Yankee Earl (13 page)

      
Rachel was keenly aware of his nearness as she concentrated on completing her task. She did not realize that her breasts were so splendidly revealed, and would have been horrified if she had known. Seduction was an art which she had never practiced. Harry had tried, without any success, to give her all sorts of instruction on how to enthrall a man, but Rachel had not listened to her younger sister.

      
Yet she began to sense something humming between herself and Jason. Irrationally, she hoped that he was as affected by their intimacy as was she. Then she looked down at his lap and could not resist a tiny, only slightly embarrassed, smile. Jason Beaumont might well have been blackmailed into this betrothal, but he did not find her unappealing. That was some balm for her wounded ego. She almost laughed. She hoped the swelling in his britches was as uncomfortable as the stitches in his arm.

      
As she finished tying off the bandage, he was sure he would not be able to withstand any further enticement without acting on his pressing needs…and they were pressing. Why in hell had he not availed himself of some of the lovely Cyprians in London before his exile here in the hinterlands? For that matter, why had he not taken that fetching young dairy maid up on her coy offer yesterday? Damned if he knew. But just as he stood up, intent on taking his tormentor in his arms, Beatty waddled through the door.

      
The old hag seemed to possess sharp instincts, glaring at him as if she was well aware of the gross impropriety he had been considering. “Here's his lordship's shirt,” she said to Rachel. Though I cannot see how that one'll be able to get even his unbandaged arm in a sleeve of it.”

      
“We shall make do, Beatty,” Rachel replied, dismissing the servant with thanks.

      
Gifting Jason with one last gimlet-eyed look, Beatty quit the room. Rachel took the shirt and held it up. “Tis an old one, made before Father lost so much weight two years ago when he had the ague. Let me help you with it.”

      
He stood and turned, putting his good arm through the sleeve and allowing her to work the other one up his injured arm. She was finally able to ease it over his shoulder, but when he faced her, it was quite apparent that there was no way on earth the shirt could be fastened in front. A six-inch gap stretched over his bare chest.

      
Standing back to survey the problem, Rachel said, “Well, if you were to dine in the same scandalous manner in which you ride, with your shirt draping open to your navel, this would suit.”

      
He chuckled. “Remember, I rode truly ‘bareback’ only this afternoon.”

      
The image of him astride that great black beast stark naked stirred emotions in her that were totally new and confusing in the extreme. “We shall have to devise some means of covering you decently.”

      
“I agree. Even if your father did not object, I'm quite sure Beatty would drop a scalding tureen over my head during the soup course at dinner.”

      
“You have the right of that. Turn around,” she commanded, taking the scissors from her basket again.

      
He eyed them with misgivings. “Dare I take the chance?”

      
“The dogs are in the kennel. You're safe.” she replied impatiently. When he turned, she slid the blades into the fabric and sliced it from the collar halfway down the back. “Now try closing it.”

      
He turned to her with a smirk, holding the two sides of the shirt together with his good hand. “I'm decent.”

      
“Not that I have been able to detect thus far. Here, fasten your shirt studs,” she said, reaching down for the sapphire jewelry glittering in a pile on the table. “Your coat, although somewhat stained, will give you the illusion of propriety.”

      
He took one stud and worked it through the shirt placket, but when he tried to raise his injured arm to complete the task, he grimaced and lowered it once more. “I'm afraid I shall require some assistance.”

      
She could see the dare gleaming in his eyes. “I could send for Father's valet,” she said, then added, “but we would not want to keep Father waiting any longer, would we?”

      
As she began to fasten his shirt, he grinned down at her. “Perish the thought, Countess,” he murmured softly, noting the way her hands had begun to tremble.

* * * *

      
Dinner went smoothly enough. The food was plain country fare, which Jason complimented fulsomely, explaining that he had tired of the endless courses of heavily sauced food in London. The three of them discussed livestock, crops and legislation pending in Parliament that would affect them. Jason was not surprised at Rachel's knowledge of estate management, but he was impressed by how keenly she understood politics. He was happy that she was on his side in the matter of breaking this damnable betrothal. She would make a most formidable opponent if she set her mind to having him to husband.

      
Yet, at times during the meal, not to mention during the earlier interlude in the sitting room, he would have sworn she was trying to entice him. And there was also the disturbing news that the date for their nuptials had been set a scant two months hence. Grandfather was taking no chances, it would seem. Both he and Rachel made ineffectual protests when the viscount broached the subject. The normally diffident old peer proved surprisingly stubborn, saying only that he and the marquess had agreed, and the banns were being posted that very week. Then he had abruptly changed the subject.

      
Owing to Jason's injuries, a servant had been dispatched to Falconridge to inform the staff that the earl would be spending the night at Harleigh Hall. As they said their good nights, Jason vowed that he would find a way to have a serious talk with Rachel before the sun rose. The sooner they settled on a plan for getting Fox to his estate, the sooner he and the lad could escape the marquess.

      
He waited up until the whole household was asleep, which was not all that difficult, considering that his arm throbbed wickedly and he had refrained from taking the laudanum the housekeeper had brought him. With someone trying to kill him, he was not about to dull his senses with an opium infusion. At the stroke of one, he finally slipped from his room, listening in the dark hallway for any sounds of stirring. All was dead silence but for the soft night sounds outside an open window and the gentle ticking of the case clock.

      
Jason had learned from a pretty upstairs maid that Rachel's room was the last door at the end of the corridor. Not surprisingly, he also learned she slept without a maid in attendance. Now he made his way past pier tables and chairs, being careful not to overturn urns filled with summer flowers. Their subtle fragrance reminded him of Rachel, and that now familiar ache in his groin plagued him once more.

      
Just as he was halfway down the long hallway, creaking floorboards sounded at the opposite end. Flattening himself behind a walnut column which protruded from the wall, he waited silently. He cursed when he recognized the waddling gait of Beatty, making her way down the rear servants' stairs from the third floor.
No doubt the old harridan's on her way to the kitchen to filch a hind quarter of beef to tide her over until morning.

      
Once he was certain she had passed, he approached Rachel's room. The smooth ivory knob turned silently. With a slight creak, the heavy walnut door swung open. He slipped inside and closed it, then allowed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darker interior.

      
“I was just about to give up and go to your room. Did you get lost in the hallway?” Rachel stepped from an alcove near the window, over which heavy velvet drapes had been drawn.

      
Jason blinked his eyes as the brightness of the candle she lighted filled the room. She was clad in a plain blue cotton robe belted over a white lawn night rail. “I would have imagined you sleeping in something a bit less missish,” he said, eyeing the high neckline against her slender throat. “Perhaps nothing at all…but then I suppose that would scandalize the maids.”

      
The lout always seemed to grab control of every conversation, no matter the circumstances. “I don't require a maid unless I'm being tricked out for a ball.”

      
“How very American of you, Countess,” he said dryly. Walking closer to her, he asked, “Why did you expect me to come to your room tonight?”

      
“Do not flatter yourself that I planned seduction.”

      
He studied her appraisingly. “No, I warrant not, else you would have dressed—or undressed—differently. Still, after the way you responded this afternoon in the water…not to mention tonight when you were tending my wound…well, a man might draw conclusions.”

      
“And they would be as sap skulled as he,” she replied sweetly. “You heard my father at dinner. The banns have been posted. We have but two months to find a solution to this tangle.”

      
“I must admit, you were right about the old boy. Never would've credited he could be so stubborn.”

      
Rachel gave an elegant snort. “In his own way he's as devious as the marquess, just with less flair. But remember, he did remark on how fond your grandfather has become of Fox. Write your foster brother a letter, inviting him to visit when the Mountjoys are having their annual summer ball. The marquess always attends, and we shall be expected to as well. Once Fox has spent time here and all goes smoothly, we shall be able to lull your grandfather into a false sense of security. Then you should be able to have the boy return for another visit, not too long before the wedding.”

      
Jason watched as she began to pace back and forth across the floor, intent on her scheme. The robe was ugly, but when it gapped open, the white lawn night rail revealed her considerable charms.
Does she have any idea how very sheer that prim little gown is?
he wondered, already imagining his hands caressing soft golden skin through the gauzy fabric. His eyes swept her from head to toe, hungrily.
Hell, I'm as gluttonous as old Beatty!
Rachel's feet were bare, long and slender with an elegant arch to them. Was there nothing about the wench that he did not find appealing—other than her temperament and the fact that he could be forced into marrying her, he quickly reminded himself.

      
“I've dispatched a groom I can trust to secure passage for you and Fox on a ship bound for Canada. Once you're there, how you get to the United States is your problem.”

      
“I'm nothing if not resourceful, Countess,” he chided her, trying to concentrate on the plan instead of thoughts of bedding her.

      
“The ship will sail out of Bristol. The marquess and my father will both be certain you've headed for London or one of the port cities to the south in Hampshire or Sussex. They'll never believe you'd risk riding all the way to the western coast. With really swift horses, we might just make a dash for it, but that is leaving much to chance, for there is no way of guaranteeing the ship will sail immediately after we arrive. 'Twould be wiser to don disguises, perhaps pose as traveling tinkers—”

      
“Wait a moment,” he cut in abruptly as her words finally registered. “What do you mean by ‘we’?”

      
She looked at him as if he'd grown a second head, then sighed at the density of the male cranium. “Without me to act as guide, how do you propose to find your way quickly to Bristol? Good lord, it took you half the night to find your way from your room to mine. At that rate, Fox will be a man full grown before you could stumble upon Bristol unaided. Tis a long and arduous ride, well over a hundred miles through rough terrain.”

      
“All the more reason not to have a woman along.”

      
“I can ride as long and hard as any man alive,” she snapped. “I'll outride you.”

      
He cocked one eyebrow and grinned, studying her flushed, angry face. “A promise, Countess?”

      
Rachel gritted her teeth at his sheer male arrogance. He stood there, arms crossed over his chest, leaning casually against a sturdy maple bedpost, grinning lecherously at her. She fought the urge to pull the lapels of her robe together and instead fisted her hands at her sides. “I would love nothing better than to give you a good facer; but I suppose if you appeared at breakfast with a blackened eye, it would raise questions.”

      
“You had no such concern about giving me poison oak.”

      
“You were not spending the night under my roof then, you clunk-headed ass!”

      
Jason wanted to laugh aloud, but repressed it lest they awaken servants. “Here we stand in your bedchambers, you dressed in your night rail and I most, er, casually.” He wore the open shirt and old riding breeches she had stolen from him that afternoon.

      
“I fail to see anything amusing in that. If we were discovered, we'd be compromised into the very marriage we're plotting to avoid.”