What an Earl Wants (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

London, England
1810

T
HE
EIGHTEENTH
E
ARL
of Saltwood, one Gideon Redgrave by name, struck a pose just
inside the entrance of the narrow house in Jermyn Street, looking for all the
world a sketch from the
Journal des Dames et des
Modes
come to life. Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelid did he
give away the fact that he’d no idea he’d knocked on the door of number
forty-seven only to be ushered into a gaming house. His man of business would
answer for that omission when next he saw him; the earl didn’t care for
surprises.

He allowed a curtsying maid of indeterminate years to relieve
him of his hat, gloves and cane, and then shrugged off his evening cloak,
watching as the woman folded it lovingly over her arm. A gold coin appeared from
his pocket, and he held it in front of her wide-open blue eyes. A copper coin
would do for most, but Gideon Redgrave believed the gold coin to be an
investment, one that would pay dividends when his belongings came back to him in
the same pristine condition in which they’d been handed over, rather than having
suffered the unfortunate accident of walking out the door in his absence.

“Yours if my possessions are safely returned when I leave,” he
told her, and the maid bobbed her head enthusiastically before scurrying
away.

He resumed his pose, meant to have all eyes come to him and
their owners too busy being either envious or impressed to think up mischief
while he surreptitiously acclimated himself to his surroundings. And the
eighteenth Earl of Saltwood’s appearance was, without fail, nothing short of
enviably impressive.

The superb tailoring of his darkest blue cut-away tailcoat
accentuated the snowy perfection of his silk brocade waistcoat, but not so much
as it displayed the earl’s astonishingly fit physique, broad shoulders, flat
stomach and narrow waist. Pantaloons of formfitting buff doeskin clung lovingly
to long, muscular lower limbs, ending just at the calf, above silk stockings and
low-heeled black patent evening shoes.

His only ornamentation, other than the thin black grosgrain
ribbon hanging about his neck and attached to the quizzing glass tucked into a
small pocket of his waistcoat, was the small golden rose depicted in full bloom
and no more than a single inch in circumference, nestled in the folds of his
intricately tied cravat. This latter bit of fancy was a recent affectation, one
that had caused comment in some circles, but to date, no one had dared speak of
it to his lordship.

Thick, longish hair the color of midnight tumbled over his
smooth forehead in natural curls that sent other gentlemen to their valets and
the crimping iron to duplicate. Hints of his Spanish mother could be seen in the
strong, aquiline nose that saved him from too much beauty, the unexpected
fullness of his mouth, the sensual smolder in his dark eyes. There was an
earthiness about the man not completely disguised by the trappings of fine
clothes, a sense of dangerous energy tightly leashed yet always simmering just
below the sophisticated surface.

In a word, the eighteenth Earl of Saltwood was intimidating. In
two, if applying to the female population, he was marvelously irresistible.

When he was noticed, and he was always noticed, several of the
men who recognized him for what he was, if not who he was, prudently realized
they had pressing business elsewhere and quit the room in some haste.
Conversations broke off abruptly. Hands stilled in the act of shuffling cards or
pulling in chips. The more daring among the players turned their chairs about
for a better view of what was sure to be an interesting few minutes, at the
least.

One of the hostesses, the term surely taken quite as loosely as
the morals of any female in the hall, ran her moist tongue around her lips
rather hungrily. She gave her smiling approval of the impossible-to-disguise
manly muscle between the gentleman’s thighs and took two steps forward, tugging
down on the already low neckline of her cherry-red gown before she was grabbed
at the elbow and hastily pulled back.

“For Lord’s sake, Mildred, control yourself. He’s not here for
that.”

Gideon Redgrave extracted his chased-gold quizzing glass,
raising it to one eye, and slowly surveyed the surprisingly well-lit and clean
yet faintly down-at-the-heels room before allowing his gaze to halt and hold on
the woman who had just spoken.

She advanced on him with some purpose, the light of
confrontation in her sherry-brown eyes, her fairly remarkable chin tilted up as
if she had somehow raised the battle flag and was announcing her intention to
unleash a broadside. But then she stopped, smiled and dropped into a mocking
curtsy.

“Lord Saltwood,” she intoned quietly, her voice slightly husky,
as if she might be whispering risqué endearments in the privacy of a candlelit
boudoir, “I’ve been expecting you. Do you prefer a public airing of our
differences, or would you care to retire to my apartments for our chat?”

She was...magnificent. Gideon could think of no other
description. Taller than most women, slim almost to the point of thinness, yet
subtly curved. Hair the color of flame against the severity of her high-necked
black gown, skin the color of finest ivory. The eyes, mocking, the mouth, full
and wide...and
knowing.
No sane man could look at
her without imagining his fingers tangling in that mass of warm curls tumbling
around her shoulders, sinking himself deep between her thighs, plunging into the
promised fire as she wrapped long legs up high around him.

Which, of course, would be total madness.

Gideon’s eyes widened fractionally, just enough to dislodge the
glass, and he deftly caught it by its ribbon and replaced it in his pocket.
“You’ve the advantage of me, madam. You are—?”

“Exactly who you think I am, my lord,” she returned, her wide
smile frosting only slightly about the edges. “And now that you and your
glowering face have served to quite ruin what had promised to be a profitable
evening, you will please follow me.”

She turned sharply, the scent of sweet lavender tickling his
nostrils as her fiery mane, seeming much too heavy for her slim neck, swung
about as if in a belated attempt to catch up with her. Her modest gown, a stiff,
unyielding taffeta so in contrast to the riot of tumbling curls, rustled as she
walked.

“Here now, where do you think you’re—?”

She raised her hand to the faintly rotund, gray-haired man who
had stepped out from behind the faro table, his eyes on the earl as if measuring
his chances of knocking him down. Though he clearly found them miniscule, he
straightened his shoulders, no doubt prepared to give his best if asked. “Simply
carry on, Richard, if you please. I’m fine.”

“Yes, you do that, Richard,” Gideon drawled as he and the woman
easily made their way through the throng of patrons who had all stepped back to
afford them a pathway. He was painfully aware he somehow had been put in the
ignoble position of potential despoiler of virgins, which was above everything
ludicrous. “Your employer’s virtue is safe with me.”

A young man, looking fresh from the country and obviously a
fellow with more hair than wit, dared to chuckle at this remark. “There’s virtue
here? Stap me, I wouldn’t have come if it was
virtue
I was looking for.”

“Stubble it, Figgins,” the man next to him warned, saving
Gideon the trouble of having to turn back and waste a dark stare on the impudent
puppy. “Don’t you know who that is? The fella’s a Redgrave, for God’s sakes. He
spits bigger’n you.”

Gideon suppressed a smile. He hadn’t heard that one before. But
how convenient that his reputation preceded him; it made life so much
easier.

He stepped forward as he realized the woman had stopped in
front of a baize door, clearly waiting on him to open it for her. Liked to play
at the lady, it would seem, straight down to the prim black gown and the erect
nature of her posture. Pity for her that her hair and eyes and mouth—and that
voice—hadn’t been informed of this preferred pretense.

“Oh, please, allow me,” he drawled sarcastically, bowing her
ahead of him as he depressed the latch, before following her up a long, steep
flight of stairs surprisingly located just on the other side of the door. The
stairs were between two walls and just well lit enough for him to be able to
enjoy the sway of her bottom as she climbed ahead of him, holding up her stiff
skirts, affording him a tantalizing glimpse of slim ankles, as well. Ah, and a
hint of calf. Lovely.

The woman was contradiction after contradiction. Buttoned
nearly to her chin, yet her slippers were silver-heeled black satin. He could
imagine himself kissing them from her feet and then rolling down her hose, just
so far, because he enjoyed the feel of silk-encased legs on his back....

He was forced to hold the banister as she stopped, extracting a
key from a pocket in her gown and slipping it into the lock. He’d wondered about
that, the easy access to the staircase, and how many times in the course of an
evening this route might be traveled by patrons and the women.

As if to assure him, she stepped inside the apartments,
motioning for him to close the door behind him as she said, “No one is allowed
here. We won’t be disturbed. Would you care for wine, or would you rather simply
be on with it?”

“That’s direct, in any case. Be on with what, madam? I had
thought I was calling at a private residence, the object conversation. Seeing
the nature of this house, the possibilities have become almost limitless. Not
that I’m not tempted.”

She lit a taper and gracefully moved about the room, lighting
candles. “You flatter yourself, my lord, and insult me. I’m not in such dire
need of funds. We turn cards here, nothing else.”

Gideon sat himself down on a nearby chair, deciding she could
remain standing if she so wished, but he was going to make himself comfortable.
Redgraves always made themselves comfortable; and the more comfortable they
looked, the more on guard any sane person in their midst became. “You might
explain that to—Mildred, was it?” he suggested amicably.

He did his best not to blink as she toed off the silver-heeled
shoes and kicked them beneath a table as if happy to be rid of them. “I cannot
presume to control the world, my lord, only the small portion of it beneath this
roof. Mildred and the others make their own arrangements as to what they do
outside this establishment.”

“That’s...civilized. So, a gaming hell, but no brothel. A fine
line between disreputable and despicable. Am I to perhaps applaud?”

She looked at him, long and hard, and then reached up both
hands and deftly twisted the heavy mass of curls into a knot atop her head
before walking over to a small drinks table holding a single decanter of wine.
“I don’t particularly care what you do, my lord,” she said as she poured some of
the light amber liquid into a single glass before turning to face him. “As long
as you relinquish guardianship of my brother to me.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Collier, the demand presented to me via your
solicitor. I can readily see the eminent sense in that. Clearly a fit place for
the boy.”

“The name is Linden, my lord.
Mrs.
Linden. I’m a widow.”

Gideon could not suppress his smile this time. “Of course you
are. How very proper. My apologies.”

“You can take your apologies, my lord, and stuff them in
your...ear,” she said, and then turned her back to him as she lifted the glass
to her lips. She didn’t sip; she drank. He could see that her hand trembled
slightly as she lowered the empty glass to the tabletop. The wine was for
courage, clearly. He almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

But then she turned back to him, her eyes shining in the light
of the candles. “We’ve begun badly, haven’t we? Are you certain you don’t care
for a glass of wine?”

“A lady shouldn’t drink alone, I suppose. Very well.” Gideon
got to his feet and availed himself of the decanter. The wine, when he tasted
it, was unexpectedly good, when he’d assumed it would be cheap and bitter. “Do
you have a first name, madam?”

The question seemed to surprise her. “Why would you— Yes. Yes,
I do. Jessica.”

“Preferable to either Linden or Collier. Very well. My
condolences on your recent loss,
Jessica.
I was
remiss in not stating that at the outset.”

“My father’s death means nothing to me, my lord, as we’d been
estranged for several years. But, thank you. I only wish to become reacquainted
with my brother.”

“Half brother,” Gideon corrected. “The son of your father and
your stepmother, also sadly deceased. You have no questions about that sad
event?”

Jessica shrugged her shoulders. “No. Should I? When I read
about their deaths in the
Times,
an accident with
their coach was mentioned. I’m only glad Adam was away at school, and not in the
coach with them.”

“All right,” Gideon said, looking at her carefully. “There’s
still the matter of a rather large fortune, not to mention the Sussex estate.
All of it in trust for your half brother, who was not estranged from his
parents.”

“That’s also of no concern to me. I support myself.”

“Clearly,” Gideon said, casting his gaze around the sparsely
furnished room. “Bilking raw youths in town on a spree profitable, is it?”

“We don’t
bilk
anyone, my lord. We
don’t allow it. If we see some fool gaming too deep, he’s sent on his way.”

“Vowing to sin no more, I’ll assume, his ears still ringing
from the stern lecture you’ve administered.”

Jessica looked at him unblinkingly, her brown eyes raking him
from head to toe before seemingly settling on his chest; perhaps she wouldn’t be
so brave if she looked into his eyes. “I don’t like you.
Gideon.
”