Enticing the Earl (10 page)

The fact that the contessa was seated near the earl didn't bother her overmuch. The contessa would do what she could to insinuate herself with the earl, but the woman was so honest about it that Lauryn found her less of an annoyance than she would otherwise have been. And really, how many of the other women here would do the same, if they could? Either the earl wanted Lauryn, or he didn't, and what the other females did or didn't do would not change that, so Lauryn wasted no time trying to watch her lover for telltale signs of an altered interest. She kept her eyes on her own partners, as was proper, and smiled and chatted as any well brought up lady should.

Lauryn kept her dinner conversation polite and trivial, and deflected questions about her own past and personal life with light answers and smiling jests.

The gentleman to her left said, “But how have I not met you before, Mrs. Smith? Such beauty could not be easily hidden.”

She smiled archly, like the worst kind of society maven, and said, “I'm sure I was under your nose the whole time, Colonel Archwell.”

And when the elderly baron on her right insisted he had sat just behind her at the opera two weeks past, she only smiled and allowed him to treat her as an old acquaintance. Mostly she sipped her wine and ate her dinner and kept her chat easy and inconsequential, feeling that she was picking her way barefoot through a nettle patch.

The strain of keeping up a flow of light and unrevealing conversation left her with little appetite, and then there was the knowledge that she would be the one to lead the ladies out when dinner ended. She had not counted on serving in the position of the lady of the manor when she took on this role, and probably, neither had the earl. It was his brother, by inviting this large house party, who had thrust them into this imbroglio. She had expected her only significant position would be in the earl's bed!

That thought almost made her blush, which would never do—they would all wonder what she was thinking, so she hastily turned her thoughts back to the boring talk about hunting and horses in which her dinner partners were deeply engaged. She kept her thoughts under strict control for the rest of the meal, and when the many covers had been consumed and the delicate pastries and hearty meats and well-stirred sauces and finally, the delicious desserts had all been sampled, she looked around the table to gather the attention of the ladies, then stood.

The other females followed her example, and the men stood as well while she turned to lead the feminine half of the dinner party away. At the other end of the table the earl inclined his head and gave her a brief smile. She thought she read approval in his glance and even a glint of admiration, and she smiled back, trying not to blush again.

If he approved of her performance—she was conscious of a warm glow inside. That carried her down the hall and up the broad staircase and into the drawing room, where she selected the best and most comfortable chair—she was giving pride of place to no one, not as long as she was playing hostess!—and sat down, arranging her skirt gracefully around her. Now the inquisition would really begin.

As the other women came in and settled in chairs and settees around the hearth and around her, she tried to draw their names from her memory—she had met so many people last night. But tonight most of the neighbors were back at their own tables. The guests still here were the ones staying as houseguests, the ones that the earl's brother had invited to come from London to stay. Her gaze skimmed over them lightly as she made an inventory in her mind.

This lady in the purple plumes was the plump baronet's wife and those two were his daughters; she rather thought Lady Roberts was hoping for a husband from if not the earl, who was rather out of her social sphere, at least his brother. From the wary way Carter eyed the two girls, who seemed silly and giggled too much, Lauryn thought the odds were against this matchmaking mama. But their father was one of the earl's hunting friends, so they had been invited.

The two fashionably dressed young matrons chatting to each other were wives of two former university friends of Carter's; these two ladies eyed Lauryn with open speculation. Another two even younger women were also dressed in high fashion and could barely be told from the demimonde themselves, but she thought they were teetering on the edge of respectability—and she couldn't remember if they were someone's wives, or not.

And of course, the most fashionable, the most beautiful, if not the youngest, was always the contessa, who seated herself on the other side of the hearth from Lauryn herself. Dressed tonight in gold satin, she shone like a statue carved from precious metal.

“I am happy to see you so improved, Madame Smith,” she told Lauryn. “I see my visit, it was encouraging, yes?” She grinned.

“Thank you,” Lauryn said. “And yes, your advice was most helpful.” And she could not help smiling back.

The contessa's openness was refreshing. Too bad the English ladies were more veiled in their methods.

“You must tell us how you met the earl, Mrs. Smith,” one of the matrons said, as if to demonstrate Lauryn's thought. “I'm sure it is a memorable story.”

“Oh, no,” she answered, giving the other her best smile. “Quite boring, in fact. It was just another social encounter.” And wouldn't they love to know the truth, she thought. They would drag her over hot coals, first….

“So you are saying he was so smitten by your grace and charm, he immediately swept you off to his estate to get to know you better?” Mrs. Roberts suggested. The two nitwitted offspring giggled at their mother's drollness.

“I would never submit anything so vain,” Lauryn replied, smiling. “You are the one who suggests it, not me.”

“Ah, the English, they do not demonstrate,” the contessa broke in. “Now, when the earl was courting me, he was much more useful with the imagination.” She swept on with a long story about the number of flowers he sent, and how generous he was in the matter of jewels, and how often he came to call. The other females glared at her, which seemed not to bother the contessa at all, and only made Lauryn want to giggle.

This caused a lull in the conversation, which bothered Lauryn not at all. But the women around her exchanged glances, and she could feel them gathering their barbs for the next assault.

“And where did you say your family is from?” The other
matron asked. “My cousin is married to a Smith from Devonshire, whose family is extensive. Perhaps you are related?”

This was a potential trap in more ways than one. If she claimed kinship, they could track down the link and prove it untrue, and if she did not, they would dig for another family connection. The others were silent, waiting for her to answer.

Oh, for the wisdom of Solomon, Lauryn thought, feeling the muscles of her neck tighten. “Devonshire, I don't believe so,” she said. “But then, tracing one's family tree is such a boring exercise, don't you think?”

Since this was a common exercise for members of the Ton, the lady who had been about to follow up her first question with more demands for information paused with high spots of color showing on her cheeks, and the whole roomful of women gasped at such effrontery.

Lauryn pretended not to notice.

“Why should one have to–ah–trace it?” the contessa added, her tone innocent. “Is it not already known?”

“For
most
of us, it is!” another lady snapped.

“I suppose,” the lady's friend put in, while the first still fought to control her outrage, “that you are expecting an offer from the earl anytime?” She smiled, looking as congenial as any tiger in an eastern jungle ready to spring upon some helpless prey.

Lauryn laughed aloud. Her amusement was so obviously unfeigned that the rest of the room stared at her.

“I think not,” she said. Continuing to smile, she turned to the first Roberts daughter. “What about you, Miss Roberts? I suppose you have many admirers?”

The young lady blushed and made a disclaimer, but she seemed to enjoy the attention. She twirled a lock of her hair and traded teasing comments with her sister for several minutes.

And then, to Lauryn's relief, the men joined them, and she could leave it to the earl to take over management of the guests. Carter and some of the younger of the company soon wandered off into the billiard room, where presently occasional shouts of glee suggested lively games were being pursued, whether on the green felt tables or other more vigorous types of diversion, Lauryn wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room, Mrs. Roberts volunteered her daughters to play upon the pianoforte for the entertainment of the guests. This meant the occasional wrong note or off-key assault upon their ears, but at least it got that three-some out of their way, as Mama and the other sister had to go and turn pages and look over the first sister's shoulder as she played.

And it drove the contessa, who had first stayed to be near the earl but appeared to have real musical taste, off to rejoin his brother and the younger party.

The earl came to stand beside Lauryn as a servant passed around glasses of wine on a silver tray.

“I see you have survived the gauntlet unscathed.”

“Oh, I have endured a few bites, but the blood loss is minimal,” she told him, keeping her voice as low as his own.

His grin was mischievous. “I cannot imagine any of my neighbors, and certainly any of Carter's friends, getting the best of you, Mrs. Smith.”

For a moment, she felt a warm surge of answering feeling, that he should think her capable, that he should seem to think them a team, set against his neighbors or his half brother's silly group of friends…and then she looked away from his admiring glance. She was making too much of a few joking words. She must not imagine more here than was really the case.

She had not come here to get her heart broken.

A
lthough the earl's demeanor was polite and attentive to
his other guests, she felt his impatience, and even shared it. The conversation in the drawing room was less than diverting, the music certainly less than entertaining, and just having him stand by her side was a gentle torture. His nearness made her long for the time when they could be once more alone together.

What was wrong with her that she could so hunger for his touch? The man was like laudanum, she wanted him so badly. She tried to listen to one of the other men talk about a new hunter he had bought, but her thought kept drifting back to their time together last night, how his hands on her body had inflamed her—she pulled her thoughts away with the greatest difficulty, afraid her color was rising.

Was he breathing too quickly, as well? She was sure it was not over the fine points of the nice little roan that the colonel was describing with such precise language. “Her sire is an Irish hunter from north of Dublin, excellent bottom.”

She glanced up at the earl, and he met her eye and smiled, and her pulse leaped. Soon, soon, they could escape the others and come together once more….

A crash of keys from the pianoforte made her jump. It was the end to yet another tune, and she turned to clap politely. Miss Roberts beamed at the praise and at once turned the pages of the sheet music to find another tune.

“Would you like to play for us, Mrs. Smith?” the earl asked, leaning closer to ask. The soft touch of his breath against her cheek made her draw in a deep breath, even as she shook her head at his question.

“No, indeed. I'm afraid I've had little training at the pianoforte,” she told him, her tone candid. “I would not wish to perform before company.”

“I hardly think you could do worse,” he muttered, keeping his voice low as he nodded toward the young ladies sitting at the instrument on the other side of the room, who had now decided to favor the remaining guests with a duet. At least they seemed to be driving many of the remaining company up to bed.

Lauryn tried not to laugh. “Be that as it may,” she said, “I would not wish to display my own lack of skill, trust me.”

“Always,” he told her.

Lauryn looked up, and for a moment, their gazes met. She felt breathless, and once again everything inside her was melting like wax left too close to a fire. And yet, she also felt the urge to run away and hide—it was too much, too soon. For all of her brave words, she felt as if this masquerade were almost out of control—her body had reacted so strongly to his powerful masculinity that she felt barely in command of her own actions.

But she had no choice—she could hardly back out now.

When he put one strong hand on the small of her back, she quivered.

He bent to speak into her ear. “Shall we go up?”

Was it polite for a host to retire with a few guests still downstairs? She supposed he was leaving his brother to bid the last guests a final good-night.

So she nodded. Her throat seemed closed. His nearness spoke to her in so many ways, it was hard to maintain a ladylike facade; all her years of training in propriety and ladylike behavior, and now, now it seemed to strip away. She wanted to put her arms about him and pull him to the floor and tear his clothes aside and attack him as she had done last night.

And, no, she must not do that again! He would think her demented, insane, without any scruples whatsoever.

So steeling herself to keep her raging hungers under control, Lauryn pressed her lips together and, chin held high, walked up the staircase to the earl's bedchamber, with the bearing of some tragic French aristocrat going to face the guillotine, instead of a lover going to a delightful tryst.

His room was as welcoming as it had been the night before, a fire burning on the hearth, the bed turned down, the curtains drawn over the windows against the dark outside. With difficulty, she tore her gaze away from the bed, hesitated for one moment on the threshold, then stepped over and went instead toward the fireside, warming her hands for a moment before the flames. For some reason, she felt cold, despite the heat that coursed through her. Why did her emotions change so quickly moment to moment?

She wished he would come and sweep her up and throw her upon the bed, and be the one tonight to rip off her clothes…and yet, she could not meet his eye, and something held her back, even as she longed for the feel of his hands on her body, for more than his hands, for all of him against her, inside her….

She could feel him watching her, but for a long minute, the earl was silent. Then he walked across to the bureau, and to her surprise, she heard a tune play. She turned to see.

He had lifted the lid of a small gold-embossed box, and a swan circled as a fragment of music played over and over. It was a music box, she realized. Lauryn came close to look as he held it out for her to see.

“It was my mother's,” Sutton told her. “One of her favorite possessions, and I keep it to remember the pleasure it gave her. You wind it up at the back with a key, and the music plays and the swan circles when the lid to the box is raised. It has clockwork mechanisms inside it. You may have seen the like.”

She nodded. “It's lovely.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “it's a well-made piece.” They both watched as the swan slowed and the music ran down, then he closed the lid and placed the music box once more onto the top of his bureau.

“Mrs. Smith,” he said, running one finger over the top of the delicately crafted box before he turned to face her, “I do realize that you are a living being, you know, not a clockwork piece, to be wound up and run on order.”

“What?” She looked at him in surprise.

“I just wanted you to know”—now he looked at her, and his dark eyes were serious—“you are a beautiful woman, and, of course, I desire you. But you seem—conflicted. I simply want you to know that if you feel unwell, if you have other reflections on your mind—despite our—our arrangement, you do not have to come to my bed every night. You are a person with thoughts and opinions, and I will respect that. I'm not a monster.”

“Oh!” she said, blinking hard for an instant. It was more consideration than she suspected many “patrons” would have shown, in such cases as theirs. “You are indeed an honorable man, my lord.”

He shook his head. “Only thinking what is best for both of us, in the long term. I would not have you come to hate me, my dear.”

Surely he didn't think there would be any “long term” for them? Lauryn pushed the thought away as too far-fetched and almost missed his next comment.

“Shall I walk you back to your own chamber and leave you to rest tonight?”

He would do it, too, she thought, marveling, even though she could tell that he was holding himself back, that he wanted to reach out and touch her, that he was controlling his natural inclinations.

What did she want? She hungered for him, and yet, the memories of her husband, the lingering feelings of guilt—it was easy for the contessa to say to put those reflections behind her—but it was all so confusing…

Impulsively, she put one hand on the earl's arm.

It was like touching liquid fire.

The sensual need that he had contained ran through her and released her own need, and suddenly she was aware of him, twice fold, his dark hair, the lock that fell over his forehead and the sun-bronzed skin, the strong nose, the intense dark eyes that looked into her own and seemed to see all the way to her soul. His arms corded with muscle that could lift her into bed and caress her with such strength and command and gather her close to him—and yes, yes, that was what she wanted.

She looked up at him now, and without a word, told him what
she
wanted. He bent over her and pulled her to him with a grip that was almost savage—as if they had both waited overlong, and now restraint had melted away and, almost, civility with it.

Lauryn didn't care. She met his kiss as forcefully as he gave it, pushing back against his lips, meeting the hard thrust of his tongue with joyous abandon, her own hands pushing his tight-fitting evening jacket back and off his shoulders even as he did the same for her low-cut gown. She heard buttons pop in the back—he had not taken the time to undo them properly—they were both too impatient—and there was still the damned corset but later, later—the fevered kiss grew harder and deeper.

Lauryn was barely aware of anything except his hands and his lips and his tongue, and all the places he could use them to such aching and delicious advantage.

She was filled with heat, and his hands were hot on her skin…touching her neck, his lips kissing the underside of her jaw, where the skin was so tender and so sensitive that she felt her heart leap, the blood pulse inside her, and again her need surged, always to a higher level, and she pulled him closer…she pushed her skirt down, and the petticoat followed….

Presently she found herself clad only in her corset, breasts peeping out atop where he could nibble the delicate skin and tantalize as much of the sensitive area as he could reach, while she sat once more atop him, moving vigorously as he held her hips so that he could position himself to reach high inside her, thrusting deeply and sending her gasping and rising with him in wonderful rhythm.

The pleasure was exquisite…mindless, all encompassing, it rolled through her body, flashing in waves across her skin, wringing her inside out, releasing her from any thought, any grip of remorse…no thoughts now, no memories…don't think, she commanded her innermost self, don't, don't, just feel, just be…

When he spasmed and pulled her even closer to him, she allowed herself to float into joyful release. Nothing had ever been so perfect, she thought. But again, the joy of the moment almost at the same instant curled back on itself into guilt and shadowed her pleasure.

Oh, God, why could she not simply take the good and let the other darker reflections fade away? The contessa could live for the moment, why could Lauryn not do the same?

Yes, but the contessa had not loved her husband, Lauryn thought, a trifle bitterly.

She became aware that Sutton was watching her, his gaze disquieted. “My dear, tell me what concerns you.”

“This was wondrous,” she said instead, her tone low. “You are a marvelous lover, my lord, truly.”

But she could not meet his glance, and instead of lying back inside his arms, she scrambled up from the bed.

“Do you not want to lie together for awhile?” He didn't try to stop her, but he frowned, pushing himself up on one elbow as she hastily gathered up her discarded clothing.

“Forgive me, not tonight,” she muttered. Again, she could not look him in the eye. With only a quick look first to check the hallway, she ran to her own bedroom, locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed.

Tonight, she was dry eyed, at least, but her heart was still heavy, and she did not know what to think, what to feel.

“I am not married,” she told herself, like a child trying to learn a lesson by rote. “I am no longer married. Any vicar would say so, even if he would not sanction exactly what I
am
doing. But I am not being unfaithful to my husband.”

So why did she still feel that she was? Why did it feel so wrong when the earl made her so happy?

It wasn't as if she would have this chance forever! Why could she not enjoy it? She was being a fool to chastise herself for disloyalty, but even knowing it did not seem to release her. She felt like some fairy-tale princess trying to find the right words to undo a wicked spell.

Just to feel in her heart what she knew in her head—that by sharing this incredible, amazing lovemaking with the earl, she was not harming her husband's memory…why was that so hard to believe?

She had to find the key to freedom from her senseless guilt, and soon, or even the earl, as forbearing as he had shown himself, would lose patience and show her to the door.

He should have slept. His body was sated, but his mind
was not. Marcus lay awake for a time and watched the fire burn itself into coals. Why would she not lie beside him? What was holding her back? He had seen women pretend oft enough, even though he seldom had reluctant lovers, and he would bet his whole inheritance that she genuinely lusted for him—the fervor that she showed when they came together was not assumed, or she was a better actress than any he had seen tread the boards in London or Paris.

No, he was sure that she brought a genuine passion into his arms. He would never have forced her into bed; he hoped that his eponymous Mrs. Smith believed what he had said to her about that. But he wanted it to be of her own free will, and always of her own choosing. He thought of the small noises she made as her passion rose, of the faint color in her cheeks as she grew excited, and how her body arched as she came into her climax, and he found his manhood hardening once more, just thinking about her delightful qualities—

“No, you fool, she's not even here,” he told himself. “Would you wake her from her sleep?” Perhaps
sated
, then, was not the right term. He'd be happy to start again. She was a woman one could make love to again and again, and never tire of…. And yet it was even more than that. He wanted to know her as a person, get past this silly masquerade, find out what she thought, who she was beneath the surface, who she was—good lord, if she was the squire's wife, he would be in a pickle!