Never Entice an Earl (2 page)

The doctor says there isn’t much time.

Most certainly he had misunderstood. Laura was too young, and too healthy. Always
the picture of springtime and life. Laura
wasn’t
going to die—he wouldn’t allow it.

He rounded the bed, and for one confused moment didn’t recognize the woman lying there.
Though similar of appearance, here unquestionably lay an imposter, with bloodless
lips and dark hollows beneath her eyes and cheeks. But in the same moment his mind
acknowledged the truth his heart did not wish to believe.

“Laura?” He leaned over her, taking her limp hands in his. “It is Cormack. I’ve come
home.”

Her eyes fluttered, and she whispered, “
Mack.
”

Her countenance blurred, because now he saw her through tears. “What has happened
to you, my darling? How can I make you better?”

His father made a sound of wordless grief. His mother sobbed quietly. Because, he
realized, nothing could be done.

He’d never felt so helpless. The hardships of the past six years…all the finery parked
outside the house…it all seemed so stupid and pointless now. He should never have
left. He should have stayed here, and kept everything together, kept everyone safe.

Laura’s lips moved, producing a whisper of a sound. She said something, a word or
a name, he could not make out.

“Sweetheart, what did you say?” He lowered himself closer, nearer to her face.

“For…
Michael
.” The linen at her throat rose and fell. Tears beaded against her lower lashes.

He sensed metal pressed against his palm, and he glanced down to see something gold
and circular clenched within Laura’s hand, which with a sigh, she released into his.
A medallion he had never seen before, with a blank-eyed Medusa embossed at its center.

“Laura, did you say ‘Michael’? Who is Michael?”

But she only closed her eyes and her breathing slowed.

“Oh, Cormack—” his mother whispered, clutching a hand to her mouth.

His father closed his eyes and bent his head.

Cormack looked to his parents, and then to the physician, but no one said anything.

“What has happened to her?” he demanded in sudden desperation. “Would someone please
explain?”

Beside him, Dr. Graham spoke quietly, offering a clinical recitation of words that
included
perforation
and
toxic
and
peritonitis
.

His mind could not process them, nor assign them any true meaning. Why did Dr. Graham
not look into his eyes?

“She shouldn’t have waited so long to come to us,” choked his mother. “We would never
have turned her away.”

His father grasped her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. “She wanted to protect
us.”

“Protect you from what? Her…illness?” Cormack stared at his sister.

“No, my dear boy.” His mother stared at him through swollen eyes. “From—from—” Her
voice broke into a sob.

His father pressed a hand to his eyes, and whispered, “The scandal.”

“Scandal?” Cormack repeated. “What sort of scandal?”

The doctor straightened from where he’d bent over Laura, his features grimmer even
than before. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid she’s gone.”

Cormack stared at the man’s lips, not believing. Laura, gone? She couldn’t be.

“Laura?” he demanded, taking hold of her hands.

Just then a sound came from somewhere in the house, a wailing cry that filled the
room and chilled his blood and made him want to cover his ears. The nurse disappeared
from the doorway to rush down the corridor, but the sound only continued, increasing
in intensity and volume until he feared he could bear it no longer.

That sound. What sort of creature made such a sound?

But then, Cormack realized…

He knew.

London, in April
Two years later

I
think it all sounds perfectly horrid,” Daphne Bevington declared, glancing toward
the door of the conservatory to be certain that no one had overheard any part of her
and her two sisters’ conversation—most especially their mother, Lady Harwick, who
would no doubt be horrified by the scandalous topic of discussion.

Only when she’d confirmed they remained unobserved did she look back to her older
sister, Sophia, the Duchess of Claxton, and urge with a sly smile, “But don’t let
that stop you from telling us more.”

Clarissa, the youngest of them, bit into the corner of her bottom lip and toyed with
a tendril of her hair. “It also sounds vexingly strenuous. And
sweaty
. Is it…very sweaty?”

Their rattan chairs creaked in unison as they both leaned forward, eager for whatever
bit of forbidden knowledge Sophia would share next. In a large gilt cage in the corner,
two lovebirds fussed and flitted about.

Sophia laughed, her eyes sparkling. “Sweaty. Hmm, well, it certainly can be.” She
took after their dark-haired mother, while Daphne and Clarissa were both sunshine-and-fair
like their father, the late viscount. Sophia had married the Duke of Claxton two summers
ago. “But only when it’s especially good.”

The three of them fell into another round of stifled giggles. They could have shut
the door, but knew from collective experience that nothing would draw their mother’s
suspicion more quickly than that. They sat around a narrow table, surrounded by lists
and envelopes and various tea accoutrements, addressing engraved invitations to Daphne’s
debut ball, to be held in two weeks’ time.

Utterly flustered, Daphne scrutinized her portion of the list. The
N
s. Wasn’t that where she’d left off? She attempted to compare the names on her list
against those she’d already written out, to be certain no one had been omitted, but
her mind couldn’t seem to make sense of things. Sophia’s wicked revelations had scrambled
her thoughts!

“No wonder mothers wait until the morning before the wedding to have
the talk
,” Clarissa said, with a dramatic wave of her ostrich quill. Yesterday, while out
shopping on Bond Street, they’d each purchased one, dyed in a luxurious shade of emerald,
peacock, and, in Clarissa’s instance, scarlet, certain such decadent writing implements
would make the dreaded task of writing five hundred invitations pass all the more
quickly. “If we all realized our fate, none of us would ever agree to a season. Daphne,
can you imagine granting such liberties to your Lord Rackmorton—”

Daphne grimaced at the mention of the named gentleman, who of late always presented
himself at her side and remained there as if he owned her, glowering at any other
man who approached. He had sent her roses the day before, and the day before that,
which made her exceedingly uncomfortable despite her mother’s assurances that she
would receive flowers from many gentlemen this season.

“He is not
my
Lord Rackmorton.” She rocked the blotter across the envelope she’d just addressed.
“I have not encouraged him in the least, and do not intend to do so.”

“Good, because I don’t like him,” said Sophia, placing another envelope on the stack,
flap open. On Friday, two of the footmen would finish them all with the earl’s distinctive
green wax seal. “Not one little bit. He has cold eyes, and I swear I caught him staring
at your bosoms more than once.”

“I thought I was the only one who noticed,” Clarissa sniffed. “I also overheard him
being rather cruel to one of Lord Bignall’s footmen at the end of the evening when
his hat and coat were returned. Can you believe he accused him of holding the hat
too tightly and smudging its brim? Why, he threatened to speak to Bignall and have
the poor fellow dismissed, and I do believe he would have followed through, except…well,
let’s just say that Daphne entered the foyer, and that the footman has her bosoms,
and the distraction they provided, to thank for his continued employment.”

Daphne sighed heavily. “I just
knew
he was a cretin.”

For any young woman tasked with finding a match, the challenge of distinguishing a
potential husband from a terrible mistake could be disconcerting. What a relief she
had no intention of ever marrying.

She’d even gone so far as to officially inform her family, because everyone knew the
London season was above all a marriage mart, and her conscience wouldn’t allow her
to proceed under false pretenses. Her grandfather and mother had told her not to be
rash and to keep her mind open to possibilities—and most of all, to enjoy her debut
season. Her sisters just pretended as if she’d never said the words, and they looked
amused whenever she reinforced her decision.

None of them had taken her seriously, of course, and they thought she was just being
skittish about standing upon the precipice of womanhood. But eventually they
would
come to accept the finality of her decision, the same way she had. They just needed
time to understand the person she’d become. Not wanting to hurt their feelings or
worry them, she’d done as they encouraged her to do—and yes, she’d gotten caught up
in the excitement, which truly made her very happy, because in the end how could she
disappoint Clarissa?

Since their days in the nursery, they had dreamed of a season together and delightedly
planned every last detail a thousand times over. It would break her sister’s heart
if they didn’t partake in all the festivities together. Not only that, but Lady Margaretta
had privately begged for Daphne’s assistance in watching over the wildly romantic
Clarissa, who she feared would lose her heart to the first determined scoundrel who
paid her court. London abounded with them, men consumed with personal ambition—Rackmorton
being a prime example, more eager to wed to increase his wealth and political connections
than for any care of a young woman’s heart. But Clarissa saw right through him, which
gave Daphne renewed hope for her sister’s future.

Sophia reached for another card. “Clarissa and I weren’t the only ones who noticed
Lord Rackmorton ogling you, Daphne. Claxton was prepared to call His Lordship out
over it last night, but I calmed him, saying any uproar would only embarrass you,
rather than the culprit. I hope I wasn’t wrong to intervene.”

“No, you weren’t. I’d have told His Grace the same.” Daphne sighed, still pleased
to hear of the duke’s concern. “Claxton is such a dear.”

Indeed, Claxton treated their sister like a queen, and spoiled her and Clarissa with
the sweetest of brotherly affections. To think they’d all been two seconds from murdering
him just last year. Which made the whole subject of men even more confusing, because
if Claxton had undergone such a transformation, couldn’t others? Still, she didn’t
believe Lord Rackmorton was at all salvageable. She certainly wouldn’t choose him
for Clarissa.

“Claxton is indeed a dear,” Clarissa agreed. “But Lord Rackmorton is a toad. And yet
by the opinion makers of the
ton
he is considered to be a highly prized catch. I think we all know why.” Her eyes
narrowed in discernment.

“He
is
very rich,” murmured Sophia, dipping her blue quill into the indigo. “And connected.”

“Handsome is as handsome
has
,” Daphne declared wryly.

The youngest Bevington
harrumphed
. “How many times have we heard that ridiculous statement, as if all that matters
is a man’s title and fortune?” She chuckled. “Those awful Aimsley sisters are clearly
in agreement. Every time Lord Rackmorton speaks to you, Daphne, they both turn crocodile
green and grow sharp pointy teeth to match. But do you think they would want him so
badly if they knew about the rest?”

Daphne lifted her teacup. “All young ladies certainly understand that intimacies will
be expected when they marry.”

The thought of being touched by Rackmorton in the way Sophia had described just moments
ago made her queasy.

Clarissa poked her sleeve with the fluffy end of her quill. “But no one talks about
the details, and that might make quite a bit of difference to some if they knew beforehand
what to expect. Why, it’s wrong for us to be kept in the dark. If not for Sophia thinking
it proper to share with us, we’d have no idea of the wild passions that may very well
ensue during those private times…the heat and nakedness, and all the touching and
squeezing and the…the…”

Her mouth worked to produce another word.

“Turgidity?” Sophia calmly supplied, her green eyes bright with mischief. She, too,
glanced toward the door.

“Tur—tur—GIDity!” Daphne sputtered, half-choking.

Her sisters must have conjured much the same images, because their faces contorted
with mirth.

“Yes! The
turgidity
!” exclaimed Clarissa, the flush on her cheeks darkening from pink to scarlet. “Why,
I had no idea.”

“I’m still trying to comprehend that particular phenomenon,” Daphne blurted. She had
seen nude male statues, of course, but none that depicted such an inflamed state.

Clarissa gasped for breath. “If it’s true that male bodies transform so bizarrely—”

“Oh, it’s true!” Sophia interjected, eyebrows raised.

“Well, then, it’s no wonder they don’t tell us anything more.” Clarissa hovered on
the edge of hilarity, lips trembling and eyes watering. “Why, if word got out, there
would be anarchy in the drawing rooms of Mayfair and Belgravia.” She threw her arms
wide.

At the thought of London’s well-bred debutante population unanimously declaring revolt,
Daphne’s throat closed on another sudden rush of laughter. She coughed, and coughed
again, before reaching for her teacup, which she lifted to her lips.

Sophia leaned forward in her chair, her countenance aglow. “It would be the end of
civilization as we know it. Can you imagine? The streets would be jammed with curricles
full of young ladies fleeing town for the safety and seclusion of the country, never
to return for another assembly or musicale or ball.”

At the idea of scores of young ladies vacating London in a wild jumble of pastel ribbons
and flowered hats, Daphne gave a little yelp. Only she’d just taken that sip—

Everything
stung
, from her nose to her brain.

“Ow! I think tea came out my nose!” She planted her teacup onto its saucer, where
it clattered.

“It did,” Sophia gasped, nearly sobbing. “I saw it, you spurted. Watch out, the invitations!”

She thrust a napkin at her, which Daphne seized to her nose.

They all laughed until they could laugh no more.

Clarissa collapsed back against the cushioned rattan headrest. “Sophia, now that you’ve
shared these secrets from the marital boudoir, how will we ever be able to look our
suitors in the eye?”

“All I intended was a nice sisterly talk.” Sophia dabbed tears of laughter from her
eyes. “How did things turn so…so…so prurient? It’s because the two of you urged me
on, and coaxed me into saying things I ought never to have said.”

“Such as the detail about you actually enjoying it?” Daphne gave her sister a wicked
wink.

“Yes!” the duchess exclaimed, wide-eyed. “
That
. I should never have told you.” She pressed both hands to her cheeks.

“Claxton, that rascal, has turned you into a wanton.” Daphne sighed, then added in
a quiet voice, “I can’t imagine ever actually
wanting
it to happen.”

Yet her sister appeared deliriously happy. What would it be like to wake up each day
in love with one’s husband? Daphne found a number of male acquaintances attractive
and interesting, but no one made her feel warm and jittery and anticipatory inside.
No one inspired dreams of forever.
All for the best
, she thought. Not everyone was meant to experience a grand love affair, or else such
love affairs wouldn’t be grand at all, but common.

“Oh, but you will,” assured Sophia, once again proving she did not accept Daphne’s
self-recusal from the state of marriage. But…how could Daphne be angry when she knew
Sophia only wished for her happiness?

With a blissful sigh, Sophia eased back in her chair, looking drowsy and flush cheeked.
She rested her hand on the barely visible swell of her stomach. Prurient? No, not
prurient at all, because as a result of all the marital love and passion described
by Sophia, in three months there would be a sweet new baby for them all to adore and
spoil. “But as I said, only if you marry someone that you respect and love—”

Daphne wouldn’t, though. She didn’t intend to ever fall in love. To one day lose a
beloved spouse or a cherished child? Thank you very much, but no. She would not accept
an invitation to that painful future. She had lost quite enough loved ones in her
life already with the death of her brother at sea, and then her father two years later
to an equine accident…one that should never have happened. Instead she would devote
herself completely to her widowed mother and her elderly grandfather, for as long
as life allowed, and become a favorite aunt to her sisters’ children. Truly, she wanted
nothing more.

“Of course,” Sophia concluded. “It also helps to find whomever you marry to be immensely
attractive.”

“We can’t all marry someone as handsome as His Grace,” said Clarissa, but her eyes
were full of hope that she would.

Their elder sister shook her head, her expression earnest. “I didn’t say ‘handsome.’
I said ‘attractive,’ which means something very different for all of us. You’ll see.
You will. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Wait for something special to
happen, because it will. And it’s worth it.” Sophia smiled and exhaled. “Oh, my dear
sisters, is it ever so worth it.”

“I’m very happy for you.” Daphne reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed. “That
you and Claxton worked through your difficulties.”

At that moment, their mother, Margaretta, Lady Harwick, appeared in the archway of
the conservatory door, dressed in a meadow-green morning dress. Her eyes widened in
dismay. “Daphne and Clarissa, why are you still here when I told you to watch the
time? I know each of you has a perfectly accurate timepiece, because Aunt Vivian gave
them to you as gifts for your last birthdays. Up, up! We leave for Lady Buckinghamshire’s
in one hour.”