Earls Just Want to Have Fun (6 page)

She would have hit him if her hands weren't pinned. She hated him! Her conversation was tiresome? She didn't give a bloody shilling about her conversation. “Then try this
conversation
—let me up or I may have a go at murder.”

He chuckled softly, his sweet breath puffing out lightly on her cheek. Bloody hell! Now her skin was tingling. At any moment, she'd do something truly awful and pucker her lips for a kiss.

“Is that a threat?” he asked, sounding amused. No kissing. She would gut the bastard. “Do you even know who it is you're threatening?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say she did not care, but she bit the retort back because the truth was, she was curious.

“Maxwell Derring, Earl of Dane.”

She tried to bite her thumb, but his hand clamped more tightly on her wrist, reminding her he was holding her down. He'd rattled his name so quickly, she was not certain she'd understood. His name was Maxwell, but there was that second part. “Of the what?”

He let out a slow breath. “
Earl
of
Dane
. Do you know what an earl is?”

Oh, yes. She knew. Satin had schooled all of the cubs in the titles the great rum morts carried. There were the dukes, the barons, the knights, the earls. What were the other two? Marquess, and another… It didn't matter. They all meant the same thing.

Blunt. Lots of blunt.

And power.

This swell certainly had blunt, but it was his power that concerned her. What if he did have the right to imprison her? The rich seemed to have all sorts of privileges she couldn't even imagine. Maybe they had the right to sweep people off the streets and keep them locked up in their homes.

A change in his breathing drew her thoughts back to the present situation, back to the fact that he was pressing his hard body against hers. Every part of his body was hard… She bucked again. “No!”

They wrestled for a moment, and she managed to free one hand. She reached up to claw him, but he feinted to the side and then caught her wrist again. This time his grip was vicious.

“Ow!” she protested.

“Little hellcat! Stop trying to kill me.”

“Stop trying to rape me!”

“I'm not—”

“Ha! Your noodle is hard. I'm no bawd, but I know what that means. And I know where to aim my knee.”

“I have no doubt of that, but I assure you I have not, nor will I ever, take a woman against her will.”

“But your noodle—”

“My noodle. Yes, interesting term. I cannot help that. You see, the thing about noodles is they sometimes act on their own. I'm lying in bed, on top of a beautiful woman with all of the—shall we say—womanly attributes my…noodle appreciates. My body is merely showing its appreciation, even though my brain would prefer I throttle you than make love to you.”

“You think I'm beautiful?” She hadn't heard another word after he'd said that. No one had ever called her beautiful. Not even Gideon. In fact, she could count on one hand the number of times any one had ever called her anything other than a mort, a street rat, or a dirty thief. She might have kissed him just for the compliment.

“It's a moot point. If I release you, will you refrain from hitting or kicking me?”

Marlowe didn't know what a
moot
was, but she knew he hadn't answered her question. Perhaps he'd been using one of those metaphors he'd mentioned earlier and did not think she was beautiful at all. Men didn't have to find a woman beautiful to swive her. Marlowe knew dozens of bawds, and they were uglier than sin. At least she had all of her teeth, and her face wasn't marked by the pox. She didn't delude herself into thinking she could compare to the ladies she saw alighting from carriages on Bond Street or at Covent Garden. The Earl of whatever he was probably had one of those ladies in his bed every night. She felt her face flame with embarrassment to think she'd asked if he thought her beautiful. He was too polite to laugh in her face.

“Marlowe?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I don't know what you asked me, but I won't hit you. Just let me up.”

“I'm going to count to three.”

“Oh, bloody hell! Just let me up!”

“And on that mellifluous note, I release you.” As soon as he slid off her, she scrambled up and out from under him. She climbed to the far edge of the bed and sat on her haunches, ready to fight if necessary. The bastard still had her dagger. Now she had two items to filch. But she needn't have prepared for battle. He obviously didn't want her. He rolled off the bed and walked toward the hearth. A moment later, he'd lit two glim-sticks and poured himself a glass of some liquid. “Brandy?” he asked, raising a brow at her.

“Why?”

He looked heavenward. “I feel for your parents, Marlowe. I really do. When she meets you, Lady Lyndon will be so shocked she will no doubt faint dead away.”

Marlowe didn't have a response to that, so she merely watched as he poured a second glass of amber liquid and carried it to her. He moved with a grace she could appreciate, having lived with thieves who needed to be quick and agile. But this man was not quick. He moved slowly and with purpose and even beauty. There was something beautiful about the confident way he held himself. “Here.” He held one of the glasses out to her. She looked at his hand then back at his face.

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“I don't know. Because it's polite? Because I don't want to drink alone? Because you look like you could use it? Just take it.”

She took it and sniffed. It smelled like spirits.

“You've never had brandy, have you?” he asked, swirling his about. “It burns a bit going down, but then it warms you through.”

“Like gin?”

“Oh, you've had that, have you? Doesn't surprise me. A bit like gin but much smoother. Try it.”

She took a small sip, winced at the taste, and then felt the warmth spread through her. It wasn't bad. Much better than the gin Satin liked to drink.

“The verdict?” he asked.

“What?”

He gave her a half smile. “Do you like it?”

She shrugged. “I've drank worse.”

He laughed, and the sound surprised her. “High praise indeed. Now, my girl, I think we had better have a talk.”

“I'm not your girl.”

“And thank God for small mercies.” He took a seat in the chair she'd slept in, leaving her on the bed. “I just thought perhaps we might have a conversation like civilized people. You don't kick me or curse like…well, like yourself, and I will attempt not to throw you over my shoulder or pin you to my bed.”

“You like to talk, don't you?”

He grinned at her. “Some women find me charming.”

She merely blinked at that. He was handsome enough, but she had no use for men with charm. They usually wanted to charm guineas out of her pocket.

“Clearly, you don't find me charming.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Be that as it may, I want to propose a compromise.”

“Which means I agree to let you have your way and stop fighting.”

He opened his mouth to speak, probably to protest, but then he gave a small shrug. “I suppose that is what I mean. But there are benefits to staying the rest of the night.”

“What?”

He sat back now. “I can't talk to you when you look like you'll bolt at any moment. Not to mention, your boots are on my counterpane, and it was quite expensive.”

She climbed down off the bed and stood, arms crossed, on the other side, so the bed was a barrier between them.

“Thank you.”

“You were going to say what I get for staying.”

He seemed to consider for a long moment. “A huge breakfast.”

Oh, he was cruel, this one. Food was her weakness. She could have fought against anything else he said, but the thought of a full belly in the morning was almost more than she could resist.

“On any given day we sit down to oatmeal with sweet cream, bacon, kippers, cold veal pie, sausage, beef tongue—”

He went on, but she could hardly hear him for the ringing in her ears. Bacon? Sausage? Sweet cream? She could not begin to imagine so much food, much less for only one meal.

“Then there is fresh bread and rolls with butter, honey, marmalade, or jam made from cherries and apples, which we grow on our country estate. Of course, we have tea, coffee, or chocolate to drink.”

“Chocolate?”

He finished his brandy and grinned at her. “Have you ever had chocolate?”

“Course.” But she hadn't, and from the look on his face, he knew she was lying. When would she have ever had something so decadent as chocolate? Oh, but she'd heard of it. She'd listened to the curtezans talk about it, how they'd spent the night with some great rum duke and had chocolate to drink in the morning. Marlowe had thought they were lying. Apparently, it was true, and if she stayed,
she
could drink it in the morning.

He had her now. He might not know it—she wouldn't have made a very good thief if her every thought appeared on her face—but she could not leave without tasting the chocolate. “If I stay”—she must put up some resistance, mustn't she?—“then after we break our fast, I can go?”

He flicked his wrist, the sleeve of his fine white shirt floating up and back down gracefully. “That is Brook's decision.”

“Then where is he? I want to speak with him.” She started for the door and had her hand on the latch when she remembered the key. She turned to the earl. “Let me have the key.”

“So you can traipse about my house in the middle of the night, disturbing the servants, not to mention my sister and mother? No. You'll be enough of a shock in the morning.”

She put her hands on her hips, and for some reason, his eyes widened slightly. Well, let him see she could be as firm and stubborn as he was. She'd show him that he could not order her around. “Then you go find him and bring him back.”

“Eh?” he said.

She huffed out a breath. “I said, you go get him!”

His features, so handsome and genial, darkened then. He rose slowly, unfolding his body gracefully from the chair. Had he been this tall before? She suddenly felt rather scrawny standing in front of his door all alone.

“You, Marlowe, are not giving the orders.” He stalked toward her, and she felt like a dog cornered in an alley. Well, she couldn't just roll over and whimper. She'd have to prove she had bite. But she didn't want to make him too angry. There was sausage and bacon and chocolate to think of.

“Apparently, neither are you.”

His face hardened, and she knew her punch had hit him in the breadbasket. One thing she knew about men. They did not like their authority challenged. Satin disliked it so much that she'd seen him make some bloody fool choices only to prove he was the undisputed arch rogue.

She'd also seen Satin beat a man to death for a trifle.

She didn't think this earl would hurt her. She winced as his fist collided with the door beside her head. On the other hand, the night was not yet over…

She'd expected an explosion of pain in her jaw, but he hadn't hit her. She looked left then right, and noted he'd trapped her between his arms. Perhaps he was a bit more violent than she'd thought. “Listen, you little—”

She waited. “Hatchet-face?”

He frowned at her.

“Bundle-tail?” She was short enough that she'd been called that a time or two. “Harridan? Romp?”

“Are you helping me insult you?” Suddenly his face lost that dark, angry look, and the expression that replaced it made her far more nervous. She pushed back against the door.

“You seemed to need help.”

The hands that had been beside her head, pressed against the door, moved to her cheeks. She jumped at the unexpected warmth of his flesh and the gentleness that was completely foreign to her. “Who would call you all of those names?”

She couldn't explain why, but tears stung the backs of her eyes. She didn't know the last time she had cried, and it was certainly not over anything so low as being called a harridan. She blinked the tears away and pulled his hands off her cheeks. “Don't touch me,” she hissed, though she would have let him touch her more if he'd wanted. No one had ever touched her the way he did. “It's not your business who called me what, but I promise you, he'll do far worse to you if you don't allow me to go.”

“And back to this.” He sighed. “Marlowe, listen—”

“No,
Maxwell
. You listen.”

His face went dark and grim again, and she felt the strange tightness in her chest dissipate. Anger she could understand. That soft, pitying expression was to be avoided. And his touch. She could not allow him to touch her ever again.

“Do not call me that,” he ordered.

She frowned at him. He acted as though she'd insulted him. “That's your name, isn't it?”

“You call me Dane or
my
lord
.”

“I can think of a few other names for you.”

“I'm sure you can, and you may use them at your own risk. But do not call me by my Christian name. Ever.”

“Why? You call me by mine.”

“Because it's my right as your better.”

She snorted.

“You and I are not on intimate terms, and we never will be.” He said the last with his face so close to hers she could see the dark ring around the brown of his eyes. So that was why they looked so beautiful. The tightness in her chest was back again, and she pushed at him, increasing the distance between them.

“That suits me, cove. But if I have to call you
my
lord
, you better call me Miss Marlowe.”

He gave her a long look. He stared at her for such a length of time that she thought perhaps he'd had some sort of apoplectic fit and could not move again. “You really have no idea who it is you're dealing with, do you?”