Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (7 page)

“I came only to clear up some misunderstandings.” Lydia moved beside the great chair and hooked bothersome hair behind her ear.

“Don’t come any closer.” His long fingers rubbed the back of his neck. “Whatever it is, consider the matter cleared. Now,
please
, return to your room.”

He said the words as if he were the very soul of patience, with a touch of pleading as he finished. Lydia made an inelegant sound and moved closer just to spite him. She wanted to shake that lordly shoulder and make him face her.

“I realize I’m not a lady of nobility, but at the very least, acknowledge my presence, sir.” She clamped her arms under her breasts.

“I deplore histrionics,” he said. “And status of birth matters little to me.” The earl chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, as he kept his face to the wall. “You’ll find I’m equally rude to those of my class, if not more so.”

His bald statement threw her. Lydia shifted on her feet, not knowing how to respond, and the way his shoulders bunched and tensed under his shirt, she had poked and prodded the cornered beast, testing his limits.

“I’d hoped discussions could hold for morning, when we’re both rested and in a better frame of mind”—his head dropped, chin to chest—“but apparently you can’t wait.”

Before her eyes, the beast uncoiled, and Lord Greenwich turned to confront her.

Her hands shot up to her cheeks as shock splashed her cold.

“Your face…”

“Yes. My face.” His scornful smile told her she wasn’t the first distressed maiden to see him.

Half of his face, shadowed by gold and brown whiskers, showed male perfection, but the other half, a bizarre pattern of scar lines and puckered flesh. Truly, staring at his face was akin to seeing a painting of two men, split down the middle. Lydia recoiled as much from the hot anger flashing in his eyes as from astonishment. The chair hit the back of her knees. Down she sat. Hands on hips, he loomed over her.

“I can’t be sure if you’re irritating or obtuse,” he said, growling the words.

She swallowed hard. “Most people find me very agreeable.”

One doubting brow rose. Untidy hair spread across his shoulders; more dark brown sprung from his nape, some of it curling. She had it all wrong at the Blue Cockerel; the
Phantom
of
London
was more menacing than mysterious.

“Very agreeable, actually,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

She took in every detail of his face: the blade-straight nose, the small white cleft, that tiny scar she noticed by his right eye, long brown lashes, gold-tipped in the light, and wide, frowning mouth.

“You’re staring,” he said. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that’s the height of bad manners?”

Lydia’s eyelids shuttered at having her own words dumped back on her. She forced herself to concentrate on the front of her robe. The earl’s harsh bark of laughter made her squirm.

“On second thought, why not get your fill?” Lord Greenwich leaned in close.

His hands braced the chair arms; she shrunk from the sharp, glinting eyes a mere hand’s breadth from her face. The aroma of scotch and lye soap came with every overbearing inch. Her curious questions, the need to know and see what had been hidden from her at the inn, turned fuzzy in the face of peril.

But heaven help her, she looked.

Tawny hair fell forward, framing handsome features and taut skin browned from the sun. The grain of his unscarred skin stretched over twitching jaw muscles. And the other half…lines moved in maplike array across his left cheek. What must be small burns dotted his skin into pale discoloration, going down his neck.

“Get a good look at the Greenwich Recluse, Enigma Earl, or whatever drivel London’s busybodies call me these days.” Well-formed lips pulled tight in a grimace. “Of course, you must have the complete picture.”

Lord Greenwich stood up and yanked his shirt to expose part of his chest: more lines, more small dotted burns, and puckering flesh on one section of his upper torso. Lydia flinched deeper into the cracked leather chair. His lordship took a step back and released his shirt. His hard brown eyes turned weary and hooded.

“Had enough?”

Numbness dissolved into an altogether different feeling. Pity? Confusion? Lydia dropped her head into her hands. Thankfully, her hair curtained her, giving respite for the moment. If he’d wanted her to feel small, he’d succeeded.

“If only I’d known, this could’ve gone much better,” she groaned.

“Nothing could make this better.”

Her head snapped up.

“I’m sorry for this, so sorry…for what happened this evening, truly…for everything…George’s and Tristan’s theft, what happened out front tonight…everything. But what did you expect? That I’d stay in my room to await your bidding?”

“Sounds reasonable,” he said, glaring at her and crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

“Oh, please,” she snipped. “A total stranger whisks me away after some secret, late-night meeting, expecting me to wait like a biddable mouse for who knows how long?” She folded her arms across her chest. “What would you do if you were in my place?”

His jaw muscles ticked under the scars, as though he weighed her argument and found solid reasoning.

“I said we’d talk in the morning. And the middle-of-the-night meeting was your stepfather’s idea. Remember, I thought you were fully informed. And as you so
aptly
pointed out at the inn, my previous matrimonial arrangements haven’t gone well. Circumstances turned critical. I was prepared to move quickly.”

“What do you mean?”

The earl leaned a shoulder on the mantel. “Not relevant at this time.”

She wanted to probe that cryptic comment, but his topaz eyes glittered in a way that issued warning bells in her head.

“What is relevant, Miss Montgomery, is the fact that you came to my room, requesting a moment of my time—” He spoke softly as the corners of his mouth turned up in an unfriendly smile. “Unless exhaustion has finally claimed you.”

With him standing there angry, in stocking feet and open-necked shirt, Lydia’s equilibrium went askew. Dark-eyed and unkempt, he looked primitive. No, he
was
primitive and bore no resemblance at all to a refined earl. Her right hand gripped the neckline of the robe, closing it high under her chin.

“I know nothing about you.”

“Edward Christopher James Sanford, ninth Earl of Greenwich.” He said each syllable with the enthusiasm one gives a list for a trip to the market. Yet his eyes…they blazed, sharp and assessing, like he could read her every thought.

But
what
happened
to
you?

She couldn’t help that. He knew that question hung between them; she guessed as much in the hard glint of his eyes and the tightness about his mouth. Was he daring her to ask the impertinent question out loud? No instructive social manual existed to tell a woman how to engage reclusive noblemen in cordial conversation well past midnight. What was she supposed to do?

Behind the earl, a log split in two, both pieces rolled apart inside the massive hearth, and pulsing orange embers spilled near his feet. She flinched, but the sudden noise didn’t bother Lord Greenwich.

“A-And?” she asked, pulling her robe tighter under her chin.

“And what?” He sighed, starting to sound more annoyed than fierce.

Her lips parted, but no words came, couldn’t because the sensation of wool filling her mouth made talking difficult. Under the weight of his harsh glare, Lydia squirmed inside the chair: her velvet-clad bottom rubbed the leather, making the only sound amidst awkward silence. Asking the obvious question would wait for another time. Then one of his eyebrows rose slowly, imperious and lordly in effect.

“Perhaps you can begin by telling me why you barged into my room at this late hour.”

She didn’t immediately respond. He’d deftly moved the conversation away from questions about his face and saved her from blundering anew.

“You mentioned something about misunderstandings,” he prompted, drumming his fingers on the mantel.

“There are some things you should know,” she said, glancing toward his door. “Earlier this evening, when you saved me from my clumsy fall, I wasn’t bothered by your catching me or your closeness. I was embarrassed.”

He gave no response. Not even a shift in position or batting an eye. So, he’d give no quarter. His hard-eyed, stark silence was condemning enough, as if he’d judged her and found her statement lacking. She made herself sit up straight.

“Lud, you’re making this difficult. I was embarrassed at having my hand on the front of your breeches. Is that plain enough?” Lydia folded her hands in her lap and exhaled her relief, freed by unvarnished directness.

Lord Greenwich placed an open hand at his hip and studied her.

“Your reaction had nothing to do with my presumed madness?”

“No.”

“My supposed diseased state?”

“No.”

“Or that I’m some kind of malformed, rutting beast?”

“Of course not.”

He’d fired each question at her, she’d answered truthfully. Lydia swiped at hair that fell across her eyes. She stared up at him, almost daring his perusal. Then, the barest hint of a smile showed on the earl’s face.

Her whole body eased back into the chair, and rigidness melted from her spine. Glad for the respite from the tense atmosphere, she decided to face that
other
issue another time. There was only so much bravado a woman could muster in a single night. Lydia smiled brightly and put her hands on the sides of the chair, ready to rise.

“Well, then I shall take myself off to bed, and we can both get some sleep.”

“Wait.” He held up a hand. “You said that you had some
misunderstandings
you felt I should know.” His eyebrows snapped together. “You spoke in the plural. What else did you plan to tell me?”

Her jaw dropped. His lordship had paid enough attention to detail to catch every nuance of what she’d said, very unlike most men of her experience. Relief over their simpatico, however brief, drained, as did her courage on the other point. She wanted to slink off to the safety of sleep, hide under thick covers, and not emerge for days.

“That can wait for morning, my lord.”

She tried a smile, but by the way his eyes narrowed, a muddled, caught-in-the-thick-of-trouble look must have been written all over her face.

Lord Greenwich shook his head. “Now is as good a time as any. After all,
you
came to me.”

“Oh, but…” Whatever argument died from her lips under his scrutiny.

She contemplated a lie, if only for a second, to relieve the pressure of his penetrating stare. Lydia noticed the rich amber liquid in his lordship’s glass, very nice scotch whiskey, she was sure. A bracing swig would be welcome right about now. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

“I’m not a virgin.”

Lydia’s hands clasped neatly over her abdomen. Lord Greenwich’s gaze dropped to the protective gesture.

“Not a virgin,” he said softly.

“No.” Her thumb brushed the robe’s velvet belt. “I’m not sure what George told you about me, or if that was a requirement in this unusual transaction, but with your need of an heir…ah, perhaps that might be an issue.” She glanced up at Lord Greenwich and tried to gauge his reaction, but the man stayed stiff and unreadable.

“He inferred you were pure as the driven snow…but go on.”

She winced. “In the carriage, I pieced facts together. I was sure you didn’t know, and of course, that detail would be important to you. Usually is to family lines, isn’t it?”

Lydia stared into the fire behind him. The late hour and warm, hypnotic fire lulled her. With the worst of what she had to say over and done, easiness with the earl loosened her tongue.

“My stepfather has a talent for trickery.” She peered up at him. “Once I understood the whole situation, I realized you likely didn’t know why I live in Wickersham. I was a bit of a hoyden in the past, caught in a compromising situation and packed off to my great-aunt’s house some four years ago. Ironically, I left to spare my mother eviction from the old steward’s cottage, which happened later from something George did. We lived there by the benevolence of the Duke of Somerset after my father died.” Lydia kept playing with the velvet tie. “But the duchess thought me a bad influence. She, along with some houseguests and one of her daughters, stumbled upon me in the barn”—she looked down at her clasped hands and chose her words with care—“with, ah, a man of close acquaintance.”

“Then having your hands on men’s breeches isn’t a stretch for you, is it?”

Her head shot up. “That’s a touch rude.”

“Not as rude as the trap you and your stepfather have set for me, is it?”

“I’ve done no such thing,” she said, her voice sharpening.

“You’re as quick with deception as old George, aren’t you, Miss Montgomery? I played nicely into your hands. The cash-strapped family of no rank marries nobility. Oh, you’d all be set up well.” His dark eyes sparked. “I should’ve known at the inn. What you said to me…bold as brass.”

Lydia sat up taller. “I came here to spare you any false assumptions. I’d like nothing more than to be free of this absurd arrangement, which as you may recall, I had no hand in making.”

“What?” he scoffed. “No convenient marriage for the unmarriageable hoyden? You’re pretty but not that pretty.”

She blinked, unsure how to respond to such insult and accusation. He’d twisted her best intentions into something horrible. Lord Greenwich’s face contorted from one dark emotion to the next, but that stare down was brief. He lunged at her and yanked her within an inch of his chest.

“Or does this have something to do with my scars? Now that you’ve seen me, having second thoughts about your scheme?”

Lydia’s hands fluttered in defense. Her palms pushed against the warm, hard wall of his chest.

“No,” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper through rapid breaths. “Your scars don’t bother me, took me by surprise, yes, but I’m not a schemer, least of all with George.”

Gone was the calm, arrogant noble, replaced by a wild-eyed beast caught in a snare. His hands gripped her upper arms, manacles that clamped hard. Eyes narrowed and nostrils flared, he searched her face. Surely she’d struck a nerve with something in the mess that was this evening. She’d spoken the truth.