What an Earl Wants (7 page)

She was no young girl, but the extraordinary beauty of her
youth had for the most part stayed with her as she moved through the years,
softening a bit about the edges, her blond hair lighter now that it was streaked
with silver, her blue eyes alive and sparkling even as small laugh lines framed
them. Her chin and swanlike neck remained those of a much younger woman, perhaps
because of the queenly way she held her slim, fit body erect, perhaps because a
crafty Mother Nature had decided a determined chin was the only warning a sane
man should need.

There was, Gideon had decided long ago, a true dearth of sane
men in England.

The Dowager Countess of Saltwood had been married to her late
husband at sixteen, had borne her only child at seventeen, buried her husband at
twenty-one and been terrorizing society ever since. First it was her son’s
guardian who had learned Beatrix Redgrave may not have been in control of her
life for those twenty-one years, but she was in control of it now, even if she’d
had to bed and then blackmail her son’s guardian to do it until the underage
earl reached his majority.

Marriage, to the widowed countess, was little more than a way
for men to control women, beget heirs and have someone to satisfy their base
desires when they were too lazy or cheese-paring to seek out a whore. Beatrix
would not willingly put her head in the marital noose again, although she had
rather elevated the discreet taking of lovers to a sort of art form. Reportedly,
thanks either to her late husband’s prowess or her own appetites, she was very
good at what she did, but whether she truly enjoyed what she did was her secret.
Her grandchildren rather thought she did, or she wouldn’t
indulge
herself quite so much, although they were secretly appalled
that she continued to indulge now and then as she drew ever closer to her
seventieth birthday.

Mostly, with the marked exception of her grandsons, Trixie,
Gideon believed, loathed men as a clearly inferior species.

Now, wafted along on dainty slippers and a soft cloud of the
intoxicating scent that was her own special mix, she held out her arms to her
oldest grandson, allowing him to capture and kiss her hands. He did take her
hands in his, but only so that he could pull her closer, lean in and kiss both
her artfully powdered cheeks.

She tilted her head and smiled archly. “Oh, so very
vaillant.
You must cut a wide swatch through the
ladies with that little trick.”

“I can only do my best.”

“Yes, and I hear you do your best quite a lot, you naughty
scamp. I can excuse Lady Malvern, I suppose, as she’s passably attractive, save
for those unfortunate ears. They’re not her fault, and she usually has the good
sense to keep them covered. But the widow Orford? Honestly, pet, that woman’s so
tight in her ways, I fear for your eventual progeny. She could take you in and
snap you right—”

“Trixie,” he interrupted quickly before his own grandmother
could put him to the blush, “what the hell are you up to this time?”

He had to give her credit; she didn’t attempt to dissemble, bat
her kohl-darkened lashes and trill, “But whatever do you mean?” No. She simply
smiled that smile that had her clear blue eyes sparkling.

“You mean Reggie, don’t you? Max never could keep a secret. I
gave the duke a good run, more than he deserved. But I can’t simply let him die
peacefully in his bed, now can I? Lilyann Smithers, late of Bath, Tunbridge
Wells and the beds of whomever, soon to be the next Wickham duchess? Delicious!
Just think, pet. Reggie condemned us Redgraves as not being fit for a peerage,
and now his heirs will henceforth descend from a whore who’s been sat in more
than any village barber chair, if you take my meaning.”

“I do. I’d go so far as to ask you to tell me where you heard
that description, but then you’d tell me.”

“Most probably. In any case, she’s been instructed to tell
Reggie of her great and most helpful friendship with me when her husband first
introduces her on their return from Gretna. That’s part of our bargain, and I
paid dearly for it. Modistes, tutors. Why, I myself taught her the intricacies
of proper behavior at table. Comely girl, biddable and really quite fetching,
but shocking table manners. In any case, she’s turned into a tolerable silk
purse, thanks to my attention, but the sow’s ear of her former, shall we say,
occupation?
That will soon come to light. I’ll
enjoy knowing Reggie will take that realization to hell with him.”

“I can see you’ve put considerable planning into the duke’s
downfall. Who was it said it’s women who most delight in revenge?”

“I have no idea, but I should have, because it’s true. You men
haven’t the proper appreciation for a well thought-out revenge. I do know the
source of my most favorite quote, if that helps you in any way. The dear Pierre
Laclos, in his marvelously naughty
Les Liaisons
dangereuses,
warned, ‘Old ladies must never be crossed: in their
hands lie the reputations of the young ones.’ Something to keep in mind, pet,
although I would protest I’m not yet old. I suppose I will be, someday, but in
my mind and heart, I’m only a girl.”

“You were as ancient as sin in your cradle,” Gideon told her,
earning himself a playful tap on the forearm as they sat down beside each other.
“And if I recall correctly, it ended badly for the conspirators in that immoral
tale.”

“Ah, but they were all French. Give me credit for being smarter
than any Frenchman, if you please. They chop off heads. How gauche! I’m much
more subtle. Now, if you aren’t going to cut up stiff with me about a paltry
thing like the soon-to-be late duke—and trust me, his is a paltry thing indeed
and sadly lacking in talent—why are you here?”

Gideon smiled sadly. “I’m not certain I remember. Perhaps it’s
been too long since I’ve felt dizzy, turned around and around by a crafty old
woman who should be minding her knitting.”

“Or her grandson’s children, whom I’ve little hope of at the
moment, sadly. Don’t think the widow Orford will give you sons. Her womb has to
have shriveled to nothing by now, as she’s at least fifteen years your senior.
Really, Gideon, what could you possibly have been thinking, to bed her?”

“Lucile and I aren’t lovers, Trixie. You shouldn’t put credence
in every rumor.”

“You’re not tipping her? You greatly relieve my mind. But then,
for God’s sake, why
are
you seeing her? You’ve
squired her around the Park at least twice in the past week, and you’ve stood up
with her at balls three times. No, four, I nearly forgot Suffolk’s flat affair
this past Thursday. It can’t be for her conversation, her wit. She possesses
neither.”

“Her late husband was one of my father’s cronies. I was
interested in the manner of the man’s death last year. She’s just out of
mourning, remember? Cultivating her friendship and confidence seemed the easier
way of learning the particulars that might not have become public
knowledge.”

“Particulars concerning the manner of his— How perfectly
morbid
of you. Gideon, why would you even care about a
thing like that?”

She was so good at playacting. Nibbling around the corner of
the subject would get him nowhere; she was too proficient in deception to be
caught out so easily. Which left the direct approach. “My father’s fellow
members of that damn Society of his have been dying with alarming frequency of
late, Trixie, all of them in a variety of accidents or other misfortunes.
Orford, for one. Lady Malvern’s uncle, Sir George Dunmore, for another. I know
they were members because they all wore the rose. Are you killing them?”

Her response was swift. She slapped him hard across the
face.

He lifted a hand to his burning cheek. “I believe I should be
remiss if I didn’t point out that’s not an answer, madam,” he told her
coldly.

“Perhaps not, but it was most deserved. What’s going on,
Gideon? I’d decided not to ask about the stickpin, waiting for you to tell me,
which you would have done eventually. Thank God you’ve stopped. I was not,
however, expecting you to come to me today with an absurd inquiry more suited to
a man possessing less of the strong intelligence for which I’ve always given you
credit.”

“Forgive me. I only learned of your plans for Wickham this
morning and probably acted hastily. But twenty years, Trixie? It all happened so
long ago. Why bring down the ax now?”

“Because he’s going to die soon, of course. I settled the
others immediately. And, lest you’re confused on that head, I
killed
none of them. If I made it advantageous to them
to destroy themselves, that was their decision. Save Perkins, who is still
living in his disgrace in prison.”

“Not prison, Trixie. You’re losing your touch if you didn’t
hear he’s slipped his mind entirely, and is now raving in some small cell in
Bethlehem Hospital.”

“Delicious! May he survive another two decades and sleep every
night in his own filth. But we’re speaking of Reggie now, aren’t we? My mistake
with the others was moving too quickly. They barely had time to realize their
error in threatening me.”

“Much more satisfying to destroy them an inch at a time?”

“Now you understand, and with all the inches reserved for the
duke since the others were gone. Reggie’s known nearly from the first he’s on my
string, and I’d tighten it one day. He simply never knew when, or how. You’ve
never had anyone at your beck and call, have you, eager to do you any
service—
any
service, Gideon. Able to pick that
person up and then put that person down, time and time again. To listen to the
pleas for your favors, the piteous weeping when made aware there are others to
whom you’re at times bestowing those favors. Imagine that person suffering,
loving so deeply, desperately, yet living constantly in fear that one day the
blade will fall. It’s heady stuff. I may have grown a touch lazy over the years,
as well, content to flaunt the jewels he gives me beneath his wife’s nose as he
watches in horror, fearing I’m about to tell her from whence they come.”

She shrugged her slim shoulders eloquently, almost sadly. “Or
perhaps I grew somewhat fond of the man over time. I’m not completely heartless.
But in the end, Gideon, the bill always comes due, the piper has to be paid.
It’s Reggie’s time to learn the full cost of his crime against the Redgraves,
and most especially my grandchildren, who he would have stripped of lands and
title. That is not a small thing, Gideon, and never forgivable. Although I
suppose I may miss him. A little
.
”

Gideon lowered his head, unable to look into Trixie’s
tear-bright eyes. “I beg your pardon. I had no right to suspect...to question
you. My only excuse, lame as it is, is that I’ve lately been under some
duress.”

“I forgive you, pet. And I’ve indulged you this one time, but
you must never again question me. You would rarely like the answers. I’ll surely
burn in hell one day along with Reggie and so many others, but that is my
concern, not yours.” The countess took his hand and lifted it to her lips. “You
children are my weakness, you know, and always have been, from the day your
father died and Maribel fled the country. Now, tell me more about these
mysterious deaths. And why you took to wearing that damnable rose.”

CHAPTER FIVE

J
ESSICA
STOOD
IN
HER
USUAL
place, the one she’d long before decided provided
the best vantage point from which to observe the gaming room. She smiled and
nodded absently to the gentlemen from time to time, although never
encouragingly, as it didn’t take much for some of them to believe she’d offered
a more intimate acquaintance.

They were rather thin of company this evening, and unless more
guests arrived in the next hour she might consider eliminating the second supper
and close the doors to newcomers at two. It had been a long time since they’d
made an early night of it, and she was looking forward to her bed.

Doreen had already left her post at the door to help with the
first supper, but Jessica didn’t have to sit in at Richard’s chair at the faro
table so that he could take the maid’s place. Not now that Seth was being taught
by Doreen and Richard as to how to go on. His imposing size seemed to be enough
to “go on” with so far. His open smile and boyish face, when put in contrast
with his enormous frame, sent a clear signal: we’re delighted to see you, but if
you don’t belong here or don’t behave, I will cheerfully hold you up by your
heels while I carry you outside to bounce your head on the cobblestones.

Richard had somehow procured a decent suit of clothes for the
boy, although the jacket did seem to strain at the shoulder seams, and Doreen
had explained—undoubtedly in her usual excruciating detail—about the need to be
careful as to who was admitted to the house. It would take him some time to
become familiar with the usual faces, but he’d learn. Doreen, bless her wise
Irish eye, could spot a constable at thirty paces.

Being hauled off to the guardhouse for operating an illegal
gaming house was to be avoided at all costs! As far as her neighbors and most of
the world was concerned, Jessica and her “Uncle Richard” held nightly soirees
for those of an intellectual nature—the reading of self-composed bits of poetry
and literary criticism, etc.

Richard had actually penned an “Ode to Dame Fortune;” he then
had ordered the thing framed, personally hanging it in the ground-floor foyer.
He thought it a fine joke.

After glancing at the mantel clock to see it lacked only
fifteen minutes until eleven, Jessica surreptitiously rubbed at her right
temple, hoping to ease the headache that had followed her back to Jermyn Street
and still stubbornly refused to vacate the premises.

Her brother was a twit. A fool. An uncanny reflection of his
brainless, flighty mother. Worried for his soul, Jessica had thought to rescue a
nearly grown version of the sweet, shy, delightful Adam she remembered, only to
come face-to-face with a simpering, posturing jackanapes rigged out like some
Tatony pig, and displaying a similar intelligence.

Her only solace was the look of aggrieved pain on the earl’s
face when Adam had presented himself in the drawing room. She had thought her
sweet brother was in imminent peril of being corrupted by those scandalous
Redgraves. Instead, if anyone was in any danger in that new association, she
would have to lay odds Gideon Redgrave would be the first to run screaming into
the night, begging rescue.

Jessica covered her smile with her hand. Poor Gideon. She’d
handed him an easy escape, and he’d gotten his back up about her demand and
refused. By rights, when he showed up here tonight—if he dared—she’d have to ask
him if he symbolically carried his nose with him in a small velvet bag...having
sliced it off to spite his face.

Still, she felt dreadful at having so quickly deserted the
sinking ship that was Adam. It had been the shock of it; that had to be the
reason. It wasn’t as if the boy was mean or evil. He had simply left the nursery
and become a nincompoop. If there could be any pleasure in that knowledge, it
had to be that their father must have been yanking his hair out by the roots
each time he contemplated his fribble of a son.

But that’s what happens when you wed a nincompoop nearly thirty
years your junior for her looks and her fertile womb. You had then set yourself
up for fifty-fifty odds of her giving birth to a nincompoop. Really, you’d think
more men would consider this.

Of course, that also meant he’d gone into the union with
fifty-fifty odds she would have produced a likeness and disposition that
mirrored his own.

Either way, Jessica realized now, too late, whatever way Adam
was to go, he’d already gone there in the five important, formative years she
had been separated from him, and there was no going back.

And there really wasn’t anything anyone could do to
undo
those five years. She’d be overweeningly
ambitious to believe otherwise.
Which would likewise mean
there could be nothing the Earl of Saltwood could do to corrupt or correct
Adam,
she thought, and then mentally added to that thought:
something else that might have occurred to you considerably
sooner.

In short, if she’d been less of a sentimental goose and more
hardheaded earlier, she would not have just passed through the most
excruciatingly embarrassing twenty-four hours of her existence, or be standing
here now in her same black hostess gown, attempting to look unconcerned that the
clock had just begun chiming out the hour of eleven, and the exasperating man
was nowhere to be seen.

And still she hadn’t told him what he needed to know about
Adam. What he must know, why she had been so willing to sacrifice herself...and
ended making a total fool of herself.

She would have thought, if nothing else, the earl was a man of
his word. But perhaps not. Dangling a word like
murder
and coupling that word with
your
father
should not be done lightly, not if the person doing the
dangling didn’t mean to follow through with some explanation, for pity’s sake.
Had the man no notion of what was correct?

Jessica rolled her eyes. Of course he did. He was the earl.
She
was the one operating an illegal gaming
house. Then again, being an earl only proved he knew what was correct. It didn’t
naturally follow that he’d do the correct thing.

Not that she cared. Except for the
murder
and the
your father
portions of the business.
It wasn’t as if she ever wanted to see Gideon Redgrave again. Because he was an
annoying man. Extremely annoying. Unsettling. So cocksure of himself. Why, it
put her teeth on edge, just thinking about him.

But he had apologized about the rose. Why had he done that? Why
had he worn it in the first place? Who was this man?

If only she could stop thinking about him....

“Jess, he’s here.”

“Hmm?” she said as Richard’s roughly whispered words penetrated
the introspective fog that was now her mind. She mentally shook herself back to
the moment and turned her gaze to the landing in time to see Gideon once more
looking perfectly put together, as if he’d just stepped out of a bandbox. He
really was remarkable—a dazzling mix of precision and nonchalance, his dark
handsomeness vying with his studied reserve.

She wondered if all women felt as she did when she saw him: how
delightful it would be to see him discommoded, disheveled, vulnerable.

At her mercy.

Oh, dear, where had that thought come from?

Jessica lifted a hand to her high-necked bodice, perhaps to
still her rapidly beating heart, and pasted a welcoming smile on her face as she
crossed the room to where Gideon still stood, clearly playing Master of the
Domain.
Her
domain.

“I warned you not to wear armor,” was his greeting, spoken
quietly, yet reverberating inside her as if she’d suddenly grown harp strings
inside her chest and he’d just plucked them.

The arrogance of the man! “And I did not, not this morning.
Your ridiculous state of near undress to one side, I was nothing but presentable
when I dared cross your threshold. Tonight, however, you are the guest, and what
I wear is of my concern, not yours.”

His smile, so unexpected, nearly had her rocking back on her
heels. “Perhaps we should give your brother the dressing of both of us. He’s
convinced he’s in the very first stare of sartorial perfection.”

Jessica couldn’t help herself; she returned his smile. “I fear
even your immense consequence could but crumble beneath the addition of a puce
waistcoat, my lord. As for me, I’d rather go na—”

Gideon leaned in as if to hear her better. “Pardon me, I didn’t
quite catch that? You’d rather what?”

“Could we possibly be serious, sir?” she asked, drawing herself
up to her full height, which still made her feel small and insignificant in his
presence. She wasn’t used to that. Her stature had always been a blessing, she’d
thought. Why, she was taller than at least a quarter of the men in this room,
including Richard.

“I rather thought I was being serious. You do know it’s
inevitable, don’t you? You and I, that is. I won’t even point out it was you who
began this intriguing dance of ours.”

“I apologize for that,” Jessica said quietly, shooting her eyes
from side to side, praying no one could overhear them and this damning
discussion. “Profoundly.”

“Ah, but not profusely. Profusely would be nice.”

“In that case, Gideon, I most
profusely
apologize for apparently goading you into the ridiculous
display of ungentlemanly behavior I was so unfortunate as to witness this
morning. You must feel so ashamed.”

He tilted his head to one side as he contemplated her, seemed
to be measuring her in some way. “You’re not lacking in intelligence, are you?
Or brass. There are few who would dare to speak to me so.”

“Perhaps if more did, you wouldn’t be so insufferably smug. I’m
not afraid of you, Gideon. As to this absurd idea of anything between us being
inevitable,
I should point out that I have
absolutely
no
interest in— Let go of me.”

“Don’t cause a scene,” he said, his grip on her arm looking to
the casual observer to be one of easy familiarity, when in fact she swore his
fingertips were crushing her bones as they walked straight cross the room to the
doorway leading to her apartments. “We don’t want to rouse Richard’s suspicions.
He’s got thirty years on me—it wouldn’t be a fair fight. And I’ll remind you,
Seth is mine, not yours. Smile, Jessica. Let everyone know you’re just
fine.”

“This is absurd. You...you’re kidnapping me in my own house,”
Jessica whispered angrily, even as she saw the sense in not alarming
Richard.

Richard paused in the act of drawing in the cards for a
reshuffle. “You’re going upstairs?” he asked worriedly.

“We’ve some business to discuss, yes. I shan’t be long.”

“Very good,” Gideon complimented as she concentrated on
inserting the key in the lock she’d earlier made sure was engaged this evening,
which wasn’t a simple matter considering he had hold of her right arm and her
left hand was shaking with nerves.

Once the door was open and he was forced to release her arm in
the narrow hallway, she lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs, thinking to
slam the upper door in his face.

Which he appeared to realize, as he stayed so close behind her
it was impossible to implement her admittedly less than hopeful plan.

Once inside the small sitting room he took hold of her arm
again, swinging her about so that her body was fairly slammed against his, his
face not two inches from hers.

“Now, you were saying?” he asked her smoothly.

She was? She’d been saying something? What had she been saying?
Dear Lord, she couldn’t remember! He was so close. His smile was so...intimate.
Mocking. Inviting. Infuriating. Intriguing...

“Can’t remember?” he asked her, his arms somehow having slid
around to her back, holding her in place, one hand high, between her shoulders,
the other lower...provocatively lower. “Let me refresh your memory. I had been
saying what will happen between us is inevitable, and you were protesting that
you disagree, you harbor absolutely no interest—in what, Jessica? In this?”

He swooped in like a bird of prey, capturing her mouth just as
she opened it to say—what? What could she possibly say?

Oh, my.
She could say that. If his
tongue wasn’t in her mouth, she could say that. If his right hand wasn’t so
skillfully cupping her bottom, bringing her into intimate contact with the
evidence of his arousal. If her eyes hadn’t closed on all remnants of sanity
left to her, if her heart weren’t beating so wildly, if her arms hadn’t entwined
themselves about his neck...if the world hadn’t suddenly gone mad.

She was left gasping for breath when his mouth left hers to
traverse new ground, exploring her ear, the sensitive skin behind that ear, the
length of her throat as she tilted her head to allow these further inroads on
her sanity, let alone her common sense.

Never. She’d never experienced anything like this sudden fierce
onset of desire, this curious tightening between her legs that had nothing to do
with hoping to hold off an inevitable cruel invasion.

Gideon was cupping her breast now, rubbing his thumb across the
stiff material of her gown. She gritted her teeth, wishing away the fabric,
feeling her nipple straining for a more intimate touch. Perhaps his touch would
be different. Perhaps his mouth more knowing, less harsh, taking this budding
physical arousal her body seemed to understand and nurturing it, not turning it
to pain and humiliation and tears.

There has to be something more,
her
mind promised her,
or else women like Mildred wouldn’t be
so eager to partake in it, time and time again. Perhaps it wasn’t me but
James who was the sad failure.

Jessica felt herself being lifted off the floor and high
against Gideon’s chest. She buried her head in his shoulder as his long strides
took them across the room. He turned to his left.