Kiss the Earl (18 page)

But the sight of the drawing in front of him took his breath away.

She had drawn him. But not Patrick Meadowfair, earl and proper gentleman. She'd drawn him as a Greek god.

His knees were bent, muscles bulging, his arms lifted high, carrying the weight of a huge globe. His head was bowed, eyes closed, but his face was almost exactly the same as the one Patrick saw in the mirror each day. His body was almost as accurate but enhanced somehow, as if any flaws were somehow too unimportant to have been represented there. He looked strong, bold, but sad somehow, as if more than the huge weight of the sphere pressed him down.

As if something more like loneliness was responsible for the expression.

“I hope you like it.” Ella's words came out in a rush. “I know it's not what you're used to, but it's the way I see things. I draw comics, you see, and I kind of saw you as my own personal superhero. Because you saved my life, and I can't thank you enough for that.”

“I do not know what to say.” His words echoed back to him, and he was stunned at the hollowness in them.

She saw through him, and he did not know what that meant.

“Just say you like it.” Her shoulder lifted in question, and he found himself nodding.

“It is incredible. Beautiful. I've never seen the like.”

Her smile brought the light of the sun into the dim room. “I'm so glad. I just… Yeah. I wanted you to like it.”

“I do.”

“Good.” She looked at the ceiling, her brows lowering, almost as if she were considering something. “I wanted to tell you, though, that I'm better. Really. And I know you've got to go find Amelia, so I don't want to hold you up anymore. I need to get home, anyway. But for now, I can stay here with Mrs. Templeton, and then after you get married, I can find a way to get back to my time, where I belong. You'll be married, and I—”

And then, just like that, he understood that line in
Frankenstein
that had stopped him earlier. The feelings that were twisted inside him, the yearning and the lust and the sheer confusion of the situation coalesced into a passionate, towering rage. Why did she insist on speaking of Amelia at every opportunity? He did not want Amelia—he wanted the woman beside him, wearing nothing but his nightshirt and prattling on about her home. His own lies had brought this about, and the anger at his own irrational feelings found an easy target in Ella. His words came quickly, unmeasured as they flowed from the red haze. He could not stop them.

“Amelia is none of your concern,” he bit out, gratified when her eyes widened in surprise at his sharp tone. “I do not now nor have I ever considered leaving you here while I chase her around the countryside. So please, Miss Briley, do not mention her name to me again.”

Ella blinked. Her mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but before the words could escape, she looked away.

Almost as if she couldn't bear to see him acting this way.

The anger drained away, leaving Patrick nothing but shame. What had she done to deserve his sharp tone? Nothing. His words were aimed at her, but they had been caused by his own mistruths and self-loathing. He was a cad and a bounder.

Shoving the chair back, he stood.

“Thank you for the drawing. I will send Mrs. Templeton to help you to bed.”

He gave a sharp bow and quit the room. Ella's “No, wait!” came much too late.

It was much too late for him to stop.

He'd fallen for her, and there was no hope.

Ella bit her lip, glaring down at her hand. She had two threes and a six. Rolling her eyes, she tossed down the three of hearts.

“It's your go.”

Elspeth just yawned, then stuck her foot in the air to attend to some very personal grooming.

Tossing the rest of her cards down in disgust, Ella shoved to her feet. “It would help if you'd take this game seriously, cat.”

A low, rumbling purr was the only answer.

Ella crossed the bedroom to the window, happy to feel how much better her foot was able to painlessly bear her weight. It had been a few days since that weird little incident in the library, and like a big fat coward, Ella had stayed right here in this room, completely avoiding Patrick. She'd read the books Mrs. Templeton had brought her, played more games of solitaire than she cared to admit, and finally, out of desperation, decided to deal the cat in.

That hadn't really gone well.

Pursing her lips, Ella blew a raspberry and fluffed out the sides of her nightshirt. Well, Patrick's nightshirt, really. She glanced at the yellow dress that Mrs. Templeton had mended and pressed. It was hanging on the door of the armoire, just waiting for her. Mrs. Templeton had probably expected her to put it on yesterday, and start acting like a human being instead of a hermit. But Ella couldn't stand the thought of facing Patrick again.

She looked out the window and frowned at the beautiful, sunlit countryside. He'd seemed really pleased and flattered when she first showed him the drawing, but then he'd gotten really angry—angrier than she'd ever seen him. And all she'd done was tell him he could go and look for his damn fiancée.

Men. They made no freaking sense at all.

She thumped her head against the glass, the coolness feeling good to her skin. If only she could find out why he'd blown up. After all, he'd saved her ass. She really didn't want to make him angry, and if she could, she'd love to kiss him again. Wincing, she closed her eyes. No. She shouldn't want to kiss him. He was engaged. But something was still weird about it. Why did he refuse to go look for Amelia if he was in love with her?

“Mrow.”

Ella glanced down at the cat, who'd leapt down from the chair and was currently rubbing up against Ella's ankles.

“Yeah, you're right. I should stop hiding in here like a coward and start doing some detective work.” Ella nodded decisively and marched over to the wardrobe, only limping the slightest bit. She'd get dressed, go downstairs, and talk to Mrs. Templeton and maybe Sharpwicke. They should know about the earl's engagement and why he'd been acting so odd lately.

Well, they had a better chance of knowing why than she did, she thought as she pulled the yellow dress over her head. They hadn't been playing cards with the cat for the last three days.

She tied her hair back with a ribbon, carefully slipped her feet into her boots, and opened the door as slowly as she could. Patrick's voice froze her.

“I am going riding, but I shall return in time for dinner.”

Ella hit the floor and crawled army-style to the top of the stairs. Keeping behind the bannister, she peeked down the stairs.

“Very good, my lord,” Sharpwicke was saying as he handed Patrick his hat. “Shall I inform Miss Briley of your whereabouts should she ask? And may I say, sir, what a fine young lady she is too. Quite polite and robust, despite her recent illness. Why, just yesterday she asked me about my family. Not at all in the common way, my lord, but I do think—”

Patrick waved a hand in the air to cut the butler off. “Tell her whatever the devil you wish, Sharpwicke.”

Muttering beneath his breath, the earl stormed out the front door. Sharpwicke looked after him.

“Well, that is certainly an improvement,” Sharpwicke said before closing the door. “He allowed me to speak more than two sentences before storming off. Cheeky young blighter.”

Ella clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. Sharpwicke disappeared around the corner, and Ella allowed herself a sigh of relief.

“I say, miss, I do sweep the carpets up here frequently. You do not need to inspect them quite so closely.”

With a startled yelp, Ella scrambled to her feet. Her left boot tangled in the long hem of her dress, and she would have pitched right down the stairs if Mrs. Templeton hadn't grabbed her arm.

“Do be careful, miss! We did not nurse you from a fever so you could proceed to break your neck.”

“Sorry,” Ella said, her cheeks warming. She must have looked really dumb. “I was just, well, I mean—”

“Avoiding his lordship?” Mrs. Templeton winked and beckoned for Ella to follow her down the stairs. “Not to worry, dear. I have been doing much the same for the last few days. I declare, the earl is normally such a pleasant, polite fellow. Not the surly bear we've been living with most recently.”

Ella studiously avoided looking at the portrait of Patrick's father as they walked down the stairs together. When Mrs. Templeton fell silent, she saw her opening and went for it.

“Why has he been so grumpy lately? Do you know?”

Mrs. Templeton pursed her lips as they walked through the foyer, down the hall, and finally into a small sitting room. Ella glanced around curiously. It was a beautiful room, but definitely well lived-in. Maybe Mrs. Templeton's private place? There was a small desk in the corner, notebooks along one shelf, and a pile of mending on the small couch. Yeah, probably the housekeeper's room.

“I do not know for certain, but it may have had something to do with a letter he received from Miss Brownstone.” Mrs. Templeton picked up a white linen square and began to attack it with her needle.

“Oh my God, really?” Ella should have felt elated at the thought of Amelia being found, but for some reason her stomach tightened and her heart thudded hard. She sank down on the couch next to Mrs. Templeton. “Amelia sent a letter? What did it say?”

Mrs. Templeton pursed her lips, not lifting her gaze from her work. “I do not know, but after that, he did seem quite withdrawn. He stayed in the library all afternoon and evening. The next day he rode the fields all day, and the day after that he walked the meadow like a misanthrope. I declare, it is not like him to be so maudlin.”

“I see.”

Ella bit her lip, wondering. What could the letter have said? Was Amelia waiting for him to come to her so they could finish what they started? Had she found another guy?

Ella curled her fingers into a fist. She
had
to find out what was in that letter.

“They have always been close, you know,” Mrs. Templeton said in a faraway voice, as if she were remembering. “Ever since the earl was a small boy. He was lonely, you see. His father, the old earl, was a very dour and demanding sort of man, always finding fault, never showing affection. The boy tried and tried to win the old man's favor, but to my knowledge, he was never successful. But Miss Brownstone was always a pleasant girl, cheering up my lord when no one else could.”

Mrs. Templeton sniffed, tying off the thread she'd been using. “Of course, the chit got him into trouble more times than I'd care to admit. There was real affection between them, but they were always more brother and sister than anything romantic. I did think at one time…”

“What?” Ella begged when the housekeeper trailed off. She was leaning forward, her legs bouncing in anticipation. “Thought what? That they might get married?”

Mrs. Templeton nodded, and Ella felt sick.

“But then nothing came of it.” Mrs. Templeton folded the completed handkerchief and put it neatly on her desk. “But this letter—I do not know. It made him very angry. Perhaps she spurned him or found another man. I don't think it likely, but what else could it be?” She shrugged a thin shoulder.

Resolution building, Ella stood. She'd been right. There was something fishy about this whole elopement scheme, and she was going to get to the bottom of it. If Patrick were in love with Amelia, Mrs. Templeton would have known. “Like brother and sister,” the housekeeper had said. Patrick hadn't been telling the truth about this, Ella was convinced.

“Thanks for talking to me, Mrs. Templeton,” Ella said with a polite smile. “I need to go do something.”

“You are very welcome, dear.”

Ella turned to go, but the housekeeper's voice stopped her.

“If you don't mind my saying so, miss…”

Ella turned as the housekeeper continued.

“I think that his lordship cares for you quite a bit too.”

A half smile curved Ella's lips. “I hope you're right, Mrs. Templeton, but I'll let you know.”

And with that, Ella left the room and headed straight for that study she'd been in the other day.

If she were going to put a letter somewhere, that's the first place she'd go. And no matter what, she had to read that letter.

She wasn't sure how she knew, but she definitely believed her happiness depended on it.

* * *

Guilt chased him as he galloped his horse up the hill near Meadow Pond. Patrick gave Argonaut his head, glad that his cousin had ridden the stallion back to Meadowfair Manor for him. Argonaut had wandered back into London on his own that ill-fated night so long ago, and Patrick's London stable lad had found the horse whinnying outside the stable doors that morning, begging for his oats. Bacon was a sweet old nag, but not what he would call good stock. Argonaut had much more heart and spirit, and Patrick's vile mood definitely demanded the livelier mount.

He should not have been so short with Sharpwicke. The old butler had served his family for quite a long time, and just because Patrick's temper was frayed did not mean that the garrulous old man had done anything wrong.

When he returned to the house, he would apologize.

As Argonaut's hooves splashed in the edge of the pond, Patrick sat up straighter and looked into the woods. Just beyond those trees was the beginning of Lord Brownstone's property. He'd taken care not to ride too close to the joining of their lands, but today he was feeling reckless. Why not? After all, he was certain that any searchers had long ago left the vicinity. They were probably at Gretna Green by now, waiting by the anvil for him and Amelia to appear.

“Blast,” Patrick muttered as he turned Argonaut back toward the house. He had put off this whole damnable mess long enough. He should write to Lord Brownstone and tell him the truth. Amelia had gotten him into enough trouble, and the last thing he wanted was to be forced into marrying her.

Friend though she was, that particular joining would suit neither of them, and well he knew it.

Feeling a bit more the thing, Patrick rode back to the stables. In only a few minutes, he'd tossed the reins to a stable lad and made his way back into the house.

“My lord,” Sharpwicke said, appearing from out of nowhere to take Patrick's hat and gloves. “I did not expect you back so soon.”

“A matter has arisen, and I must attend to it,” Patrick said in what he hoped was a more gentle tone. “And, Sharpwicke…”

The butler turned, arching his brow in question.

“My apologies for my abominable attitude earlier. It was rude of me, and you did not deserve it.”

Sharpwicke grinned, revealing his crooked teeth. “Not to worry, my lord! I declare, such an eloquent apology is unnecessary in the extreme. Why, as I was telling Mrs. Templeton earlier, we are indeed lucky to serve such an even tempered and kind gentleman such as you, my lord, as my own sister is employed with a right terror of a man. Such rages he has, she tells me!”

As the butler continued with the tale of his poor sister and her awful employer, Patrick simply stood and nodded. His responses weren't needed, he knew from long experience. When Sharpwicke got going, there was no stopping him.

After a solid eight minutes, Sharpwicke finally wound down. “But you entered with a great sense of purpose, my lord, and I've detained you. Let me not stop you further.” Sharpwicke gave an extra-low bow and walked away holding his head high.

Patrick allowed himself a small smile. Well, that was easy enough. Of course, that was much simpler than the other task that awaited him.

He winced as he pictured prostrating himself to Ella. He'd been worst of all to her after receiving her gift. Well, it must be done, but it needn't be done until later. Perhaps just before supper he would go up and apologize to her.

With that plan settled, he made his way to his study. He must begin drafting that letter to the baron immediately. No need to waste more time.

But as he silently opened the door to his study, the hinges recently oiled by an efficient Sharpwicke, he found that the object of his thoughts was already ensconced in his personal study. His recent peaceful mind-set burned up in short order.

“Where the crap can it be?” she was whispering to herself, her back to him as she dug through the drawers of his desk. Patrick's fists tightened as he watched her shapely bottom wave in the air. She was burgling his damned desk.

“If you would tell me what the ‘crap,' as you call it, is, I should be delighted to help you search.”

“Oh!” She slammed the drawer shut, catching her little finger in the seam. “Ouch! Oooh, that hurt.” Flapping her hand in the air, she scowled at him. “You scared me.”

“And you are nosing about in my personal study,” he countered. “Surely I do not need to knock to enter my own room.”

She had the grace to look chagrined. “Yeah. Right. Of course.”

He entered the room, taking note of the damage she'd wrought. His estate book was in shambles, his desk scattered with papers and correspondence. The note that his estate manager had sent him just two days ago was on top, unfolded as if she'd read it moments ago and forgotten to close it up again.

Drawing a heavy breath through his nose, he opened and closed his fists. He'd not yell or rail at her or take her over his knee as he was longing to do. Apologies, however, were impossible at this juncture.