Mad About the Earl (40 page)

His white silk knee breeches encased legs that were powerful and muscular, but she did not stop to admire them, either.

Upon completing her inspection, she indicated her train with her fan. “I regret I cannot dance, even if I wished to. My train would trip us up and send us sprawling. We would not wish to create such a spectacle of ourselves. We would hate for people to laugh at us, wouldn’t we?”

“The train is the problem?” he said.

“Yes. Insurmountable, as you see.”

He grinned slowly. “Oh, not
insurmountable
.”

Before she could guess what he was about, he bent down, gripped the fabric of her gown, and ripped the train clean away. As he straightened, he tossed the scrap of satin and lace to the floor.

She gave an appalled laugh that held a good dose of delight. People were staring. A number of shocked gasps rang out. She didn’t care in the least.

Griffin held out his hand to her. Still laughing, giddy with relief and joy, she let him lead her to the floor.

Technically speaking, he was not the best dancer she’d ever waltzed with, but he was certainly not the worst.

But this dance.
This!
Oh, it was Heaven to be back in his arms, where she belonged. Heaven to feel his hand clasping hers, his big shoulder hard and muscular beneath her other hand.

The intoxicating delight of twirling with him down the room in her ragged, disreputable gown nearly overwhelmed her senses. Most of all, she savored the delicious and nigh unbearable temptation of having him so close to her while the public arena prevented them from giving in to their longings.

They talked sparingly at first, and then the words just seemed to flow like music. She told him about Jacqueline’s confession. He told her about Crane and about Bessie, too.

“So it was not Jacqueline, after all!” she exclaimed. “How utterly thankful she’ll be to hear it.”

He nodded. “I have Bessie’s affidavit, should it ever become necessary to use it. I doubt it will, though.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I happen to know that you, at least, have an alibi for that night.”

He sent her a startled look.

“Thursday nights at the vicar’s,” she said, unable to conceal her triumph. “When Jacqueline mentioned Allbright died on a Thursday, I thought of it immediately.”

“Clever of you.” He nodded. “Yes, I had that. But I couldn’t use it. Not when suspicion might have fallen on Jacks.”

She smiled up at him, a little misty-eyed. “You are a noble beast, dear bear,” she said. “I am so very glad you came back to me.”

“Not as glad as I am.” His expression grew intent. “Rosamund, this is not the time, but I—”

She shook her head, blinking back tears. “No, this is not the time. But I understand, Griffin. There’s no need to say any more.”

She turned her head to see the Duke of Montford watching them. She gave him a brilliant smile, the first genuine smile she’d given him that night. Full of joy and some tears, too.

As if acknowledging defeat in a bout of swordplay, he bowed to her with a rueful quirk of the lips. Then he gave Griffin a quick, hard stare and turned to resume his conversation with Lady Arden.

“What was that about?” said Griffin.

“Oh, His Grace does not believe in love—or at least, he does not condone love matches among the ton. Yet, his charges keep falling in love anyway.” She sighed. “I wonder if the duke will ever be struck by Cupid’s dart.”

“Him?” Griffin snorted. “Not likely.”

She sent him a saucy glance. “I can think of equally unlikely candidates.”

“Keep looking at me like that, woman, and I shall forget that I’m a gentleman.” He leaned in to rumble in her ear, “And that we are in public.”

She looked up at him through her lashes in blatant provocation.

With a suppressed groan, he took her by the arm and steered her out of the ballroom and down the terrace steps. Then, because she did not move fast enough for him, he picked her up and ran with her into the garden through the rain. She gave a peal of laughter, kicking her slippered feet and turning her face up to feel the rain upon it. He did not stop until they were back in the summerhouse, the scene of their very first tryst.

“So masterful,” she murmured, sinking down with him into the wide banquette.

But his face had turned serious. “My God, Rosamund, I love you.”

He kissed the raindrops from her face, hot lips on shivering wet skin. She sighed and he captured that sigh with his own mouth in a deep, soul-stealing kiss.

Everything Rosamund loved about him was contained in that embrace. The wildness, the tenderness, and the passion. She’d found wonder and joy in his lovemaking before, but this surpassed anything she’d dreamed of. Finally, she could give herself to him, secure and free in the knowledge that he loved her. That he accepted her love in return.

Griffin slid his hand beneath her skirts, and she gasped against his mouth. “Someone will see us!”

“It’s raining,” he said, moving his hand higher. “They won’t come down here.”

“Griffin!”

But he wouldn’t be dissuaded, and the truth was she didn’t try very hard. She lost herself in the heat and strength and size of him, plunged with him into the depths of desire, soared to the heights of passion and delight.

Afterwards, they lay panting and spent, side by side. Rosamund gazed at the stars through the panes of glass overhead and felt a sense of wholeness and peace she’d never experienced before.

“Oh, here’s something I forgot.” Griffin shifted his weight, fished something out of his pocket, and handed it to her.

“Oh!” she breathed. “My locket!”

She raised herself on one elbow and smoothed her fingertips over its surface, inspecting it for scratches by touch, for she could see little detail in the darkness. There was no damage that she could feel.

Then she checked the links on the chain itself. “Yes, that was shoddy repair work on my part,” she murmured. “The same links broke again.”

She closed her fingers around the locket and looked down at Griffin. What had he thought when he saw his own portrait there? He’d have been pleased, wouldn’t he? Was that why he’d come back?

“I didn’t open it,” he said, as if he read her mind.

“Oh,” she said, torn between pleasure that he’d respected her wishes and concern that his lack of curiosity argued a lack of … interest, perhaps? But how could she believe that after the passion they’d shared tonight?

“Were you not tempted?” she said.

“No.”

“Not even a little bit?” She was starting to feel put out by this.

With a peculiarly boyish smile, he shook his head. “But that’s because I know what is inside.”

“How do you know it?” she asked, a little archly.

“Because you love me,” he said, kissing her on the nose. “And you always have.”

“Just as you are madly in love with me,” she retorted.

“And always will be,” he said. And with a wolfish grin, he drew her into his arms once more.

EPILOGUE

It had become something of a tradition for the Duke of Montford to end the evening of his annual ball by drinking a quiet glass of wine in his library with Lady Arden.

It would go no further than that. They were not lovers, of course.
Not yet.

He was fond of adding that last part—a delightfully tantalizing notion. But in truth, he’d qualified their association thus for the past fifteen years or more. The companionship they enjoyed and the challenge Lady Arden presented to his wits and his ingenuity were things he would not willingly trade for something so transient as an
affaire,
no matter how desirable the lady.

And she
was
infinitely desirable, with her brandy-colored eyes and luxuriant honey-brown hair. Her nose was noble, her chin feminine but determined, and those aristocratic cheekbones could slice butter. Not to mention the delectable body that curved lushly beneath the bronze silk gown she wore.

She bent her clear gaze on his. “I hear that your little Rosebud’s mama, Lady Steyne, has married. To a diplomat, no less.”

“Ah,” said Montford, crossing his legs at the ankles in a relaxed pose. “I, too, had heard something of the sort.”

“Then, immediately after the wedding, what must happen but the poor fellow is posted to the steppes of Siberia or some such place!”

His lips twitched. “Oh? I heard it was St. Petersburg.” In fact, he
knew
it was St. Petersburg. “Perhaps Lady Steyne does not understand the difference.”

“Quite possibly,” Lady Arden agreed. “In any event, she will be far enough away that she will cause Rosamund no trouble. Yet the diversions open to a woman of her, ah, tastes in the court at St. Petersburg will induce her to stay there. One would not wish the lady’s exile to be
too
unpleasant, or she would simply run back to London again.”

“Remarkable,” observed Montford, “the way your mind works.”

“Isn’t it?” she agreed with an ironic smile. “At present, my mind is exercising its considerable powers in favor of your Lady Cecily.”

He shifted in his chair. “She’s already spoken for. Don’t waste your time.”

“I have told you, I cannot like that match.”

“You do not like it because you had no hand in arranging it. Nor had I, as it happens. Lady Cecily’s parents secured the duke for her.” A bare month later, they’d been killed in a carriage accident. A very great tragedy, indeed.

“I see,” said Lady Arden, a furrow between her brows. “Was there any formal betrothal, or is it merely an understanding?”

“What it is, my lady, is none of your concern.” He regarded her narrowly. “Be satisfied that you’ve managed to gain deVere’s consent to Maddox and Lady Jacqueline’s marriage—a major coup. How
did
you manage it, by the way?”

She waved an airy hand. “I have my methods.”

The silence lay thick between them as he wondered what those methods had been. Then a movement in the garden caught his eye.

Rising, he crossed to the French doors and peered out, into the rain.

He saw two figures, both disheveled and sodden, running together toward the back gate. Montford raised his brows.

“Do they intend to walk all the way home, do you think?” Lady Arden’s breath tickled his ear.

“They?” said Montford, raising his brows. He slanted a glance at her. “I didn’t see anyone. Did you?”

“No, no one at all,” said Her Ladyship on a low, delighted laugh.

In spite of himself, Montford smiled, too. An unaccountable sense of satisfaction warmed his chest.

Then he closed the curtains to shut out the night.

Read on for an excerpt from Christina Brooke’s next book

A Duchess to Remember

Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

Cecily froze. Confound that blasted footman! He’d betrayed her.

It had all been too easy, hadn’t it? But good God, how could she have guessed he’d tell the duke of her plans? How many servants would remain loyal to their masters when offered the kind of bribe she’d intended to pay?

Or perhaps the footman hadn’t informed on her and the rumors were true. Perhaps the Duke of Ashcombe
was
omniscient.

He was certainly exceedingly strong.

All of this passed through her mind in an instant. She fought him, twisting ineffectually in his iron grip, jabbing with her elbows, kicking back with her heels. If she could get free, she’d make a dash for it. She was fast when she needed to be and tonight she didn’t have skirts to hamper her.

His hold was not vicious, but it was implacable. Seeming not to notice her struggles, her captor swept her into a room that was not a vestibule as the footman had informed her, but a library. Not filled with members of the Promethean Club, but empty of anyone save her and the man who held her captive.

Once inside, he released her.

He was very dark and very tall and he had the most uncompromising mouth she had ever seen. His strange eyes regarded her intently for a moment, sending an unwelcome chill through her body. Then he moved to close the door and lock it.

When he turned back to face her again, she refused to show him fear. Instead of quaking or begging, she folded her arms across her chest and lifted her brows.

His grim lips relaxed slightly. Holding up the ornate brass key, he said, “A precautionary measure,” and slipped the key into his pocket.

That almost imperceptible change in the forbidding coldness of his expression made her less apprehensive of physical harm. But the preternaturally acute way his eyes assessed her was far from reassuring.

He was hard and lean and broad-shouldered. Not an ounce of frivolity or decoration softened the harshness of his aspect. Dressed soberly in a black coat and gray trousers and waistcoat, white shirt and cravat, he wore no adjuncts to fashion save a heavy gold signet ring on the third finger of his right hand. His close-cropped black hair seemed to emphasize the hawkish lines of his nose and the sharp, almost Slavic contours of his cheekbones.