Kiss the Earl (17 page)

Do not blame Father, for he does not know what I am about. I dare not write more, in case this letter is intercepted. Know that I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and all will be well.

Yours,

Amelia Brownstone

Stuffing the letter in his pocket, Patrick stood and headed toward the house. Miss Briley would be going home, Amelia would marry her vicar, and he would be alone. It was as things should be, and he knew there was no need to pretend otherwise.

The hydrangea blossom had fallen to the floorboards of the gazebo, crushed beneath Patrick's boot.

As Mrs. Templeton dumped a bucket of water over Ella's soapy hair, Ella tried really hard to analyze the feeling that was currently rampaging through her brain.

It wasn't lust, because that had died a quick death the instant Patrick had turned and left her alone with Mrs. Templeton.

“There, now, just let me pour another bucket over your hair and it'll be rinsed. Such lovely hair you have, miss, thick and long, even though it's colored oddly.”

“Thanks,” Ella murmured, only halfway paying attention. Weirdly enough, her sickness had gotten her used to people helping her with the simplest of tasks.

The feeling wasn't anger either, although she was irritated with Patrick for leaving her the way he had. She hoped she hadn't imagined the way his pants looked kind of tight across the front as he'd run from the room like a panicked gecko.

“Ah, much better now. A bath is good for a body when they've been ill, as me old mother used to say. Now stand just there, and I'll wrap you in this soft towel. See? It's all warm from being near the fire, just like I told you.”

Wrapped like a burrito in the big towel, Ella hobbled back to the chair by the fire, sitting obediently as Mrs. Templeton toweled and then brushed out her hair.

Ella bit her lip in consternation. Whatever this feeling was, it wasn't going away. It wasn't directed at the very sweet Mrs. Templeton. It hadn't been her fault that she'd interrupted their impromptu make-out session. It wasn't even directed at Patrick, even though she'd really like to give him a piece of her mind for leaving that way.

Ella's mouth fell open as the truth smacked into her head like Donkey Kong's barrel.

“What's the matter, dear? You look as though you've seen a ghost.” Mrs. Templeton laughed, wielding her coarse brush.

Snapping her mouth shut, Ella jumped. “Nothing, it's… It's nothing. Sorry. Thank you for your help, with the bath and everything.”

“No trouble, my dear,” Mrs. Templeton clucked. “Now then, just sit by the fire for a bit. I don't want you catching a chill after getting over that awful fever.”

After Mrs. Templeton had bandaged her heel with the salve that she and Patrick had concocted, she left Ella alone.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Ella let a heavy breath out between her pursed lips.

She knew what the feeling was now and was surprised she hadn't figured it out before. Anger. She was mad at herself.

Leaning forward, she looked down at her toes. Despite Elspeth the demon cat's best efforts, they were fine. Unscathed. Her heel felt much better now, and the rest of her cuts and bruises had all but disappeared. Ella sniffed as she glared down at her feet.

Ever since she'd been here, she'd been a victim of circumstance. Patrick had happened to her. The puncture wound on her heel? Happened to her. Getting sick and nearly dying happened to her. Those kisses, those all-too-brief, completely wonderful, mind-blowing kisses… One of those she'd made happen. But the other two, well, one was an accident and this last one had happened to her.

Making a fist, Ella frowned. She was tired of things happening
to
her. She'd always been quiet, shy, awkward, a tomboy, a comic-and-costume-loving geek. She wanted to make something happen, and damn it, she was strong enough now to do just that. Patrick had done so much for her, and now that she was stronger, maybe she could show him that she was grateful, that she appreciated everything. Of course, there was the small problem of his engagement. But she wasn't going to seduce him or anything crazy like that. She just wanted to prove that she was worth something. If she was honest with herself—and in an inner spate of truth, she admitted she rarely was—her feelings for the earl were going a little bit beyond a typical crush. But she could keep that under wraps. Her gratitude had nothing to do with her growing feelings for him.

She pulled the towel from around her body and wrapped it around her head, turban style. She might be suddenly feeling brave, but that didn't mean she wanted another fever. Lord knew she'd almost not made it through the last one.

A large dressing chamber was just through the door by the fireplace, and Ella hobbled her way into the room. She'd been wearing Patrick's nightshirts for the past few days, and she didn't really see any need to buck the trend. Besides, they were comfortable and they smelled like him.

By the time she was dressed and had pulled thick, woolen socks over her feet, both bandaged and not, she was out of breath.

“Ugh,” she wheezed, clinging to the bedpost for support. “This wasn't part of the plan.”

For just a minute, she looked over at the bed. Mrs. Templeton had changed the sheets while Ella was in the bathtub, and for just a moment, Ella imagined sinking into those fresh clean linens and snoring for the next six hours.

With a determined shake of her head, Ella marched—well, weaved—her way to the door. She had to stay out of bed if she wanted to do something for Patrick, something that would help to repay him for everything he'd done for her. Something to show him that she was not just an invalid with weird ideas and crazy stories.

The doorknob turned easily under her hand, and she smiled as she went out into the hallway.

It was nice to be up and about. It definitely made a nice change from unconsciousness and frustrated lust.

Walking was definitely a trick, and Ella was more than glad to have the solid, polished wood banister to lean on as she hobbled her way down the stairs. But hey, this way gave her a lot more time to sightsee, right?

The stairwell walls were lined with portraits, and as Ella's breath gave out, she stopped to examine them.

There were several portraits of men, standing with horses or dogs, severe expressions on their faces; a couple more formal portraits, with an older man standing and halfway smiling at the viewer. The newest two hung the lowest, and Ella looked at them with the most scrutiny.

The bottom one was obviously a younger Patrick, no more than fourteen or so. He looked stern, much more serious than he was in real life. His hair was lighter, almost a golden color, and it curled over his forehead.

Beside the portrait of Patrick was one that looked to have been done by the same artist. The man in it was as serious as a stroke, glowering down at the viewer with an incredibly disapproving look.

Ella shivered, even though she wasn't cold at all. It was almost like the guy could see her, and he didn't like anything he was looking at.

“He's not here, moron,” Ella hissed, then forced herself to catalogue the other points of the painting.

The man had brown hair, but it was just as wavy as Patrick's. And he had that straight, Patrician nose too. But when Ella's glance dropped down to the man's hand, she was certain of two things.

One, this dark, forbidding, completely serious guy was Patrick's father.

And two, Patrick still carried the guy's jeweled pocket watch.

Footsteps somewhere else in the house startled Ella from her reverie, and she hustled down the rest of the stairs as quickly as she could. While nobody had said that she couldn't leave the bedroom, she knew what would happen if either Patrick or Mrs. Templeton caught her up and about. They'd have her tied to the bed and force-fed tea until she was ready to float away.

“Mrs. Templeton?” It was Sharpwicke, the butler, calling from somewhere, but Ella couldn't see him. “Are you about, Mrs. Templeton? I must discuss something with you before his lordship returns.”

Sharpwicke's steps were coming closer, so Ella ducked into the first room she came to, clicking the door shut behind her.

A relieved breath escaped her as she pressed herself back against the door. Maybe she'd have a few minutes to do what she wanted to do.

When she realized where she was, she almost clapped her hands with excitement. If she'd had a map of the house, she couldn't have picked a better room for what she wanted than this one.

Windows lined one wall, flanking a large fireplace. A large desk sat in one corner, at the optimum place for natural light. Shelves lined two walls, with books and vases and sculptures carefully arranged.

It was an office, so there had to be paper and pen, right?

Ella sank into the desk chair and started scrounging. It didn't take her long to come up with a thick piece of vellum, but a sudden realization deflated her.

“Are you kidding?”

A pot of ink stood atop the desk, and several quills lay beside it. Ella wanted to slap herself in the forehead. Of course there weren't any micron pens in this era, or ballpoints, or even regular old No. 2 pencils. She could probably have gotten her hands on some chalk or charcoal or something, but that would require letting someone in on her project.

Picking up a quill, she set her jaw as she dipped the pointed end into the ink.

She could make this work. It was go time.

* * *

There
is
love
in
me
the
likes
of
which
you've never seen. There is rage in me the likes of which should never escape. If I am not satisfied in the one, I will indulge the other.

Patrick stopped reading and looked up. The library was now dark, only the candelabra at the table by his arm giving any light to the room at all. Weird shadows danced along the shelves, as if mocking him. Shaking his head, he looked down at the book again.

“There is love in me the likes of which you've never seen,” he whispered, tracing the words with his finger. He'd hoped to escape thoughts of Ella by hiding in the library and reading. He'd selected
Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus
, a horror tale by some anonymous author, hoping that immersing himself into a story so completely alien from his own experience would assist him in distracting his fevered mind away from her.

What he'd found instead was a looking glass that showed him his own soul.

Tossing the volume aside, he stood and clasped his hands behind his back as he warmed himself by the fire. Could he be a creature of rage? Of passion, love, any other emotion? A spark flew up toward the chimney, blazing white-hot before it disappeared into ash.

He'd spent so much of his life ruling his impulses, controlling his feelings and actions with military precision. It had been the only way to satisfy his demanding father. It was also what had made him so good at being an officer in the war. He'd never lost his head, never acted rashly like some of the other men. His clear thinking and decisiveness had stood him in good stead there.

“But now?” He shook his head, turning toward the darkness. “Now I am unsure.”

Perhaps that was the reason he had found himself drawn to Amelia. She was his opposite, a creature of passionate whim. It had amused him to be her friend, to be drawn into her schemes. But he did not care for Amelia, not like he did for…

Ella.

His palms itched with the delicious memory of her beautiful breasts. He curled his fingers, making fists, trying to crush the memory. It didn't work.

A soft knock on the door made him pause.

“Come in,” he said, consternation in his tone. He'd told Sharpwicke he didn't wish to be disturbed unless Iain returned. Had his cousin finally found some assistance?

But it wasn't Iain's face that peered around the door. It was Ella's.

“Miss Briley,” he said, startled into politeness. “You should not yet be up and about.”

She slipped into the room, and he nearly swallowed his tongue. She was wearing nothing but his nightshirt, which was much too long for her and dragged the ground. One hand was tangled in the fabric, lifting the hem so she would not trip, which revealed thick woolen socks on her feet. The thin fabric of the nightshirt left little to his imagination, and he steeled himself as he caught sight of her nipples through the shirt.

He was randier than a goat, and she should not be here alone with him.

“I wanted to bring you something,” she said, smiling as she hobbled into the room. He noticed then that she was carrying a piece of vellum, being careful to keep the blank side toward him.

“Please sit,” he said, moving across the room and taking her arm to assist her into his recently vacated chair. She sank down into it, placing the page facedown on the table by the candelabra.

“What do you have there that is so important that you had to leave your sickbed to deliver it?”

Her nose wrinkled as she glared at him. “It's not a sickbed. I'm better now, thanks to you.”

A thickness appeared in his throat, and he coughed to clear it before replying. “Please think nothing of it.”

“I have to think of it. I'd be dead in a ditch somewhere if it wasn't for you.” She frowned, tracing her fingernail on the back of the page. “I never really thought about how that could be literally true here, but I guess so. I mean, it's not like you guys have morgues or anything. How does that work here? I mean, are there official cemeteries or does everyone go into the churchyard one or…” Shaking her head abruptly, she stopped. “Never mind. I mean, that's not what I came here for.”

He pulled up a second chair so he could sit beside her. It was not a wise decision, in all likelihood, but he did not care. Sinking into it, he looked down, noting the ink stains on her fingers.

“Why did you come to me tonight, Ella?”

She took a steadying breath and then looked into his eyes.

“I wanted to give you something. It's not much, because obviously I didn't come here with much. But I wanted you to know how I see you, so…”

She shoved the page over to him and bit her lip, as if she were afraid to breathe until he saw it.

Not wishing to keep her waiting, he flipped the page over.

It was not in Patrick's nature to be lost for words. After all, with Iain as a cousin and Amelia as a friend, he had ceased to be impressed by much. He'd seen and done more things than many other men, and he'd counted himself lucky to be so urbane.