My Brown-Eyed Earl (8 page)

She felt an echo of it even now.

“To expanding your experience,” he said, raising his snifter.

Dear Jesus. “What?” Meg fumbled her glass and the velvety red port sloshed close to the rim.

The earl reached out, quickly steadying her hand. “I was making a toast,” he said, as though it were some exotic custom that required explaining.

“So I'd gathered,” Meg said with a coolness that belied her burning cheeks.

His thumb grazed her inner wrist, lingering briefly on her wildly racing pulse before he released her, sat back, and raised his glass again. “To expanding your experience
as a governess
,” he clarified.

A smile played about his mouth while he drank, and since she feared that any reply she made would only give him more ammunition to embarrass her, she raised her glass in a mock salute.

And drank.

A nice long draw, to numb her improbable and highly inconvenient attraction toward the earl. Sweet and potent, the port settled in her belly and warmed her insides.

At the sight of her drinking, he raised his brows and nodded his approval.

However, Meg was not about to bend to his will. “I thought that the desire to be a good governess, paired with hard work, would be enough,” she said. “But I fear that it is not. The truth is that I am not qualified for this position.”

Lord Castleton leaned back in his armchair, extended his legs, and crossed them at the ankles, his gleaming boots only inches from the skirt of her dress. As he seemed to consider what she'd said, he nonchalantly balanced the base of his snifter on his abdomen, loosely holding the rim between his thumb and forefinger. Meg had to concentrate in order to keep her eyes off of that intriguing spot just above the waistband of his trousers.

So she drank a little more port.

“I was twenty-three when I inherited my father's title. Do you think I was qualified to be an earl, Miss Lacey?”

“I don't know,” she stammered. “But I'm sure it was difficult to lose your father at so young an age.”

A shadow darkened his face briefly, then lifted. “It was, in some ways. I was trying to comfort my mother and attempting to run an estate at the same time. I had no idea what I was doing, but I learned. So will you.”

“There is a difference in our situations.”

“What might that be?” he challenged.

“You were born into this life.” She waved a hand at the elegant surroundings. “You've always known you were destined to be an earl, and you were groomed for the title from an early age. But I was never meant to be a governess.”

He shook his head, clearly dumbfounded. “A few days ago you stood in this very room and convinced me you would make a fine governess. Why the change of heart?”

She shrugged helplessly. “It's not fair to the twins.” They were part of the reason, anyway.

“Don't do that,” he snapped.

Meg pressed a hand to her chest. “Do what?”

“Lay the blame with the twins.”

“I'm not blaming them,” she said.

“Good, because this is about
you
. The job isn't as easy as you thought it would be, and now you want to quit.”

No, she didn't
want
to. She needed this position far more than he knew, and had already spent her first week's salary ten times over in her head. But her attraction to the earl was unsettling, and living under the same roof with him could only invite trouble. “I just want what's best for Valerie and Diana.”

“And you think that running away is what's best for them?” he asked, incredulous.

She closed her eyes. “No, but…”

“Then stay, damn it.”

The words hung in the air between them, and she saw it again. That raw, unfiltered glimpse into his soul. He took the glass from her hands and set it on a table next to his snifter. Then he reached for her hand and glided his thumb back and forth over her palm.

Perhaps it was the effect of the port, but that mere brush of his thumb sent ripples of pleasure through her limbs. Her nipples tightened beneath the stiff wool of her dress, and she squeezed her thighs together in a futile attempt to stop the pulsing between her legs.

“Stay,” he breathed. “Please.”

“Pardon me, my lord,” Gibson intoned from the doorway, startling them both and shattering the intimate moment. “Your dinner is served.”

Meg drew her hand back. “I really should go.”

“Set another place, Gibson. Miss Lacey will be dining with me this evening.”

 

Chapter
SEVEN

 

“I'll see to it at once.” Gibson bowed and glided out of Lord Castleton's study. If the butler thought it odd that the earl had invited the governess to dinner, he hid his surprise quite well.

Meg, on the other hand, did not. “What have you done?” she sputtered.

He shrugged, all innocence. “I invited you to dinner.”

“I beg to differ, my lord. You did not extend an invitation. An invitation can be declined. What you did was … was … issue a
decree
.”

He nodded approvingly. “You see, Miss Lacey,
this
is why you will make an exceptional governess. Those subtle nuances of language are lost on me.”

“How convenient.”

“In any event, Gibson is setting a place for you as we speak. And we still have a few matters left to discuss.” He picked up their glasses and strolled to the sideboard where he proceeded to refill them.

Grasping at straws, Meg said, “I'm not dressed properly.” It was a gross understatement. Her utilitarian navy dress was meant for running errands in Town or performing light chores—not for sipping wine at an elegant candlelit table.

“Would you like to change?” the earl offered.

Meg's cheeks heated again. “I'm afraid I didn't bring any suitable gowns with me.”

He returned to the armchair where she sat, handed her the glass of port, and rubbed the light stubble on his chin. She could almost see his mind replaying the scene in the dress shop earlier that afternoon. “It's taking a considerable amount of restraint not to say I told you so.”

“Yes, you are ever the gentleman, my lord,” she said through her teeth.

“Fortunately, only the two of us will be dining this evening, and I don't mind your dress.”

She took a healthy swallow of port. “I think we both know that you do.”

“Well then,” he said quite seriously, “maybe I've become so accustomed to seeing it that it no longer affects me.”

“Careful, Lord Castleton, or you shall turn my head.”

He chucked, then offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you to the dining room.

Meg hesitated. Their bodies had touched in the park, but that hadn't been by choice. And she had an awareness of him now—so much so, that the simple act of taking his arm seemed fraught with peril.

Though it bordered on rude, she decided to refuse. “Thank you, but I don't require an escort.” To demonstrate, she quickly hoisted herself out of the chair—and felt a sudden rush of dizziness. Her legs refused to obey orders from her head, and her knees buckled. Her glass crashed to the floor, and the dark port splattered everywhere.

She would have fallen onto the shards of glass if the earl hadn't wrapped his arm around her waist and steadied her against him. While the walls swirled around her and the furniture tilted, he held her tightly. Rock solid, he seemed to be the only thing in the room that wasn't swaying.

“Whoa,” he said softly. He set down his glass and curled a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Are you all right?” He didn't loosen his hold or give her space to test her legs. His hip was pressed snugly against her side, and his face was so close that she could see the individual spikes of his lashes and a small scar along his jaw.

“I stood too quickly, and … the port.” But the port was not to blame for her inability to form a coherent sentence. That unfortunate development was entirely the earl's fault. “I am fine.”

“Would you tell me if you were not?” The low timbre of his voice vibrated through her, and a teasing smile played about his full lips. At the small of her back, his large hand held her tightly. Almost … possessively.

“Perhaps not. But I will confess I am embarrassed about the mess.” Her gaze flicked to the port-soaked rug. “I should get something to clean it up.”

“Gibson will take care of it.” The earl smoothly released her waist and grasped her upper arms lightly as if he were trying to balance her. “When did you last eat?”

“It's been … a few hours.” Breakfast, actually.

He arched a brow. “You need food in your belly. I am going to escort you into the dining room. This can happen in one of two ways. Either you can take my arm, or I can carry you over my shoulder. It's your choice, Miss Lacey.”

The glint in his eye said he wasn't jesting
and
that he'd relish the opportunity to prove it, so she made a quick decision. “Your arm will suffice.”

He laughed again, a low, rich sound that made her pulse thrum. “I thought you'd say that.” But there was concern in his eyes as he tentatively released her and offered his arm once more. “Are you prone to fainting?”

“No. There was only the one time after I … well, after I received very bad news.” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and he flexed his muscles, pulling her close, demanding that she lean on him for support.

“I'm sorry about the bad news,” he said sincerely.

“Thank you, but it was years ago.” When she'd learned that her parents' carriage had careened off an icy bridge and they'd drowned in the river. All because she'd behaved like a spoiled chit. She could have asked for time to consider the engagement or simply been more gracious in her refusal … but, no. She'd embarrassed her parents so greatly, that they had no choice but to set out for the earl's house in treacherous weather in order to apologize for her rudeness. And they never came back.

“Tell me if you need to stop and rest.”

“The journey to the dining room is not so far,” she said, “and the dizziness has already subsided.” But it had been replaced with a sort of headiness—one she very reluctantly identified as attraction. Blast it all.

He smelled faintly of brandy, soap, and ink, an oddly stirring combination. But his appeal this evening lay more in the undivided attention he paid her. Though not always polite, he was solicitous. She had to remind herself that he wanted something from her—namely, for her to stay on as his governess. And like most rakes, he could be very charming when it served his purposes.

“Here we are.” He ushered her through the doorway and into the elegant pale-green room. Tasteful landscapes adorned the walls; classical urns occupied alcoves on either side of the fireplace. At the center of it all, a gold candelabrum holding a dozen flickering candles illuminated the long oval table.

That was elaborately set for two.

The place settings were on either end of the table, which could easily seat fourteen. Yards of pristine white linen separated mirror images of bone china, silver, and crystal.

Dear Lord, this was no place for her. Last night she'd taken a tray to her room. And she'd eaten breakfast that morning downstairs with the rest of the staff.
That
was where she belonged.

As though he sensed her urge to flee the formality of the place, Lord Castleton tightened his grip on her arm. He frowned at the immaculately set table and gestured to Gibson, who stood against the far wall, at the ready. “Move Miss Lacey's plate to my right,” said the earl, “so we don't have to shout at each other throughout our meal.”

“Of course, my lord.” Gibson swiftly saw to the task, removed the silver covers from both plates, and poured claret in their glasses. Meg made a mental note not to drink it.

“Thank you, Gibson. That will be all. Miss Lacey and I will manage on our own.”

“Very well. Ring if you need anything, my lord.”

As the butler turned to leave, the earl said, “I bumped into a table in my study and knocked a glass onto the floor.”

“I'll have someone take care of it immediately,” Gibson said, smoothly pulling the doors closed as he left.

And Meg found herself alone with the earl once more.

As he pulled out her chair, she wondered if he normally ate alone. A handsome, wealthy gentleman must have plenty of dinner invitations, but none for tonight, apparently. It was one thing to take a meal alone in one's room, but to sit in a huge dining room by one's self seemed … sad.

“It's a simple menu tonight.” He shot her an apologetic look as he sat. “Cook didn't know I'd have company.”

“No one did,” she said saucily.

“I normally eat dinner at my club, but once a week, I eat here, mostly to keep Mrs. Lundy happy. She insists that it's important for everyone to stay in practice because the day will come when I wish to host a proper dinner party. I do hope she's not holding her breath for that day.”

Meg pitied the sweet housekeeper. She'd mentioned in passing that she longed to have a mistress of the house—someone to host balls and parties, but also to add a feminine touch here and there. “Mrs. Lundy is a treasure,” she said. “Would it be so great a sacrifice to host a dinner party—for her sake?”

He'd been about to take a drink of wine, but froze at her impertinent question. “She works for
me
, Miss Lacey. As do
you
.”

“For the time being,” she reminded him.

He blinked slowly, as though summoning patience. “I have a proposal to make. What if, for the remainder of dinner, we agree not to discuss your position? We won't talk about the twins or their lessons or anything to do with governessing.”

“Very well.” Meg shrugged as if it mattered not to her, but she couldn't imagine how they would fill up a meal's worth of conversation.