The Earl's Revenge (22 page)

Hardwicke nodded.

“Very well,” said Bridgeport, stepping back. “You will apologize for your ungentlemanly behavior, then you will take yourself off for the rest of the day. If I note the slightest sign that you are stepping out of line again, you will leave.”

Hardwicke flushed under the earl’s steely glare. “My apologies, Miss Thompson. I cannot explain what came over me. My behavior was offensive and unforgivable. I can only pray you will ignore it and try to forget it ever happened.”

She nodded, but could not bring herself to speak to him.

Hardwicke bolted from the room.

“Are you all right?” asked Bridgeport softly.

“Yes, my lord.” But tears streaked her cheeks and she was visibly shaking.

“He shan’t touch you again,” Mark promised, squatting down to wipe her face with his handkerchief. But the tears would not stop, nor could she stifle the sobs that now filled the room.

“Everything is all right,” he crooned, pulling her into his arms so that she could muffle the sound against his shoulder. It was odd to be offering comfort to a weeping female, for it was something he had never before done. Never had he cared enough to bother.

Minutes passed before she pulled back and finished mopping her face. Mark paced the room several times to give her time to regain her composure.

Elaine folded the earl’s damp handkerchief into a neat square.

“Forgive me, my lord. I am not usually such a watering pot.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Actually, she had handled the attack far better than he would have predicted. Most ladies would have long since succumbed to hysterics – those who had not swooned dead away. “Let me apologize again for his disgusting behavior,” begged Bridgeport. “I suspect that this was another attempt to irritate me.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?” she demanded. “He only attacked me to avenge himself on you. How flattering! If you knew his plans, why did you not stop him earlier, or at least warn me of his intentions? You cannot claim ignorance, for you admitted yesterday that he is trying to embarrass you. His interest certainly did not spring up overnight. He has been leering at me since he arrived. Two days ago he trapped me in the pantry. And it is all your fault! He only believes that attacking me would annoy you because of your dishonorable campaign to seduce me yourself!” Tears again flowed freely. She turned away to lean her head against the wall while she fought to regain control.

“My God! I had no idea,” he protested, though his conscience was already rising up to flail him with the truth of her words. “Why did you not tell me he was annoying you?”

“What good would that do? His behavior is no worse than yours and that of your other friends. Witness how Lord Means is stalking Anne.”

“I had not noticed,” he admitted. “But I certainly do not condone it.”

“Do not add new lies to the old, Lord Bridgeport,” she begged, sniffing loudly into his handkerchief.

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her around so that she was forced to meet his eyes. “I never meant to hurt you, Elaine,” he lied.

“Do not take me for a flat, my lord. That may have been true in London, but can you swear by your honor as a gentleman that it is true now? You have had your fun, and you have ruined my life. There is no way I can ever hold my head up in this area again. I will have to find a new home.”

“Now you are growing hysterical. What nonsense is this?” he demanded, shaking her.

“Do you truly believe that Hardwicke’s words will not spread outside of the house? How naïve.”

“Nonsense. There was no one anywhere near this room, and I certainly will not repeat his lies to others.”

“You are as blinkered as a London cart horse. Are you really so ignorant? Your behavior has convinced your guests that I am your doxy. The servants must have heard the talk. If you think word has not already spread, you are living in a fantasy world. The Burgesses might be loyal enough to keep their mouths closed, but those you brought in from Bodmin know nothing about me and have no reason for silence.”

Tears again shone in her eyes, twisting a knife into Bridgeport’s heart. While it was true that he had wanted to hurt her, publicly degrading her was a act he had never contemplated. Nor was driving her from her home. She appeared so vulnerable, so broken by Hardwicke’s attack. Without thought, he lowered his head and took her mouth in a gentle kiss.

Elaine was so shocked, that all thought froze.

He pulled her closer, fitting her comfortably against him as her lips softened, responding to the pressure of his own. His last coherent thought was one of wonder – at sweet innocence, pliant lips, and arching body. The kiss deepened, sending excitement racing along his nerves and tightening his loins.

After the emotional havoc of the last half hour, Elaine’s senses were numbed. But not for long. Bridgeport’s lips were warm and gentle, stroking lingeringly across hers. A comforting hand slid down her back, smoothing away tension and fear.

But before she had even registered tranquility, his kiss changed. As did his touch. His lips parted, allowing his tongue to lap at her mouth. Shocking heat followed the path of insistent hands, swirling excitement into her weary brain that drove the last remnants of reason into hiding. She arched into him, seeking more and closer contact.

Not until his groin hardened did she come out of her trance. Jerking away in horror, Elaine slapped him.

“Still bent on seduction, I see,” she snapped with loathing. “Does nothing matter to you but your own selfish desires?”

Mark was reeling with far more than the force of her hand. “Forgive me, Elaine,” he begged. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Obtuse, aren’t you? And you one of London’s premier rakes! Nor do you have permission to use my name.”

Bridgeport grimaced. “Dear God, what have I done? My conscience has a thousand several tongues, and every tongue brings in a several tale, and every tale condemns me for a villain,” he quoted sadly, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

“Mayhap you should listen to them. You might learn something useful.”

“No author?” he teased with a sudden smile.

“I am in no mood for games today, Lord Bridgeport, but if you insist – Shakespeare,
King Richard III
, though I may be wrong about that last. My thinking is muddled at the moment.”

His eyes gleamed.

“Lecher!,” she snapped. “Two assaults in the space of an hour would confuse anyone.”

“My pardon, and your source is correct. But I am a cad of the worst sort, as you so rightly pointed out. All I can do is plead temporary insanity. It is true that I childishly sought revenge for the embarrassment you caused me so long ago. And it is true that I did not consider the ultimate effect of carrying out so dishonorable a course in front of others. So much attention was bound to cause talk and damage your reputation.
A grain of sand, a tuft of hay, / the mighty oak erodes away
.”

“Thornton’s ‘The Wind,’ ” she identified wearily.

“I never intended seduction, only some private distress. Yet I have ruined you even more than if your suspicions were correct,” he admitted ruefully. “There is but one way I can rectify things. You must accept my hand in marriage.”

Elaine stared, her mind again whirling in shock. “Thus speaks the arrogant lord. However unscrupulous your actions, you can repair all harm by tossing a sop to the victim. You belong in Bedlam! Do you really expect me to give up my freedom for the dubious pleasure of incarcerating myself on one of your estates? If I must leave here, so be it. But I will do so under my own power and in my own way. Good day, my lord earl. Please be so kind as to leave me alone.” She swept from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Flowers lay scattered across table and floor, mute testimony to the chaos that had raged.

Mark stared for a long time, finally gathering the blooms and thrusting them into a container of water. It was ridiculous to feel either hurt or empty at her rejection. He certainly deserved no better.

Yet he could not help himself. Twice he had offered his hand. Twice she had preferred to build a new life, giving up all that she had known. At least this time she had the means to support herself.

* * * *

Elaine threw herself across her bed and indulged in another lengthy bout of tears. It was shameful to react so strongly, but the shocks had piled atop one another so rapidly that she had been unable to deal with them.

She frowned as Bridgeport’s words echoed in her ears. Not his proposal, which had been grudgingly offered and spurned without thought, but the quote from ‘The Wind.’ It was one of the verses that would appear in Thornton’s third volume, and there was only one way he could know it. It must have been he who had searched her room. Though not one of the poems that she was illustrating, the text was in her work bag.

She scanned her papers to be sure. It was there. But if Bridgeport had searched the bag, he would also have seen the sketchbook that contained ideas and abortive layouts for the drawings she had completed while at the Manor.

She paced the room in agitation. This placed her in far more danger than any of his seduction plots. What could she do? If she included them in the completed work, Bridgeport might recognize them – would certainly recognize them.

There was no hope that he might not see the book. It was precisely the sort of thing he was sure to read. It gave him yet another sword he could hold over her head – this one all too real. All he had to do to reap his revenge was tell Murray who M. E. Merriweather really was, and she could say good-bye to any hope of supporting herself. Even if Murray continued to buy her talent, he would never pay a mere woman as much as he had offered Mr. Merriweather.

There was only one chance. She would have to choose different poems and discard these illustrations. Or perhaps she had enough without them. Would he spot the similarities in style between Merriweather and herself? Helen had. Not having met the girl’s mother, Elaine had no idea which parent had contributed her creativity and eye for form.

But it was pointless to worry about Bridgeport’s eye. There was nothing she could do about it short of refusing the commission entirely, and that would guarantee that she never got another job as an illustrator. She sighed.

In the meantime, she must act as if nothing had happened. There were flowers to arrange and guests to look after; snide remarks to ignore and lecherous plots to deflect. What a wonderful prospect. How far she had fallen from her morning euphoria!

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” exclaimed Mrs. Woodleigh, who was in the hall when Elaine left her room. “You must have had a rough night.” The suggestive voice made the insinuation clear.

Willing herself not to blush, Elaine kept her face rigidly composed. “Yes, it was rather long. Miss Beddoes is worse, and the doctor was unable to get here until after midnight.”

That silenced Mrs. Woodleigh, but Elaine could not stand another minute in the house. Having to deal with catty females was bad enough in the drawing room. Turning her footsteps to the nursery, she offered to take Helen out on the moor to practice her sketching.

It wasn’t until they were ensconced on the lawn before the cave that Elaine realized why Mrs. Woodleigh had attacked her. The woman must have spent the night alone and was now lashing out at the one she suspected of supplanting her in Bridgeport’s arms. First Hardwicke, and now Mrs. Woodleigh. It was only a matter of time before Elaine felt the censure of the other guests. She had to escape.

“This gull is ugly,” complained Helen, drawing Elaine’s attention to the girl.

“He just looks a little skinny,” observed Elaine. “Why don’t you try to puff out his chest a bit.”

Helen added a few lines and giggled. “Now he looks like a pouter pigeon. Mr. Jacobs at home raises pigeons. He has all kinds of funny-looking ones, but the pouters are my favorites. They stick out so far they ought to fall over. Papa says many of the dandies in town look like that too.”

“I am sure they do. Both your cousin Harold and Mr. Taylor are dandies. Have you noticed how the cut of their clothes, those ridiculous cravats that force their heads back, and the ruffles on their shirts make their chests protrude a prodigious amount?”

“And the funny way they walk,” added Helen, succumbing to laughter.

Elaine smiled. “That is called mincing. Tight clothes prohibit anything else, especially when they cinch their waists in so much they can hardly breathe.”

“Papa doesn’t dress like that.”

“No. He is what is called a Corinthian. That is a sportsman. Corinthians appreciate clothes that allow them to move freely.” Bridgeport would undoubtedly prefer to dress himself after his nightly indulgences, she realized – and promptly blushed. To cover her confusion, she continued talking. “Corinthians also like more sober colors – browns, blues, blacks, the darker greens, wine reds – instead of the lavenders and pinks Mr. Taylor wears or the turquoise coats and brightly embroidered waistcoats of Mr. Parrish. You can watch dandies sauntering through Hyde Park during the fashionable hour whenever it doesn’t rain.”

“I must go see them. Papa says there are fun things to do in London,” confided Helen. “He promised I can go with him when he returns. And if I am very good and learn to ride well, he will take me to Astley’s to see the horses, and to the Tower to see the other animals. Have you ever been there?”

Had Bridgeport really proposed such a thing? wondered a shocked Elaine as she answered questions about her brief stay in town. It was out of character for the man. The image of the libertine lord showing his young daughter the sights boggled her mind. But she hoped he would carry through with the promise, for she did not wish Helen to be hurt.

Burgess found Mark studying an estate ledger in the library. Bowles had just departed following another unsatisfactory discussion. After only a fortnight in Cornwall, Mark knew more about Treselyan Manor than the steward did.

“Mrs. Hedges and Miss Paddington have called, my lord,” announced the butler.