In the Arms of an Earl (17 page)

She hadn’t realized she was clutching his hair until he gave a soft laugh and pulled away. She closed her eyes and listened to his breathing. His thumb drew a lazy arch just below her breast. She trembled, her arms now wrapped around his shoulders, which she clung to as if for salvation.

“We should both go to bed,” he murmured. “I will see you in the morning, and”—he swallowed, his heart still pounding hard against her chest—“perhaps we will play again. I do enjoy sharing a bench with you, my darling Miss Brooke.”

She gave a shaky laugh. Realizing she could now touch him as she liked, she shyly stroked the damp hair from his forehead.

“I suppose I am well and truly compromised.”

The thought should have struck her to the core with images of the torments awaiting her in hell for her unmaidenly behavior, but nothing but blissful euphoria overcame her.

He nodded, his expression teasingly concerned. “Aye. Well and truly.” He sighed elaborately, and shifted her on his lap, his hand dropping to her waist. “I suppose I will have to do something about it, before your father comes after me with the old Brown Bess hanging in his library.”

Laughing again, she nestled her head between his neck and shoulder, tears filling her eyes from the outpouring of love threatening to devour her.

“Papa would never use a gun. He likes you too much.” She felt his lips through her hair as he kissed her forehead.

“I have already spoken to your father.”

She looked directly into his eyes. The realization of what he meant soaked into her consciousness.

“When?”

“The other day, when you and your mother were arguing about what to serve for my supper.” He grinned, and she laughed at the silliness of it. “I should have spoken with you first, but you were insisting upon lamb, which is my favorite, so I went to him instead.”

She blinked back her tears. “What did you tell him?”

“You will have to wait until morning to see.”

She remained captive on his lap. She had no desire ever to leave her spot and tightened her arms around him. He pulled her closer, crushing her breasts against his chest.

“I cannot wait until morning. What did…what did Papa say?” Her voice was muffled by the pressure of her lips against his neck.

“He told me, ‘Take her away from us, Blakeney, and good luck to you! She’s a lazy wretch and will bring you nothing but misery.’”

Jane laughed in surprise at his teasing, and he joined her. He cupped her cheek with his hand, tilting up her chin to gaze down at her face. “He also said,”—and his voice lowered to a husky whisper—“‘Be careful with your heart. She’ll take it from you, and it will be lost forever.’”

Her lips parted in anticipation of the next kiss. Just as his breath melded with hers, she murmured, “And how did you respond?”

The pad of his thumb brushed her lower lip and dropped to her throat, which he caressed until she trembled. “I told him my heart was already lost.”

Closing the last bit of space between them, she pressed her lips to his, losing herself for another blessed moment. She would have stayed in his arms all night, forgetting everything else around her, but he had kept his wits.

“To bed, my darling,” he whispered, and for a moment, she thought he implied something else. Her heart skipped a beat, and she almost nodded, laughing a moment later at her confusion.

Arms linked, they left the drawing room. When they reached the stairs, she took one step before realizing he had not followed. She turned to see what detained him, but he motioned her forward.

“I will be up shortly,” he said. He held up his hand. “Look at me, Jane,” he whispered, leaning close and stroking her cheek. “I’m an old man, and you have me stumbling over my own feet.”

She kissed his palm the way he had kissed hers. “You are not so old,” she teased, remembering what Lucinda had said. She lingered on the stairs, holding his hand in both of hers. “Good night, Frederick.” Her heart pounded so rapidly she feared it would beat out of her chest. Part of her was relieved he showed restraint, but there was another part of her longing to explore all the mysteries his kisses only hinted at. Luckily, she would have the rest of her life to seek them out.

“Good night, sweetheart.” He brushed his sleeve across his damp forehead. She was puzzled why he still perspired when the house was quite cool. “I will see you in the morning.”

In the farmyard, a rooster crowed, causing them both to jump. She giggled. “It is already morning.”

He kissed her fingers. “Go to bed and rest. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day. Perhaps you will allow me another kiss.”

Despite a new bout of blushing, she didn’t avert her gaze. “Yes,” was all she could say. Before she could stop herself, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. She was aware of his gaze following her as she walked upstairs. Almost giddy with excitement and weak with desire, she crawled beneath the coverlet, overwhelmed with the possibilities of her future.

****

Frederick waited until her door closed and returned to the drawing room. He knew exactly where Mr. Brooke kept his fine sherry in the cabinet by the window.

Cursing his bad luck in not finding a glass, he unstoppered the bottle and took a small sip, wincing at his lack of proper manners. The pain continued to scourge his arm and shoulder, and he swore under his breath, biting his lip until he tasted blood. He took a deeper gulp, finally setting the bottle down while he waited for a mellowing of his nerves to take effect.

A sort of restlessness had overcome him, mixing with the dull ache in his arm. Always the dull, pulsing ache that came on so quickly but could disappear a moment later. He’d lain awake, trying to think pleasant thoughts, but sleep stayed out of reach. And then he remembered his best friend, George Olivier, covered in blood and gasping out his final wishes.

The battlefield was noisy and chaotic, and the French had kept the regiment under siege for days. George, the better soldier, had taken command of their unit when the major fell. Frederick could still hear the shouts and cries, and saw George above it all, barking orders and bringing up a fresh line to the front, to their certain death. With a single look, he’d ordered Frederick back, and Frederick had known he would never see his friend alive again.

The musket ball hit Frederick’s arm, and George had stumbled back to him. Frederick could still see the anguish in his eyes, the snarl of agony on his face. He’d barely reached Frederick’s side when the second volley meant for Frederick struck him down.

He hadn’t realized he was crying. He swiped his shirt sleeve across his face, weak and trembling. No matter how quiet the room he was in or how peaceful a scene, he could never forget. Memories of the terrible day visited him every night, unless he had laudanum or a stiff drink to quell them.

But there was little relief tonight. He’d already drained the last of the laudanum he’d brought and would have to seek some more in Weston on the morrow. In the meantime, he would make do with Mr. Brooke’s sherry. He didn’t think his host would notice and intended to send a case of it to Hartleigh after he returned to London.

Guilt washed over him, mixing with the alcohol’s dull fire. Jane had either been awake already or heard him stumble his way downstairs in the dark and had decided to investigate. He’d hastily sat at the pianoforte in the guise of coming down for a midnight practice, so as not to arouse her suspicion.

The shameful memory of how she’d found him at Everhill still weighed on his conscience. He’d never drunk himself into a catatonic state before, but sometimes, his painful memories caught up with him until he could neither stifle nor hide them. Unable to lash out at anyone to ease his despair, he turned his helpless rage inward, until it bubbled out of him, like molten lava—unstoppable and inevitable.

He buried his face in one of her mother’s quaint little pillows. Taking slow breaths, he waited for the cramping muscles to ease. But his spirit hand would not be quelled tonight. The tingling fire spread throughout his forearm and to his wrist, ending at the tips of his invisible fingertips. He groaned into the pillow, his entire body tensing and then relaxing as he forced a calmness he did not feel.

The floorboards creaked outside the door. He sat up and dropped the pillow. Had she come back downstairs? He wanted to prevent getting too close to her physically before they married, but she’d been irresistible. While she was in his arms, the pain had seemed to pass, or at least, fade a little. The kind of comfort he couldn’t find anywhere else he’d found in her.

The tired face of Mr. Brooke’s workman appeared around the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, there’s a rider from London outside. Says it’s most urgent.”

Frederick rose from the couch and strode past him into the cold outdoors. The rider handed him a note while the workman held a lamp aloft by which he could read.

“Hope it’s not bad news, sir,” the workman murmured, as Frederick wobbled unsteadily on his legs, a result of too much sherry and not enough sleep.

His sister-in-law’s smudged handwriting leapt from the page, an almost childish scrawl in the desperate message it conveyed. Frederick shut his eyes for a moment.

“It is. The very worst news, I’m afraid.”

He gave swift orders for a horse. There was no time to awaken Jane and explain. In a quiet voice, he gave instructions to the workman about his trunk and hurried to Mr. Brooke’s study. He scribbled a quick note and dashed outside to mount the waiting horse.

In a few lines on a page, his life had changed forever. The euphoria he’d found in Jane’s arms was over.

Chapter Sixteen

“What do you mean, Frederick’s gone? He didn’t even say goodbye!” Jane blinked back stinging tears. She’d gone to sleep with dreams filled with love and had awakened to a nightmare. “He had another week…we meant to walk to Weston…”

“You spent far too much time with him, if you ask me, my girl,” her mother said. “A third son…one-armed, at that…without a fortune, without…”

“He left you a note, Jane,” her father mercifully interrupted. “He received word early this morning that his brother’s illness has worsened. He left before dawn.”

“Harrumph,” her mother snorted. “The earl will pass without an heir, and your Colonel Blakeney’s nowhere near in line to inherit. It shall all go to the second brother. Now, he’s the one you should meet, Jane.” She perked up. “Where did the colonel say his brother lives? The Indies? Where Rosalind’s pearls are from?”

Jane had already taken the letter from her father and collapsed on the bench where she had spent the happiest moments of her life the night before. Nausea welled up inside her, and she feared she would be sick all over her mother’s carpet. What if the day before had been a mistake, and he was rejecting her kindly? Perhaps the tenderness in his eyes had been a ruse, a mere trick to steal a kiss from one who had so easily kissed before…

Tears blurred her vision as she stared at the note. The letter contained only a few words, written on her father’s good cream-colored foolscap with his best pen and the blackest India ink. Frederick’s writing slanted, just like hers, and he signed his name exactly the way she’d thought he would.

Marry me. Frederick
.

She raised her tear-streaked face to her father, who wore a satisfied look.

“He spoke to me yesterday, while you and Mamma were in the parlor. He has a sound fortune, though only being a third son.” He darted a glance at his wife, who stared at them both as if she didn’t recognize them. “I gave him my permission, and gladly. He will be a fine addition to your collection of wealthy sons-in-law.”

“What is all this? Mr. Brooke, to whom have you given your permission and for what task?”

Jane leapt from her seat and threw her arms around her mother, kissing her soundly on the cheek. “I’m going to marry Frederick!” she cried. When her mother simply stared at her, she exclaimed, “Colonel Blakeney!”

“Mr. Brooke! Are you going to stand there and listen to this? I know Jane’s not had any suitors before, but to throw your last unwed daughter at a man who’s not whole, a man who…”

“I know not to what you are referring, my dear, but Frederick Blakeney is as whole a man as I’d ever wish to call son. Jane loves him, and he loves her, and that is whole enough.”

“Well, how much has he a year? Surely, Jane can do better than a poor soldier.”

“I have been most assured he has more than Copeland and slightly less than Shelbourne.” He patted Jane’s arm. “Write him back, quickly, and we’ll send your letter with the afternoon post.” His eyebrows arched. “Although I am quite certain he already knows your reply.”

Before he’d finished speaking, Jane hurried into his study. Among the many items on his desk lay the other half of the foolscap Frederick had used. She laid her hands gently on the paper. He had touched this desk. Had sat upon this very chair. All the poetry Frederick had read came back to her. She sought to take inspiration from him, struggling to find the right words…the ultimate response to the ultimate question.

After a quarter hour, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and very carefully wrote,

Dearest Frederick, yes. Jane
.

She blotted the paper and folded it, addressing it to Falconbury Park, London
.
She held the letter to her lips, kissing the spot where she’d written his name.

****

The clock springs wound with a subtle grinding of gears and chimed the time. Dawn was an hour away. Unable to sleep, Jane stared up at the ceiling. Her letter must have reached Frederick days ago, but she’d received no answer.