When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (13 page)

“Oh. Yes. Georgina. But honestly, I—”

Dark eyes met hers with great intensity of purpose. “You need to know these things, Viola. Particularly given all that your papa and I have witnessed between you and Lord Tannenbrook.”

She sighed, wondering if she should explain that Tannenbrook had all but thrown her affection in her face mere hours ago, and that a marriage between them appeared unlikely. But that would only serve to extend an already uncomfortable conversation. So, instead, she folded her hands in her lap and replied, “Very well.”

Georgina nodded. “Now, then, a man is driven by a number of needs. Primary among these is lust. Because you are beautiful, men naturally will feel this urge whilst in your presence.”

Oh, dear God. She was not ready for this conversation. Not with Georgina Cumberland of the inscrutable mien and square shoulders. Not with her father’s future wife.

“Your task as a lady of virtue is to resist both his urges and your own until marriage.”

“If you are referring to Lord Tannenbrook, I am not certain either his urges or a marriage between us should any longer be of concern.”

Georgina stared at her for a moment as though she’d said something absurd. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”

Viola sniffed. “He feels nothing for me. Apart from vexation, that is.”

The other woman frowned. “Is this a jest?”

Annoyed at the obvious disbelief, Viola reached behind her to retrieve the crumpled handkerchief. Then, she held it up, evidence of her heartbreak. “He tossed this at my feet. Declared in no uncertain terms that he will not marry me.”

Georgina breathed her name. From anyone else, Viola would have presumed it signified sympathy, but she’d always had difficulty judging Mrs. Cumberland’s reactions.

Viola wadded the thing into a ball and dropped it back onto the dressing table. “So, as you can see, Papa’s concerns are unfounded. Tannenbrook does not want me.”

“But he does.”

Frowning, Viola shook her head. “No. He said as much.”

“Then, he lied.”

“Tannenbrook would not lie. He is the finest of men.”

A small smile played with Georgina’s lips. “So you have said.” Those square shoulders raised on a deep breath before she continued, “Viola, men exhibit certain signs when they want a woman. First, they have difficulty looking away from her. Men are visual creatures, after all. Further, their preoccupation tends to focus upon particular features.”

Viola nodded, rolling her eyes. “Bosoms. Yes. I know.”

“Not always. For some men, it could be one’s lips or eyes or hips. Even a woman’s hands.”

Curiosity piqued, Viola waited for her to elaborate. Perhaps this conversation would prove worthwhile, after all.

“Mr. Cumberland was rather fond of my hair, for example. He even liked that my brows were a darker shade, though I have always found the contrast strange.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Sometimes men see us differently than we see ourselves.”

“What are the other signs?”

“Of attraction? Well, there is the obvious one.”

Viola blinked. “Obvious?”

“His hardness.”

“I don’t understand.”

For the third time, Georgina cleared her throat. “The member between a man’s legs swells and hardens when he is aroused.”

Eyes wide, Viola covered her mouth with her hand. “It does?” she mumbled. “Isn’t that dreadfully uncomfortable?”

Again, the small smile appeared. “When it goes unrelieved, it can be, yes. But it is necessary for the creation of children.” She described how a husband would place himself inside his wife and, upon releasing his seed, find both pleasure and relief from the hardness of his flesh.

Viola found the description inexpressibly fascinating. No one had ever explained such things to her. Certainly not Papa. Nor Aunt Marian, who had only mentioned once that a husband and wife must “know each other” to beget children. Then, she had taken a sip of her medicinal tea and promptly nodded off.

“If a husband is gentle and kind, a wife may also find the act pleasurable,” Georgina continued. “However, to indulge in such pleasures prior to marriage imparts great risk to you and your reputation.”

“Because it could result in a child.”

“Partly, yes. For a man, it is natural to press for intimacies. After all, the evidence that he has done so does not swell his belly for all to see. It does not brand him forever as less than virtuous. This is why you must—
must
—take greater care, Viola. If you continue to tempt Lord Tannenbrook—”

“I have told you,” she said, her voice echoing her sudden chill. “He does not want me.”

“Yes. He does. I would go so far as to say he is experiencing significant distress over it.”

“Because he stares at me?” she scoffed. “All men do that.”

“Because of the
way
in which he stares at you. Particularly when you are speaking with other men.”

Viola sniffed. “And how is that?”

“As though you belong to him.”

Her heart stuttered. Flopped about in her chest like a fish on a line. “He … you believe he …”

“Your father is gravely concerned that you will press him too hard, Viola, and that your reputation will be forfeit. Frankly, he also worries about possible bloodshed.”

“Bloodshed? Don’t be ridiculous. Tannenbrook would never hurt me. He would die first.”

“Not you. But another gentleman, perhaps one whose glance lingers overlong or who presumes too great a familiarity. A man of Lord Tannenbrook’s strength and size could do great damage should his jealousy take hold of him.”

Jealousy. Viola bit her lower lip, considering this new information carefully. One only felt jealousy over something one desired for oneself. Ergo, he wanted her. For himself. Come to think of it, she had felt a perplexing hardness against her belly during their kiss, which would correlate with Georgina’s fascinating description. But he emphatically denied both his desire and her love. He denied them their rightful happiness for reasons she could not fathom.

His denial cannot be allowed to stand,
she thought.
There must be a way to break his everlasting resistance.

She narrowed her eyes upon Georgina. “Would you consider jealousy a powerful motivation, then? For a man, I mean.”

“In Lord Tannenbrook’s case, it is as clear as glass. Tread carefully, Viola. Refrain from flirtation with other men whilst in Tannenbrook’s presence. You have a charming way about you. I know it will be difficult, but try to focus more on your female companions. Penelope. Your aunt. Lady Rutherford. Even Lady Wallingham.”

“Mmm. You believe if I pay a good deal of attention to other men that Tannenbrook will feel an increase in his level of jealousy?”

“Yes. And the consequences could prove disastrous. He might very well lose command of himself.”

Smiling for the first time since her handkerchief had been tossed at her feet, Viola nodded. “Thank you, Georgina. You have been most helpful.”

*~*~*

CHAPTER TEN

“At times such as these, a woman must be thankful for men’s susceptibility to lustful impulses. It makes certain intractable tasks infinitely easier.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Atherbourne upon reading said lady’s report of Lord Atherbourne’s precipitous return to Derbyshire after a mere fortnight in London.

It had not appeared to bother Tannenbrook when Viola danced a reel with Sir Barnabus Malby whilst the pudgy, bulge-eyed baronet eyed her bodice with the same slavish rigor as Humphrey eyeing a slice of ham. Nor was Tannenbrook perturbed when she permitted Lord Underwood’s brother to correct her posture whilst she drew her bow during an afternoon of archery, even though the man’s hands had wandered and stroked more than was strictly necessary. For that matter, the thoroughly exasperating Earl of Tannenbrook had not batted an eye when the least objectionable of the fawning gentlemen—Lord Gattingford’s son, Lord Hugh—had recited a poem describing her lips as “petals blushing with dew, crying for my kiss.” Even Papa had objected to that, quietly telling Lord Hugh to keep his dewy petals to himself.

In fact, in the fortnight since she had decided to pursue Tannenbrook by pursuing other men, she had made little progress. Mostly, he avoided her—and gatherings where he might encounter her. To the best of her knowledge, he spent much of his time riding and fishing. He attended some meals, of course, and made occasional appearances at the back of a room filled with guests. But she suspected Lady Wallingham had forced his hand in those instances.

And now, this evening, she had arrived at her final chance. Lady Wallingham had elected to throw a masquerade ball to celebrate the end of the house party. Standing on the dais at one end of the grand ballroom beneath a giant portrait of one of the Henry Tudors, Viola sighed and squeezed Charlotte’s arm.

“Do you see him yet?” she asked, uncaring that her desperation was showing.

Gowned in magnificent sapphire blue and wearing a black domino to frame her green-and-gold eyes, Charlotte glanced down at Viola and smiled. “He will be here. I suspect Lady Wallingham would take great offense if he weren’t.”

In the crowd, Lord Wallingham and Lord Rutherford—both dashing in black masks to match their dark coats—stood chatting near a potted topiary. Lord Hugh and Sir Barnabus laughed uproariously at something the redheaded Lord Mochrie said, while Penelope honked her appreciation. Lady Wallingham wore a purple plumed turban and a similarly feathered purple mask. The plumes bobbed as she drifted from Lord and Lady Gattingford to an animated pair of matrons.

Dash it all, still no Tannenbrook.

“You look lovely, by the by,” Charlotte said. “But, then, I suspect you know that.”

Viola sighed, glancing down at her pink silk gown. It was one of Mrs. Bowman’s more intricate creations, with layers of color—pale, blushing pink to deep red, all overlain with sheer white. Rouleaux of pink ribbon mimicked vines, which, along with silver embroidery, coalesced into a profusion of rosebuds and leaves along the low, square bodice and dainty sleeves. The addition of artfully placed spangles gave the exquisite gown the look of a dew-misted garden in the rosy glow of dawn.

“How well I look will not matter a whit if he is not here, Charlotte.” She hated that she sounded out of sorts, but she had one of the worst headaches she’d experienced in months. Even the candlelit room seemed overbright, and the musicians, though talented, played too loudly. Fortunately, she’d been able to disguise the circles beneath her eyes with a rose-hued mask she had purchased in Alnwick several days earlier. It, too, had spangles. Perhaps the glitter of their reflected light would distract Tannenbrook from the unattractive glaze in her eyes.

Charlotte lowered her head near Viola’s ear. “Take heart, Vi. If all else fails, I shall implore Rutherford to apply his cleverness to the problem. He is most adept at”—she waggled her eyebrows—“machinations. Tannenbrook will never see it coming.”

Viola attempted a chuckle, but it only made her head hurt. She sighed. “Thank you, but I suspect you have better uses for your husband’s ‘machinations’ than to preoccupy him with my problems.”

“Well, he is
supremely
talented.” Charlotte nudged Viola’s arm. “Are you certain you feel well enough to be here, Vi? You are dreadfully pale.”

No. She did not feel well at all. But she must be here. It was her last chance. Tomorrow, the house party would end. And she would either be engaged to Tannenbrook, or …

Her gaze drifted to Lord Hugh. The man of the dewy petals. He was a decent sort of fellow, she supposed. Light-blond hair, blue eyes. A rather weak jaw, but then, they all had weak jaws compared to Tannenbrook. He appeared more sincere, less lecherous than the rest. Perhaps being his wife would not be too ghastly.

All she had to do was let Lord Hugh put his tongue in her mouth. Let him touch her and lay atop her in their bed. Let him put other parts of himself in her … oh, dear.

“Charlotte.”

“Yes?”

“I think I’m going to vomit.”

“Oh, dear.”

Viola turned to look up into Charlotte’s alarmed, black-framed eyes. “My thoughts precisely.”

By the time Viola returned to the ballroom after casting up her accounts and rinsing her mouth with a solution of rosewater, Tannenbrook was standing with his back against a golden wall near the glass doors. His arms were crossed over his chest. His beautiful green eyes were framed by a brown leather mask. Having part of his face disguised only served to emphasize the solid square of his jaw.

She sighed upon seeing those broad shoulders, his dark-blond hair thick and lush in the flickering light. Sighed again upon spotting Lord Hugh and the rest of her fawning admirers milling around the center of the room where others danced.

Though her head pounded and her heart ached, she resigned herself to her task, approaching the throng of gentlemen with a brilliant, contrived smile. They greeted her with their customary fawning.

Not one of them had a voice deep enough. Not one of them could name a fish that traveled from seawater to freshwater during winter. Not one of them made her want to drag him out to the garden so she could explore his mouth again.

But because she must, she laughed at their jests. Danced with two of them. Bantered wittily with the others.

And all the while, she felt his eyes upon her. Burning.

Struggling to appear carefree, she let her gaze drift lightly in his direction. Charlotte was there, standing beside him. She was saying something. Something he clearly did not wish to hear. Moments later, he thrust away from the wall and stalked through the open glass doors, disappearing into the garden.

She wanted to stomp her slippered feet. What had Charlotte said to make him leave? Dash it all, she
needed
him here.

Instantly, Viola’s headache worsened, digging at the back of her eyes, pounding and stabbing inside her temples. The odor wafting from the portly Sir Barnabus Malby was threatening to make her vomit again.

She stood on her toes to see Charlotte’s bright-red head following Tannenbrook through the doors. Viola waited, hoping he might return, but he did not. Neither, for that matter, did Charlotte. She swallowed hard, her stomach churning.

Quickly making her excuses to Lord Hugh and Sir Barnabus, she started for the garden. But halfway there, she felt her stomach twist ominously, forcing her to change direction, heading up onto the dais and out of the ballroom. The last thing she needed was to vomit upon Tannenbrook’s enormous Hessians.

Dashing along the windowed gallery at one end of the castle, she paused in the cooler, darker space outside the grand hall’s arches. Here, there were no people to emit offensive odors. No music to ring inside her aching head. Just a bit of moonlight casting pretty shadows on the paneled walls and polished limestone. She tore her mask away and closed her eyes, taking deep breaths, bracing a hand and then a hip against one of the windowsills. With her free hand, she rubbed at her forehead, wanting to gouge out the pain.

As quiet closed in, and all she could hear was her own breath, the reality of where she stood loomed like a great shadow.

He will not come ’round,
she admitted silently. The truth rang cold and empty like an icy fissure.
I have lost him. Forever.

Her fingers dropped from her forehead to her mouth, covering a strangled sob.

She must accept Lord Hugh. She must marry a man she did not love. Bear that man’s children. Be that man’s wife.

Her head shook. Her arms trembled.

She did not want this. She wanted James. So much that, had he demanded she fall to her knees and beg before the entire ballroom full of Lady Wallingham’s guests, she would do it happily.

A warm, damp breeze caressed her shoulders. A door clicked closed. A massive shadow moved across her feet.

She spun so swiftly, her vision swam. When it steadied, she saw him. Big and solid, eyes gleaming, nose flaring, his only mask the darkness.

“James,” she breathed.

He said nothing. Not her name, not good evening. Simply stared at her, his chest laboring as though he’d run to catch her.

“James,” she said again. This time, it was a moan. She staggered toward him, all pride gone.

Great, muscled arms caught her against him. A giant hand cupped the back of her head, pressed her cheek over his heart. Her own arms clutched at his waist, her fingers clawing at his wool-covered back.

She did not know how long they stood that way, holding each other in shadows and moonlight, breathing and aching together. She only knew she wanted to absorb him into her bones. To feel his lips upon her skin. To hear his voice rumble her name and his heart pounding like stones cascading over a fall.

Distantly, she heard other, more bothersome sounds intruding. Voices. Coming nearer through the darkness. But she was in James’s arms, and she did not want leave their safety—not ever again.

I do not want to leave him. I cannot bear it.

She swallowed, an idea snaking its way into her thoughts. A devious, appallingly immoral idea born of desperation. She would be taking away his choices, turning her Tannenbrook Hunt into a scurrilous trap. It was bound to make him furious. But it would also make him hers.

And in that moment, nothing mattered except this—she must make him hers.

*~*~*

He had seen her through the glass, white and distressed, her hand moving from her forehead to her mouth, her shoulders hunched as though braced against agony.

And he had not been strong enough. His will, tested by the hottest fires imaginable over the past two weeks, finally had broken beneath her delicate shudder of pain.

She had spoken his name twice. Stumbled into his arms. And now, even though he could hear voices behind him at the other end of the dark gallery, even though he knew bloody well he should release her before they were discovered, he could not move.

The voices drew closer, one of them distinct and recognizable. Lady Wallingham.

Bloody hell. He could not be caught here with Viola clutched against him in the dark. It would be a scandal. Lady Wallingham would make certain of it, for she had done nothing but harangue James for the duration of the house party. When would he come to his senses, she had asked. Miss Darling was the best match he could hope for, better than he deserved, she had insisted. Why was he so blasted dense? Couldn’t he see what was evident to everyone, she had demanded.

He’d silently agreed with much of it, borne all of it. Borne the torment of watching Viola flirt and laugh and be touched and courted by other men until he’d felt like his flesh was being boiled from his bones. All to protect her. Because Lady Wallingham was right—Viola was better than he deserved. A bright, dazzling fairy sprite who carried light with her into every room she entered.

Slowly, he began to withdraw, moving his hands to Viola’s tiny, silken shoulders. He pushed gently, but she would not let go. Her arms banded his waist like a belt. Her dainty hands grasped the tails of his coat and held fast.

“Viola,” he whispered. “You must release me. We cannot be discovered here, lass. You will be ruined.”

Her head tilted up until he could see her eyes. They shimmered with some strange emotion. Determination mixed with … remorse? He frowned. Blinked. Realized what she intended an instant before her whispered apology, but too late to prevent her right hand from rising up and around his chest, knotting surprisingly strong fingers around the folds of his cravat, and yanking his head down with all her might.

Then, her soft, luscious mouth was smashed against his, and his senses exploded in a shower of stars. Her left arm looped around his neck. He reared up, but she had such a tight grip, he only succeeded in lifting her twelve inches off the floor. Now, she dangled there, draped upon him like a cat clinging to a tree, mouth plastered over his, arms strangling his neck, hands clutching his hair.

He wrapped her waist with his arm to steady her against him and rapidly considered his options. He could tear her loose, force her away from him, but not without bruising her. Deciding the only recourse was to carry her out of view until she came to her bloody senses, he rolled them both against the paneling until he felt the casement for one of the arched entrances to the grand hall. Without a second to spare, he slipped through the opening and flattened her back against the darker wall.