The Earl is Mine (5 page)

“Fine idea!” crowed Bertie. “I don’t know what I was thinking letting her hare off to Paris.”

Pippa pointed a trembling finger at Lord Westdale and looked at Mother and Uncle Bertie. “But he ran away from England for one long year,” she insisted, her voice trembling. “Why should you listen to him?”

No one said a word. The tension in the room was thick.

“Doesn’t anyone care that I want to make sugar sculptures for a living?” she whispered. “That I have a dream that will make me happy? Mother? Remember you were an actress?”

Silence.

“Uncle Bertie? You gave up architecture to build your theaters. Because they make you happy. Remember?”

He glowered at the fire, refusing to meet her gaze.

What had happened?

This was all Gregory’s fault. Again.

Pippa looked at him. His eyes burned with something that made her wonder if she should check to see if her neckline hadn’t slipped down any further. Not that she would. She refused to look down. He wanted her to, no doubt. He was hoping she’d blush and stammer, too.

But instead she raked him with a scornful glance. He’d slung one leg over the other in careless man fashion, an act which stretched the fabric over his thighs to a serious degree, showcasing pleasantly obvious muscles that had no right to be as attractive as they were.

He appeared completely unperturbed by her flagrant perusal of his person. “Duty is its own reward,” he said quietly. “You must marry, Lady Pippa.”

“Please stop talking about this,” she choked out. “Could we—could we have dinner?”

“Let’s do,” Mother said in a thready voice.

Pippa stood, feeling as vulnerable as a young lady with a precarious hold on her dreams could, especially when faced with a patronizing earl across the carpet who’d decided to be the arbiter of her future.

Gregory crossed the floor before Uncle Bertie—still wedged into his chair—to take her arm. It was a lovely show of “Let’s put this behind us, shall we?”

Together, they walked to the dining room.

“Ignore Bertie’s disappointment about us,” the earl said. “He’ll forget it on the morrow.”

“No he won’t.” Pippa’s tone was wooden. “He never does.”

Gregory pulled out her chair, his nearness causing her to stop breathing long enough that when she did breathe, it would have been an audible gasp for air had not the heavy panting from the crowd of corgis under the table served as a distraction.

She was mortified that after all she’d been through tonight, part of her was still attracted to their glamorous visitor. The entire time he’d kissed her in Eliza’s garden, Pippa had known he was using her. Punishing her. So what did this infatuation with him make her? Some kind of empty-headed fool?

Which was why when he asked for the open saltcellar with the darling matching duck spoon at dinner a few minutes later, she reached for the set with alacrity but then wouldn’t let go of it right away.

He didn’t deserve to use the duck spoon. And for that matter, he hadn’t deserved to kiss her. But finally, she relented and handed him the cellar.

When Gregory’s mouth twitched with something like amusement, Pippa supposed he had good reason. Here he was, an important man deigning to leave the social whirl in London to come to Dartmoor for an old man’s birthday and being forced to sit next to a girl who was pleased by very small things, like duck spoons, fake tiaras, and sugar sculptures—a girl he’d just promised to see to the marriage altar with another, as-yet-unnamed man.

For a moment, it was as if time froze and she were observing the scene from the outside looking in. As the clock on the mantel had done since she was a child, it sounded slightly ill, going
tock
-tick,
tock
-tick rather than the more regular ticktock. The same oil painting with the same ship battering through the same choppy seas hung on the wall above the sideboard. The carved roses on the elaborate plaster molding that marched down the seams of the ceiling and framed the cupids painted there were elegant, but she’d seen them a thousand times, and now the fulsome border made the room feel less an airy chamber than a suffocating box.

Dear God, this is my life
.

Pippa cast a sideways glance at Gregory and he gave her a secret, knowing smile. He must have taken particular pleasure in rebuffing her today. Oh, he was a heartless, wretched,
monster
of a man! And try as she might not to, she leaned half an inch closer to him.

Chapter Two

At the table Pippa eyed Gregory as if he were the devil incarnate. And that was a good thing. He had only a few more hours to go pretending that nothing had gone terribly awry between them, and then tomorrow morning, he’d be on his way.

But then she leaned closer to say something, and everything in him clamored to lean toward her, too. He had no idea why. Despite his new grasp of her as a woman—brought on by her betrayal and that kiss they’d shared in Eliza’s garden—and not as a mere placeholder in the annual tradition with Bertie, she wasn’t his type.

Eliza was his type. She’d been undemanding and serene—at least with him. Not with Dougal. He couldn’t forget that with Dougal, she’d been assertive and excited, and now the two were married.

Was that love?

Not that it mattered to Gregory. In fact, to hell with love. He believed in lust. It didn’t last, but while it did, it was marvelous.

“Your hair looks beautiful in the candlelight,” he told Pippa.

Why not? He was leaving, and she didn’t like him anymore, at least not the way she must have liked him before he’d snatched her drawing pad and kissed her a year ago.

It had been the most memorable kiss of his life—

But he’d like to forget it.

All his angst, his sorrow, his anger, his pain, and his guilt had come out in that kiss.

He hated that Pippa knew him. She might not be aware, but she knew him better than anyone else.

She’d tasted something of the wretchedness of his soul in Eliza’s garden that day.

Not surprisingly, tonight she’d made clear that she wasn’t the least bit in love with him. Pity, that. His bitterness had had focus when he’d held her heart in his hands.

So now, in a sense, amid the rubble of her betrayal and the remnants of his resentment, they were back to the old days, the old ways. He could tell Lady Pippa Harrington the truth and not worry about the implications, the same way he could compliment a fellow at White’s: “Nice horse, nice cravat.”

She
did
have lovely hair.

Her brow puckered. “Are you flirting with me? After all those nasty things you said earlier? And after you kissed me so rudely last year? I remember, you know, for all the wrong reasons.”

Perhaps going backward wouldn’t be as easy as he’d thought.

So be it.

“Wrong reasons are often associated with great pleasure,” he murmured. “Shall I show you later what I mean? I’ll ensure you won’t forget this time, either.”

She sucked in a breath, then whispered, “You’re wicked,” just as a footman wearing his best important face came striding through the doors.

All eyes turned to watch as he carried a diminutive castle on a silver tray and carefully placed it on the center of the table.

“Happy birthday, Uncle Bertie,” Pippa said with a proud smile.

The castle gleamed in the candlelight. It was Gothic and rococo and all sorts of oddness. There were even two gargoyles perched on its roof. It shouted
fairy tale
—the intriguing kind with both hunchbacked witches and shining princesses—and was the exact opposite of the clean, simple, rational architecture Gregory preferred. But there was something about it … something that made his breath catch in his throat when he saw it.

You could marry her,
were the first highly illogical words that came to his mind.

But of course, he couldn’t.

You could marry her,
the thought came back, more strident now. He thought of a miniature witch inside that castle sitting at her crystal ball and casting a spell over him.
Save her from a boring life. She’s too good—too damned whimsical—to waste away.

But of course, he wouldn’t.

It would be madness.

He would marry for duty many years from now, and Pippa would never suit as his wife. She was nosy. Demanding. She would stir him up. He couldn’t afford to reveal anything more to her—or to anyone else.

And he couldn’t forget that he couldn’t enjoy his life of wealth, and status. It must be void of happiness. Of pleasure. It must be entirely dutiful. He owed the Brady family that. And if he married Pippa—who was made for pleasure and didn’t even know it—he’d be happy.

So Pippa was entirely
wrong
.

A few more hours, he reminded himself. A few more hours, and he’d be on a horse heading to Thurston Manor.

Uncle Bertie leaned forward and held his quizzing glass up to his eye just as the largest and most elaborate of the round castle turrets fell off the sugar sculpture. It landed on top of a candle and put it out, but not before there was a sizzle, a snap of flame, and a wisp of smoke.

Mother gave a little cry.

A snort came from Mr. Trickle.

“My, my,” said Uncle Bertie kindly. “I like it, Pippa. Even if it
is
a bit of a mess.”

The acrid smell of burned sugar filled the air.

“Oh, dear.” Pippa bit her plump lower lip.

“Cheer up, my girl,” Bertie said with spirit. “Love changes everything, you know. In my mind, this castle’s perfect just the way it is because
you
made it.”

“You’re a dear to say so, Uncle Bertie, but that’s not good enough,” Pippa fretted. “See why I must go to Paris?”

Gregory did his best to ignore the feeling he had inside, that Pippa’s pitiful, desperate plea made him mad to save her, to tuck her under his arm and ride off with her on the piebald stallion of his boyhood dreams (the one he never got and would never grant himself) and hide her in a castle somewhere with gargoyles on every corner, peak, and turret.

But then the dining room doors swung open again with a loud bang against the wall. Brick, the decrepit butler who fifty years ago once played Puck from
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
at Uncle Bertie’s very first theater, entered and gave a little leap. “Strike me pink! If it isn’t Mr. Hawthorne, Lady Pippa’s suitor, at the door.”

Gad, no. Gregory felt a sharp stab of surprise and annoyance.

“I told him ye weren’t home to visitors at this hour, Lord Carson,” said Brick to Bertie, “but that didn’t stop
this
gentleman.”

No, it wouldn’t,
thought Gregory, stewing.

Brick stuck his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s got a room at the Blue Doubloon in Plumtree, and has come to propose to Lady Pippa.” He leaned toward the company and whispered loudly, “He looks like a stoat and smells like one, too.”

“Brick,” said Lady Graham reprovingly. “He can hear you, I’m sure.”

“There are to be no proposals this evening or in the near future.” Uncle Bertie’s tone was ominous enough to send the corgis from under the table to their second favorite lounging spot, directly on top of the overlarge feet of the footman against the wall, whose shoes must have carried delicious smells from the kitchen. “Send him away, Brick, and tell him next time to come when he’s been summoned.”

“But he claims that Mr. Trickle invited him for tonight’s festivities and has agreed to let him marry Lady Pippa,” squeaked the butler.

“Marry me?” Pippa was outraged. “I won’t marry a vain, bucktoothed stoat. I don’t care how rich he is or how many titles he has!”

“Heavens,” Mama cried. “Does this mean Pippa won’t get to go to London with Gregory?”

“What the devil?” Bertie swung his head to Trickle, who sat with an affected innocent expression. “You’ve overstepped your bounds, Wilfred.”

“But I told you already tonight,” Trickle reminded Bertie, “I’m her stepfather. And I want her to marry
now
. There’s no turning back. If you’re peeved, direct your displeasure to Lord Westdale. None of this finagling would have been necessary if he’d finally have come up to scratch this evening.” He looked around the table with a sickly smile. “We all knew the chances of
that
, and I gambled on them.”

Gregory’s cravat felt tighter than usual, and he’d gladly have thrown Pippa’s atrocious little stepfather out the window at that moment had it not been Bertie’s birthday. But it was, and he would behave as the future Marquess of Brady should. He wouldn’t speak unless it was absolutely necessary.

Of course, in this case …

Speaking was absolutely necessary.

“Lady Pippa is going to London,” Gregory said firmly to the entire table. “If Hawthorne wants to marry her, he can woo her properly during the Season along with myriad other fellows. If you or Hawthorne have a problem with this, Mr. Trickle, we can discuss it over dueling pistols.”

There was an ominous silence. Trickle sank an inch lower in his chair, but his eyes glowed with fury.

“Right,” said Brick cheerily. “I’ll tell Mr. Hawthorne what you said, Lord Westdale.”

“No, Brick.” Pippa raised a hand. “Tell the visitor I’m off to Paris soon, and I’ll be away six months. Oh, and please let him know I’m not interested in marrying anyone at all.”

Brick’s face crinkled up. “Are—are you sure?”

“Tell the man to
leave.
” Uncle Bertie pounded his fist on the table. His face was near puce. “But thank him for coming,” he added more gently, “and give him a bottle of my best mead. It’s my birthday, after all.”

“Right,” said Brick, and scurried from the room.

“Speaking of birthdays,” said Pippa before another awkward silence could settle over the room, “we can eat parts of the castle. The gargoyles are delicious. And the doors are edible, too.”

She broke one off and took a nibble, and Gregory’s trousers grew unexpectedly tight at the sight of the sugar on her lips.

“Break me off a gargoyle, then, Pippa,” his godfather said in indulgent tones. “I want the ugliest one you’ve got.”