The Earl in My Bed: A Forgotten Princesses Valentine Novella (7 page)

Her face flushed guiltily, imagining how they must look. Her gaze swung to the new arrival and her stomach sank. She should have known that voice. It haunted her thoughts since his return.

Mr. Bromley blinked, stiffening. “Begging your pardon—”

“Lord Winningham,” she murmured, her voice breathless.

Mr. Bromley relaxed at the sound of Jamie’s title and smoothed a hand along the nonexistent wrinkles marring the front of his jacket, suddenly mindful of his appearance. He took an even wider step from her, putting a respectable distance between them.

“You must be Mr. Bromley. One of the ladies . . .” He tapped his chin looking insincerely apologetic. “Sorry. I’ve forgotten her name. Been gone too long, I fear. She asked me to fetch you.”

Forgot her name indeed! Paget would wager that there was no such lady in need of Mr. Bromley. Her gaze narrowed on Jamie.

“I suppose I best return inside. Miss Ellsworth?” Mr. Bromley looked at her uncertainly, regretfully.

“I’ll see her back,” Jamie volunteered.

Bromley nodded and executed a quick bow before hurrying away.

“That was dreadful of you,” she charged as soon as they were alone.

“I did what needed to be done to save you from yourself.”

“I was not aware that I was in need of saving.”

“Come. You did not think to toss Owen aside for
that
?” He waved a hand in the direction Mr. Bromley had taken.

She lifted her nose. “Mr. Bromley is a gentleman.”

“A gentleman.” He snorted. “I thought you were looking for passion. You’ll hardly find it with the likes of him. You could do better.”

“Forgive me if I don’t trust your advice, my lord.”

He shrugged. “I simply can’t see that prig giving you a taste of what you so obviously crave.”

Her cheeks burned. “You make it sound so terribly vulgar.”

His eyes peered at her, dark in the shadows of the garden. “Have you forgotten what transpired between us? I haven’t. I know what burns inside you.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a husky pitch. “I tasted it for myself.” He motioned behind him. “When it comes to what you’re looking for, you won’t find it in any of the gentlemen in that ballroom.”

Her breath caught. “You’re saying you are not like them then?” She meant to trap him into admitting he was not a gentleman.

“I am not,” he rejoined, not appearing to care at the admission. “Not in the least.” His gaze crawled over her face. “If I were a gentleman I wouldn’t still be here with you.” His hand lifted to her face. She waited, the air trapped tightly in her chest. “I would have fled as soon as I broke up your little rendezvous with Bromley. But I’m still here. Near you. Touching you.”

His fingers landed on her mouth then, tracing their contours, lightly grazing the sensitive flesh. His voice continued, rolling through her like honey. “Feeling this mouth. Remembering your taste.”

She sighed against his fingers. If he meant to torment her, he was succeeding. Her heart beat as fierce as a rabbit’s beneath her breastbone.

“Please,” she begged.

“Please what?” he demanded, his voice hard for all its softness.

“Kiss me again.”

It was as though he’d been waiting for just that invitation. He hauled her into his arms and claimed her mouth.

Tongue tangling with hers, his fingers slid into her hair, scattering the pins. She didn’t even let herself care how she would repair her simple coiffure. There was only his mouth. On hers. His body against hers.

A lick of heat curled low in her belly, tightening and twisting until she grew wet between the legs. His hands slid lower, his fingers digging into her back.

She moaned into his mouth, hating the clothing barring them from each other. She wanted to go back to that day with him in the rain and feel his hands on her naked flesh. His mouth on her bared breasts. She wanted that and more. She wanted all their clothes gone until they were nothing but skin on skin.

Pressing herself against him, she wound her arms around his neck, marveling at the insistent ache throbbing at her core.

Her fingers wove through his hair, luxuriating in the softness, in her freedom to touch him as he touched her.

His hands slid down to her derrière. She felt boneless, ready to melt. Her fingers clutched his jacket as if that was all that kept her from sliding to the ground. Their lips clung, drinking, tasting, devouring each other. With a growl, he wrenched his lips from hers, dragging his mouth down the column of her throat, sucking, nipping at the cords along her neck. Her head fell back, granting him greater access.

His hold tightened, his breath firing against her throat. She opened her eyes to see his gleaming at her in the gloom of the garden, as though lit from within. She tugged him by the head, bringing his lips back to hers.

Dimly, in the back of her mind that was not overrun with sensation, she heard voices growing louder. The tread of footsteps on the path registered too late. Almost simultaneously she heard a sharp gasp.

She shoved at Jamie’s chest and jerked back a stumbling step.

Her horrified gaze moved from his face to scan the garden. She spotted them immediately. Her eyes closed in a long, anguished blink. Of all people, Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Manchester were the worst. The widow and her spinster sister weren’t simply gossips. They lived vicariously through the lives of others. Everything must be discussed again and again for the full effect, even when the news was weeks old.

The ladies clung to each other, squeezing each other’s hands as if they stood witness to some terrible debacle and not a mere kiss. Their mouths sagged, heightening their resemblance to each other.

“Mrs. Willoughby, Miss Manchester,” she greeted with enough cheer to make her wince.

“Miss Ellsworth,” Mrs. Willoughby cried in a voice full of affront and, if Paget’s ears were not mistaken, a healthy dose of glee.

“Oh, forgive us . . .” Paget glanced at Jamie. His expression was impassive. She frowned, hoping he would say something,
do
something.

She looked helplessly back to the sisters, telling herself that this wasn’t as damaging as she first feared. A single kiss wasn’t ruinous. It was not as though they had seen her with her dress pulled down and Jamie lavishing his mouth on her breasts.
That
would have been ruinous. Not this . . . surely . . . not . . .

“Lord Winningham and I were simply sharing a brief, friendly kiss . . . to welcome him home . . .” Her cheeks heated at her outrageous words. She did not need to see their incredulous expressions to know just how very lame that excuse rang.

There had been nothing innocent about their kiss. Staring at the women, she knew they did not for one moment consider it an innocent peck either. They knew it for exactly what it had been . . . a passionate, hungry kiss.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Willoughby said haughtily. “That is some welcome home kiss. I cannot even imagine how you shall greet Lord McDowell upon his return.”

Miss Manchester tittered. “Let us hope there are no prying eyes to that auspicious event.”

The reminder of Owen made her face burn. Of course, they believed her to be a faithless harlot . . . kissing his older brother whilst he fought for their country legions away.

She wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. She did not belong to Owen. She was a free woman . . . entitled to kiss whom she chose.

“Well, pardon us, we have no wish to intrude further.” Miss Manchester nodded to each of them and tugged on her sister’s arm, pulling her back down the path toward the house.

Once they were out of sight, she whirled on Jamie. “A great deal of help you were!” she charged.

He shrugged. “What could I say? There was no erasing what they witnessed.”

“Brilliant! Now every tongue will be wagging that I kissed
you
. . . Owen’s brother!” She groaned, waving her arms wildly.

He nodded grimly. “I’ll speak with your father tomorrow.”

She stilled, dropping her arms at her sides. “Whatever for?”

He sighed heavily. “Do I need to say it? There is but one recourse here.”

She shook her head blankly, utterly befuddled.

He pointed in the direction Miss Manchester and Mrs. Willoughby fled. “Those two biddies are at this very moment regaling all who will listen with the news that I have thoroughly compromised you.”

She jerked back as though slapped. “Compromised? I would not go so far as to say that—”

“No? Even now wagers are being made on how long until it becomes evident you are ‘increasing.’ ”

She gasped. “Of all the vulgar—”

“ ’Tis the truth. You are compromised, Paget. There is only one thing left for us to do.”

“Marriage?” She choked the word out as if it were the foulest of epithets.

He nodded, his mouth pulling in a tight frown. Clearly, he was no more thrilled at the prospect than she.

She stared at his impassive face, searching for some sign that he was hesitant on the matter. He was quite serious. “What of Owen? I thought I was to wait for Owen? You seemed quite adamant on that point.”

“It’s too late to worry for Owen. I must protect you now.” His lips twisted sardonically. “Owen would expect that of me.”

She shook her head. “You make no sense.”

“It’s simple. Either I leave you in scandal, utterly and irreparably ruined. Or I save your name and wed you. Neither situation will please my brother, but even he would agree that the former is unacceptable. The latter, a lesser evil, if you will.”

She blinked. “You just characterized marriage to me as an evil?

He winced. “That’s not precisely what I meant to say, Paget.”

She wasn’t too sure about that. Everything about him was dour and disappointed. He clearly did not
want
to marry her. Obligation drove him and nothing else. Oh, how he would come to resent her if she agreed. And if it cost him a relationship with his brother, he might grow to loathe her. No matter that he had been just as much a participant in that kiss. He would look at her and see only what she had cost him. His freedom. His brother. She could not live with that.

Shaking her head, she began to turn away. “No. No. This cannot be happening. I won’t do this . . .”

He followed her and seized her arm, forcing her to turn and face him. “This affects not only you—”

“Oh. It damages
you
, does it?” She snorted her skepticism. “I don’t see how. You’re a man. An earl. You can ruin girls up and down the countryside and your reputation shall remain intact.” A bitter truth that only increased her fury at the helpless situation she suddenly found herself in. She twisted her arm free of his grip. “Thank you for the offer to sacrifice yourself, but I shall weather the storm on my own.”

“I’m not speaking of me.”

“No? Who then?”

“Your father,” he bit out. “Do you really think he can survive the scandal?”

She sucked in a breath. Suddenly she felt both hot and cold.

He continued, “Think about it, Paget. His flock would desert him.”

All because of her
.

“Oh,” she expelled the word on a sigh as she visualized the scenario he was describing. Misery filled her heart. He was right. This could destroy Papa.

How was it possible for wild and exciting sensations to have consumed her only moments before? The euphoria she felt in his arms felt like a distant thing as anguish filled her heart.

He released her, his stormy blue-green eyes waiting.

It didn’t matter if she fled anymore. There was no running away from it. He released her.

Her eyes stung as she gazed up at him. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“What’s not?” he queried, angling his head.

Her proposal.
Marriage
. She wasn’t supposed to wed someone out of obligation and necessity. She wanted . . .
more
.

She bit back the words from tumbling free. He already knew as much. She felt as fragile as glass at the moment. She could not abide it if he mocked her.

And that’s when she realized she had been fooling herself. It wasn’t just passion she wanted. She wanted love. That was the elusive
more
she had been craving.

Staring into Jamie’s grim face, she was reminded of the stern and humorless boy he had been. She wanted love and she would never have that from this man.

Swallowing back a choked sob, she turned and fled through the back of the garden. Nothing on earth would have her brave the ballroom now. She’d circle around to the front and have a footman fetch Papa for her.

Perhaps once she was home she could figure a way out of this mess. Perhaps it wasn’t nearly as bad as Jamie seemed to think it would be. Perhaps she would be able to laugh about this a fortnight from now.

As she rounded to the front of the house, her father was already waiting outside beside their carriage, her cloak in his hands, his shoulders hunkered in a way she had never seen before. Usually Papa stood tall and proud, his shoulders pulled back. Suddenly he looked older. Frail.

Her steps slowed as she approached, dread sinking its teeth deep into her heart as she read his expression.

He held out a hand to her. “Come, daughter. Let us go home.”

A thick lump formed in her throat. Nodding, she placed her hand in her father’s and allowed him to assist her inside the carriage.

There would be no future laughter about this night.

A hushed silence fell once they settled inside the carriage.

“Daughter,” Papa began.

Heat filled her cheeks. She blinked stinging eyes, hating that she had shamed her father. He was everything to her since her mother had died. She could not bear the thought that she had disappointed him.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she murmured.

He patted her hand. “Fret not. I was young once. And in love.” His eyes twinkled at her through the lenses of his spectacles, smudged as always from his fingerprints.

She sniffed and rubbed the cold tip of her nose. “I cannot blame my behavior on that sentiment.”

“No? You do not love him then?”

She shook her head. “I—I don’t know.” She knew she felt something for him. Perhaps it was love. It couldn’t simply be lust. Although there was that. In abundance. Her body grew warm, her bones liquefying just thinking about him . . . his mouth . . . his hands. But love? Something lasting and deep?