Her Errant Earl

Scarlett
Scott

Victoria, Countess of Pembroke,
knew her marriage wasn’t a love match, but she certainly hadn’t expected to be
wedded, bedded and abandoned in the countryside. When her husband suddenly
returns bent on seduction, she’s suspicious of his motives, even though she
finds it difficult indeed to resist his knowing hands and hot kisses.

Pembroke can’t allow Victoria to
discover the real reason for his reappearance in her life. To get what he
wants, he’ll do anything, even if it means bedding the wife he never wanted.

But what begins as a tedious task
turns into a raging passion neither of them can deny. As the truth unravels at
last, they must choose between forgetting the past or allowing it to consume
them.

A
Romantica®
historical erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Dedication

For my family, with much thanks for their tireless support
of my dream.

England, 1877

Victoria awoke to the unmistakable thumps of footsteps
approaching her bed. It was devilishly dark in her chamber and she couldn’t see
a blessed thing. Her heart kicked into a frantic pace, threatening to gallop
from her chest. As horror churned through her, she reached for the nearest
weapon at hand, which turned out to be the novel she’d been reading earlier.
Fortunately, it had just enough heft to do damage. Blessedly verbose fellow,
that Dickens. As the unseen assailant approached her bed, she struck out in his
general direction.

Thwack.
She landed an appreciable blow in what she
hoped was the scoundrel’s face. How dare someone have the impudence to accost
her, the Countess of Pembroke, in her bed? Had the world gone completely to the
dogs?

“Blast it, woman,” came a masculine growl through the murk.
“I think you’ve broken my bloody nose.”

Dear God, she knew that growl, knew it better than her own
voice. It mattered little that she hadn’t heard it in months. The velvety
timbre hadn’t changed one whit. Nor had its effect upon her.

“Pembroke?” she asked though she needn’t have. “Is that
you?”

“Yours as ever, madam.” The voice was now muffled though
redolent with derision. “Although that was not precisely the welcoming I
expected.”

“You weren’t expected,” she pointed out, making a concerted
effort to squelch the sudden rush of exhilaration his appearance had stirred.
She could not allow him to see how very much he affected her.

“Nonsense. I live here.”

It had been five months, five months of hiding herself,
closing her ears to any hint of scandal containing his name. She’d done her
best to forget him, yet here he was, near enough to touch. And he dared to act
as though he’d never been gone.

“Indeed.” She crossed her arms and glared at him, summoning
instead the hurt and anger he’d dealt her. In the moonlight, she could discern
only his broad silhouette, and how she wished she could see more. “Is it
possible you’ve been hiding about in the kitchens with Mrs. Rufton for the last
few months?”

“When did you acquire such a sharp tongue, my dear?”

He sounded surprised by her ire, the rogue. She ought to
have broken his nose. It would have made a suitable punishment.

“One can take up any number of pursuits when abandoned in
the country.” She sighed. “Can you not at least light one of the lamps? I
dislike being at a disadvantage to my enemy.”

“Harsh words for your husband. Not even a kind remark or a
kiss from your lovely lips?” There was a scuffling sound as she presumed he
rooted about in search of a means to light one of the gas lamps.

That he would jest in such a moment of tumult infuriated
her. Had he no feeling? No compunction? No inkling of how he’d torn her down as
if she were no better than a crumbling garden wall?

“You’re more likely to receive a kiss from Mrs. Morton,” she
snapped.

“Who the hell is Mrs. Morton?” Light flared to life, making
her absentee husband visible.

He was beautiful as ever, the rotten cad, with thick brown
hair worn a bit too long, blue eyes, a hint of whiskers shading his strong jaw
and high cheek bones. Something inside her melted despite her firm
determination to remain impervious.

“Mrs. Morton is our housekeeper.” She took great care to
draw the counterpane up to her chin.

“What became of Mrs. Grimshaw?” He looked truly perplexed.
“Am I not to be made aware of changes in my own household? Why the devil didn’t
the steward tell me?”

“There is no steward at Carrington House. As you should
know, there hasn’t been one for some time. I wrote you a letter explaining Mrs.
Grimshaw had passed on to her rewards and that we were in need of a
replacement.” She couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. She had been
installed in his home for mere months and she already knew more of it than he,
who had owned it his entire life. “Very likely you never deigned to read it.”

“No steward? Bloody hell.” He had the decency to look a bit
shamefaced. “I’m afraid my secretary handles the bulk of my correspondence. I
shall take him to task for not keeping me aware of the comings and goings of my
estate.”

“Yes,” she agreed with feigned sweetness, “you certainly
should. I’m quite sure it isn’t as if you merely toss my epistles into the
dustbin the instant you recognize my penmanship.”

“I’ve never thrown away a single one of your letters.”
Pembroke frowned at her.

“Nor have you answered any of them.”

If bitterness laced her words, there was ample reason for
it. She’d been taught well by her mother how to treat her husband. He was her
lord, to be honored and respected above all. Her proud New Yorker parents had
gone to great pains to secure an English title for her with their wealth. But
Victoria was no longer an innocent miss who believed her husband cared whether
or not she even breathed. He had contracted for her as if she were a piece of
property and then promptly forgotten her.

He sat on the edge of the bed and her gaze slipped to his
hands. She recalled too well how they felt on her body. He caressed the line of
her leg beneath the counterpane and a giddy mix of anticipation and anxiety
soared through her.

“Victoria, I’ve missed you.”

The pronouncement shocked her. She didn’t trust him. Not one
jot. “You’ve arrived in the midst of the night to tell me you missed me?”

He shrugged as if he hadn’t a care. Perhaps he didn’t. “I
wasn’t aware there were rules for arriving at my own residence.” His hand
traveled back up her leg and lingered over her stomach, only the barriers of
bedclothes and fabric between them. “I know I’ve been remiss.”

She had been able to accomplish a great many things during
her time at Carrington House, yet she had not been able to become resistant to
her husband’s lure. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t fight him. “You may
continue being remiss. I have no wish for your company now or ever.”

He gave her a lazy smile, dimples bracketing his sculpted
mouth. “I’m afraid you’re about to suffer a great deal of my company.”

Pembroke was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen
on either side of the Atlantic, and the very worst part of this plain truth was
that he knew it. He had a knack for flirting, for giving stolen kisses in the
shadows of a ball. In short, he had a gift for making women love him. It was
difficult to resist his charm when he deigned to ply it, even if he collected
hearts the way some men amassed tomes in a library.

“You’ll be back in London in less than a fortnight,” she
predicted.

“I shall prove you wrong.” He startled her by moving his
caress to her cheek. His touch was gentle. It chipped at the careful boundary
she’d crafted between them. “Your hair is very lovely. Have I ever told you
that?”

“No.” She eyed him warily, wondering what he wanted from
her. There was a time when she would have welcomed his advances, when she’d
craved his smallest gesture. When she’d wanted to be more than the American
fortune he’d married. But that time had ended. “Sham flattery will get you as
far as traveling on a one-legged pony would.” Which was to say not at all, even
if she was slightly exaggerating.

“What of truthful flattery?” His hand lingered at her jaw, a
tantalizing reminder of how much she could want him if she allowed herself to.

“Please don’t.” He was treading dangerously close to her
heart. It was too bad, really, that she hadn’t realized what he was about until
it had been too late. He had done his best to woo her as though it wasn’t her
fortune he was after. She knew differently now.

“Don’t what?” He leaned closer, trapping her in his gaze.
“Don’t do this?” Pembroke lowered his mouth to hers for a slow, soft kiss. “Or
this?” He tugged the bedclothes from her grasp.

She wasn’t sure what was worse, his sudden amorous advances
after so long a silence or her traitorous reaction to them. Heady desire washed
over her. He cupped her breasts through the delicate fabric of her nightdress.
“Pembroke,” she protested, but her voice was exceedingly weak. She loved his
hands on her, always had. Her nipples hardened. She ached.

Oh dear heavens.

He grazed her lips with his again, exerting just enough
pressure to leave her hungry for more. “Have you missed me?”

“Not in the least,” she lied.

His mouth moved over hers with increasing insistence. She
opened for him, relishing the stroke of his tongue, claiming, leaving her
desperate for more. Her resistance was fast dissipating. She reached for his
shoulders, pulling him closer. He smelled divine.

“I want you,” he said against her lips.

The bold pronouncement sent a flurry of longing through her.
How was it that he could treat her as if she were no more important than a cup
of tea and still set her aflame? But even if her body and heart were turncoats,
her common sense remained suspicious of his motives. “Why now?”

“Why not now?” He gave her another maddening kiss.

“I cannot trust you,” she reminded herself as much as him.
“You’re a stranger to me.”

“Surely not so strange.” He slid her silken nightdress down
over her shoulder.

How many nights had she lain alone, dreaming of waking to
his tender embrace? Far too many to give in with such ease, her conscience
warned her. She did not wish to become a victim to his whims yet again. “You
mustn’t.”

“Ah, but I must.” Her husband’s mouth was on her neck,
kissing a trail over her bare skin.

She knew she had to steel herself against him. His brand of
persuasion was exceedingly intoxicating but she suspected the price would prove
dear. “When last I saw you, your tone was quite different,” she reminded him.

“Circumstances change.” He peeled the fabric away and kissed
his way down the swell of one breast.

“How could they have changed so swiftly?” Doubt continued to
linger, swirling with unease. She remained very vulnerable to him. “You made it
abundantly clear you didn’t want a wife.”

“I did no such thing,” he scoffed.

Victoria recalled all too well the awful argument they’d had
before he left for London. His words still stung, even with the intervening
time that had passed.
I married you because I had no other option besides
penury. My father demanded it. I bloody well never wanted a wife.

His father the duke held Pembroke’s purse strings, she had
discovered after their nuptials took place. The duke wanted his heir to settle
down, and he’d done what he needed to make certain the unruly Pembroke would
comply. He’d cut him off. Having satisfied the old man’s stipulation, Pembroke
had once again had no need for an unwanted wife. He’d left her behind in the
country and likely pretended as if she didn’t exist.

She’d somehow been foolish enough to believe he held her in
high regard, but he had merely been good at manipulation and getting what he
wanted. She had begged him to stay, and he’d simply looked through her as if
she were a piece of furniture in his study. Expendable. The reminder was like
stepping into a hip bath of cold water. She shoved at his shoulders. “Go away,
Pembroke.”

He rolled over onto his back, his big body stretched out
alongside hers, and heaved a sigh. “I can’t go away. I live here.”

“You live in London,” she countered.

“I live wherever I choose.”

She supposed he did. But he’d chosen to live as far away
from her as possible. Victoria straightened her nightdress and propped herself
up on her elbow to study her errant husband. “Why have you chosen to return to
Carrington House?”

He skewered her with a ferocious frown. “Why pepper your
husband with blasted questions when he’s just returned home? Should you not be
overjoyed to see me?”

Victoria considered him, wishing he was not quite so
handsome, not quite so compelling, not quite so arrogant. “No. I daresay I
ought not to be. If you think you can return here after mostly ignoring me for
the entirety of our marriage and expect a warm welcome, you are positively
delusional.”

“It’s only been a fortnight or so.”

Oh he was a vexing creature. “It’s been five months.”

“Dear me. Has it?” The look he directed her way was half
sheepish.

And then, like a sudden burst of light in a dark room, it
came upon her, the real reason for her husband’s return, for his presence in
her chamber, his teasing kisses and roaming hands. Her lips tightened and a
wave of fury hit her with so much force her body trembled with it. “You’ve
spent the money you received in the marriage settlement, haven’t you?”

He frowned. “Of course not.”

She didn’t believe him. “The duke has cut you off.”

“Lower your voice, my girl. You’ll have all the miscreants
belowstairs prattling about us.”

“I am not your girl.” Her outrage heightened at his blasé
tone. “The only miscreant in this house is you, Pembroke. Now leave me to my
slumber and find your own chamber. For that matter, go back to London. I don’t
want you here.”

“I daresay you’ll change your mind. Let’s not make a row of
it.”

She gritted her teeth and reached for the Dickens volume,
holding it aloft in threatening promise. “If you don’t get out at once, I’ll
give your nose another good, hard thwack with
Great Expectations
.”

Pembroke rose to a sitting position, raking a hand through
his already-disheveled hair. “You wouldn’t.”

She raised a brow. “I most certainly would. Now get out.”

* * * * *

Well good Christ, that had been an utter disaster. After
escaping more bodily harm at the hands of his wife, Pembroke found himself
alone in his unprepared chamber, which he generally disliked even when it had
been readied for him and which he vastly disliked when it had not. His valet
was likely still overseeing the unpacking of his carriage below, and he was
left ringing the bell pull for assistance. He hadn’t written ahead to warn of
his arrival, so he supposed it was mostly his fault. There hadn’t been time to
inform the servants. Moreover, he had wanted to surprise his wife.