The Earl is Mine (17 page)

He’d not had a chance to sit back and breathe. Which was all well and good, as he’d had the entire afternoon and early evening in the carriage to sit—and breathe. Which sometimes was difficult to do when the world’s squirmiest woman sat next to one and insisted on casting burning looks at one because she was bored. He’d refused to stare back at her because he’d found Pippa incredibly appealing in those pantaloons. Not only that, he knew she still wasn’t bound beneath her coat by that god-awful strip of cloth, which Oscar had removed from the carriage, no doubt wondering what in hell it was.

During the course of the evening, he’d spoken with Lord Rochelle and Mr. Brian Forrest, second son of Lord Hall, both of whom he’d worked with on design projects under the tutelage of several architects in London. They confirmed what he suspected: They, too, had been asked to design a dog cottage for Lady Thurston.

So the race was on. Mr. Dawson kept a low profile all night, just as he had at the inn. Everyone was aware of his connection to Lord and Lady Thurston—he was a cousin and as such didn’t merit much attention. It was true he wasn’t the most scintillating company, but his presence amid the gathering of sophisticated guests lent the atmosphere a refreshing charm rarely found in more rarefied London drawing rooms.

The little man spoke to every gentleman there who’d designed something for Lord and Lady Thurston, although he didn’t ask them about those projects. He kept to safe subjects, such as the weather and gardening, one of his favorite hobbies, and shooting grouse, which was something he’d only just begun to do. With Gregory, he made a point to tell him that he was also the oldest son of a large family, and they spent fifteen minutes discussing the merits and detractions of being the sibling in charge.

“It’s a huge responsibility,” Gregory said, and realized he’d missed being the big brother while he’d been in America. “You feel as if when you’re away, the younger ones can’t do without you. Their worlds will stop turning.”

“They often do,” said Mr. Dawson, a twinkle in his eye. “It’s not our job to get them spinning again, however. Every member of a family needs to learn on his or her own. You may only lend them advice. Not get in the way.”

Gregory thought of Peter, of how he’d known Eliza didn’t love him—

And hadn’t told him.

But he’d had a year now to think about it. Who’d betrayed whom, really?

He looked down into the scarlet depths of the claret in his glass and thought about that day. He’d never have believed Peter if he’d told him that Eliza was in love with Dougal. Not in a million years. And Peter knew Gregory would react that way, which was why he never confided the full extent of his worries to him.

The plain truth was that Gregory had let guilt and jealousy come between him and his younger brother. Peter was a true Sherwood of the House of Brady. He should be Lord Westdale if all were right with the world.

He was truly Father’s son.

And he was an excellent brother. He’d reminded Gregory that Mother’s ring was special. It was Gregory who’d been in the wrong. He’d been willing to give a treasured token away to a woman he didn’t love—a woman who didn’t love
him
. The ring was the only thing he had left of Mother besides that grin of hers that he saw on Robert’s face … and her piercing eyes, which now belonged to Peter.

He shook his head, gave a short laugh, and looked away—anywhere but at the knowing gaze of the little man before him.

“You have to learn to love what you see in front of you, young man,” said Mr. Dawson, “and not what you expect—or even demand—to see.”

Gregory turned back to him and raised his glass of claret. “Good advice. From one big brother to another.”

He would think on it.

“Cheers.” Mr. Dawson grinned and clinked his glass with his.

*   *   *

An inviting scene greeted Gregory in his bedchamber a long three hours after he last saw his “valet” on the stair landing. A small fire crackled cheerily in the grate, and on the bureau was an elaborate candelabra with four lit tapers casting a lovely glow. Another single candle sat on his bedside table, next to some apples and purple grapes arranged prettily on a china plate. The luxurious scarlet covers of his bed were thrown back, exposing an abundance of plumped pillows while an open bottle of wine waited on the far side of the bed, with not one but two glasses.

Lady Thurston was the supreme hostess. A wicked hostess. He wondered if Lady Damara were one of her dear friends. He hoped not—he didn’t need three women displeased with him.

On the left side of the room, a closed door obviously led to his dressing room. Just looking at that door put his senses on high alert. He felt an overwhelming lust invade his being—

He wanted Lady Pippa Harrington.

What was wrong with him?

This was
Pippa
. Plenty of women in London could turn a man’s eye more often than she would.

Pippa, as lovely as she was, wasn’t attuned to the whole mating ritual … she didn’t exude an aura of feminine mystery. She simply didn’t care, he supposed. Her mind was on other things—the beautiful morning, the delicious quality of every dessert she’d ever tasted, the latest novels, the amusing antics of her favorites among the village children in Plumtree, the state of affairs in England and the world.

When she walked into a room, men felt at ease with her. They didn’t sit on the edge of their seats. The blood in their heads didn’t rush to their groins. She was the type of woman who reminded a man that he hadn’t had tea in a while and was famished—or that he needed to go visit his grandmother more often and make her laugh at his inane stories the same way Pippa laughed at them—with abandon.

She was the type of woman who reminded a man that he was still a boy at heart—and that he was more than the bleached-white cravat, the well-polished boots, the speech he’d delivered at Parliament, and the mansion on Grosvenor Square.

But she was also the woman who’d braced herself on a taproom door, her legs spread, and let him tease her until she lost control and cried out her pleasure.

Yes, she was
that
Pippa, too, and the memory made his sex stiffen with desire to see her that way again.

He strode to the dressing room door and gave a gentle knock. When there was no answer, he turned the knob slowly and peeked in. He wanted a glimpse of his valet—

His Pippa
.

She would be no other man’s until he could find the perfect mate for her.

Her hair was unpinned and lay in glorious disarray on her pillow. She was on her back, her legs spread wide beneath her blanket, her arms thrown out and dangling over the edge of the pallet, and she was …

Was she snoring?

Yes, she most definitely was—a light snore, as befitted a lady—

A lady who was wearing a man’s nightshirt to bed. A lady who was sprawled in her bed the way a man would be. A lady who liked the intimate things he’d done to her and with her.

He smiled. He couldn’t help it. Around Pippa, he felt careless. Care
free
.

“Good God!” she suddenly exclaimed, and sat bolt upright, her chest heaving.

So much for carefree. Gregory schooled his expression to be neutral bordering on light, professional concern. “Sorry. I was checking on you, that’s all. I’m not only your guardian—on an unofficial basis, of course—I’m your current employer, and it’s my duty to ensure that you’re safe and comfortable.”

“Oh. I noticed that earlier. I meant to thank you. All day, in between being a terrific nuisance—and coaxing me into paroxysms of unadulterated, wild animal passion—you’ve looked after me.” She ran a hand over her brow and the crown of her head to push her hair off her face.

“It was my pleasure,” he said. And yes, the word
pleasure
was weighted with all sorts of meaning.

“I suppose you had an interesting night,” she said carefully.

“Yes, you could call it that.” Lady Damara was miffed with him, but the talk with Mr. Dawson had done him good. “I’m thankful to get to bed, however.”

“I was, too.”

“No doubt you had an interesting night, too. I hope it wasn’t terrible.”

She shook her head. “Nothing I couldn’t bear with equanimity.”

“Good.” He was glad the firelight behind him made his face a shadow. He could study her for any signs of fear or worry—and bask in her simple beauty—without her really being aware. “I want you to know that even if I hadn’t seen you on the stairs, I would have made sure you never would have had to sleep in the attics with the male servants.”

“Thank you.” Her voice sounded subdued. No wonder—he’d woken her from a deep sleep. And she was playing a role, a role that surely couldn’t be easy, and doing so in a houseful of strangers.

“Did you really enjoy this evening?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “It was all right.”

“You appeared to be having a lovely time with Lady Damara. Was that she? The one who came out and took your arm?”

“Yes.”

“She looks divine in turquoise.”

“I suppose she does.”

Pippa looked down and away from him. “She obviously wants to marry you.”

He laughed. “Not necessarily.”

Now it was Pippa’s turn to shrug. “It would be most convenient if she did.”

“Right. I remember why. So Uncle Bertie will stop pestering us to get married ourselves.”

“Exactly.”

“Of course, he thinks we’re heading to Gretna right now.”

“There’s no way we could have made it so quickly.” She sighed. “So I suppose he thinks we’re staying at an inn. Hopefully, he believes we’ll be in separate rooms.”

“That’s not usually what happens when people elope. They give up on pretense, I believe, and indulge their passions where they may.”

She emitted a little laugh.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked.

“Just that I heard in the kitchens that the servants expect you and Lady Damara to be together tonight. I assume that’s what the wine is for on your bedside table.”

Gregory hid his chagrin. He was sure those were props for use in a midnight affair, too. “Just because servants talk doesn’t mean the rumor is true.”

“Right. Like the rumor Lord Marbury mentioned about you … and my old friend Eliza.” She gave another laugh, but this one was a bit sad.

Gregory sighed. “Do you believe it?”

Pippa stared at him. “I don’t know.”

It hurt him that she did. But why should it? It was true. He’d slept with Eliza—once.

Just once.

But he couldn’t stand the idea of Pippa knowing. He couldn’t bear the idea that she would ever,
ever
truly think ill of him.

“Tell me the truth about you and Eliza,” she said, and even in the dark, he could see how her eyes were lit with more than curiosity. There was something else … she had another reason for wanting to know.

“You tell me why you’re asking first,” he said. “And then—I swear—I’ll tell you the truth.”

She heaved a big sigh. The room was silent a moment.

“Never mind,” she said.

He was relieved, of course. “Tomorrow we’ll talk, shall we? About what to do with you when the house party is over.”

She sat up higher. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t intend to take you back to Uncle Bertie’s.”

She gave a great gasp. “Really?” And before he could blink, she’d left her pallet and had her arms around his neck. “Oh, thank you, Gregory.”

He let her hang there a moment. In fact, he closed his eyes and luxuriated in the feel of her. “I decided tonight when I saw you on the stairs with those two brutish footmen…”

“They were awful louts.”

“… That anyone who tries this hard to escape their lot must have a very good reason for doing so.”

She squeezed him even harder, then pulled back to look at him. “It’s true that belowstairs I was very worried about being a valet here. I even wondered if it were worth it. But it is.” She gripped his shoulders and gave him a little shake. “It
is
.”

He marveled at her devotion to her dream. “Tell me,” he said, “what is it about making sugar sculptures that makes you so … excited?”

She laughed. “They make people happy, that’s why. Including me.”

“It’s as simple as that, then?”

“Of course. It’s the same way I can’t give up tea. Or sleep. Or—”

“Or what? What else can’t you give up?”

Her eyes were large and dark, her skin glowing in the firelight from the bedchamber. “Nothing.” She stepped back and looked away from him again, her arms crossed over her chest. “I think you should go now. Tomorrow is another long day. At least we’ll start it and end it in the same place.” She looked back at him and gave him an awkward smile. “That will be nice.”

He took a step toward her, and she stumbled back onto her pallet. “What are you doing?”

He stood still. “Nothing.”

“Then—then why are you still here?”

He scratched his temple. “You just seem a bit angry at me. And it disappoints me. I was looking forward to seeing you.”

“You were?”

“Of course. Why do you sound so surprised?”

She shrugged again.

He wasn’t sure that he should ask, but he did: “Are you jealous of Lady Damara, by any chance?”

She reacted as he suspected she would. “Why would you think that? I want you to marry someone, Gregory. The sooner, the better.”

“Right,” he said.

There was that silence again.

Slowly, she rubbed her eyes with her index finger and thumb. “All right.” With an abrupt change in her demeanor, she looked him square in the eye. “I might have been a little jealous. The few times I’ve seen you in London, you’re always with these beautiful women, and then the papers speak of how all the debutantes want to waltz with you—”

“Yes?” He came up to her, put his hands on her waist. “What of it?”

She bit her lip and looked away again.

“Pippa?”

“Blast it all, I hate you sometimes.”

“I know.” He felt his mouth tip up at the corner and wondered why it was that no matter what she said, he still adored her. He always had. From the time they were small.

But what did it mean, to adore someone?