to dance at those assemblies.”

He felt his brow furrow beneath the bandages. He thought every young woman enjoyed dancing. Then again, perhaps she'd had an inferior master to train her.

He pushed that puzzle aside for the time being. “If you do not dance, then why would you want to attend a ball?”

“To see what it's like, of course,” she said as if he were a simpleton. “There is more than dancing at a ball, or so I've read.”

“True. A courteous host will have a card room as well. Otherwise, I see no purpose in attending.” His sardonic tone drew a small laugh from her.

“There is music, punch, terraces leading to garden strolls, and—”

“And scandal, if you're not too careful with that last one.” At his own words, Liam felt a jolt of inspiration hit him. If this was her family's first trip to town, then perhaps they weren't aware of his despicable reputation. He set about amending that. “And I know a thing or two about the topic. Simply read any issue of the
Standard
and you will see.”

“Are you a libertine?” The censure in her voice was a relief to him.

While his reputation was bad, he still possessed a shred of decency. “I do not prey upon the virtue of innocent young women, no.”

“Then what has earned you a place in the newspaper?”

“Many depraved acts that are too salacious for a debutante's ears,” he cautioned, dropping his voice a few notes. He sensed her utter revulsion of his character was only moments away. And then he would be safe from any designs she may possess.

“Hmm . . .” she murmured as if taking the matter under consideration. “Likely those include drinking to excess?”

He nearly laughed at her naivety. Getting foxed from time to time was the least of his sins. “Yes.”

“Gambling?”

“As often as I am able.”

“Horse races”—she breathed—“on Rotten Row?”

The alteration in her tone gave him pause. Her excitement was palpable, charging the air in the room. “Occasionally.”

“I imagine it's quite thrilling to snap the reins, urging your horse faster and faster.”

Liam frowned, not liking the turn of their conversation. “Precisely what do you hope to accomplish through these adventures?”

She didn't hesitate. “To prove myself capable of having them. Why else?”

Her answer puzzled him and caused him no small measure of concern. “Racing is a dangerous activity, even for a skilled rider. And for a woman, the scandal would ruin your reputation, resigning you to a life of spinsterhood.”

There. He might have laid on the warning a bit thick but felt this country miss needed it.

“And?” She laughed, undaunted. “If I have no desire to marry, then why should I not take as much adventure as I can while I am here?”

“Because you would also sully the names of your parents.” He cringed. That sounded far too similar to a quote from his harridan housekeeper, Mrs. Brasher.

“You are a veritable toller of death, Wolford,” she huffed, “using your bell and rope in an attempt to mute my enthusiasm. I will not have it. Now I shall think twice before mentioning any more from my list of adventures to you.”

He didn't like the sound of that. “You have a
list
?”

“For a man of questionable reputation, you know nothing of adventure,” she grumbled.

He opened his mouth, intending to tell her about the people who'd lost their lives on Rotten Row, but before he could, he felt her finger against his lips. The shock of it rushed through him, disassembling every word he'd been about to say, turning them all into formless syllables without meaning.

“No more dire warnings from you. I am going to attempt to feed you porridge. I do not know how well this will turn out, considering the water debacle and the fact that your whiskers are rather . . .” She drew in a breath and lifted her finger simultaneously as if she only now realized what she'd done. “. . . rather thick.”

Her voice dropped lower. Instantly, his attention and hunger dropped lower too.

“I'm not certain I like porridge,” he said, clenching his jaw and trying to draw his focus northward.

She paid no heed to his concern and instead brought a spoon to his lips. That sweet, creamy aroma filled his nostrils. Against his misgivings, saliva pooled in his mouth.

Then, obeying her wordless command, he opened. And then closed. A contented breath escaped his nostrils as his tongue pushed the warm, silky porridge against his palate. Such humble, simple fare and yet sumptuous. He swallowed, already eager for another taste.

“I think you
do
like it,” she said, her voice still low and now breathy.

It had an uncontrollably arousing effect on him. And considering their topic and current activity, it was peculiar to say the least. “More.”