Kiss the Earl (22 page)

“Crap,” Ella said to herself as she flew up the stairs like her bare ass was on fire. “Crap, crap, crap!”

The baron was yelling something after her, but her heart was pounding so hard in her ears, she really couldn't have said what it was.

Slamming Patrick's bedroom door shut behind her, she leaned against the cold wood and tried to catch her breath.

“Good God,” she breathed, letting her head thump back against the door. “This is a nightmare.”

She didn't have long, she knew that. She had to get dressed and get back down there, show the baron that Patrick hadn't done anything wrong, that Amelia wasn't here, and that there was nothing to be pissed at Patrick for. Well, nothing more than typical male pigheadedness, she conceded as she pulled on a pink, sprigged muslin gown. This one fit much better in the chest, but the neckline was still kind of low. It didn't matter. She was covered now, at least.

The thought of her streaker imitation caused her cheeks to heat, but she shoved the embarrassment down and adjusted the pins in her hair. It didn't matter how many strangers had seen her bare ass. Patrick was in trouble, and it was up to her to get him out of it.

The door squeaked open softly, and Ella stilled her breath as she listened at the crack. Nothing. The house was as silent as a grave. Maybe that wasn't the best choice of words—Ella shivered as she thought of the way the baron had brandished that pistol. She'd watched from underneath the table until the baron had bent down. Then she'd panicked and bolted.

Typical Ella.

She kept to the side of the staircase, hoping to avoid any squeaks her weight might cause. As she neared the ground floor, she bit her lip and concentrated.

Soft voices drifted from the breakfast room. Male voices. Had Patrick managed to calm the old man down? God, she hoped so. But as she rounded the foyer's corner and neared the cracked-open door, her hopes plummeted.

“His lordship will return with the bishop momentarily,” an unfamiliar, rough voice was saying. “He'll issue the license, and the wedding will be performed at the church immediately thereafter.”

“I do not understand,” a female voice replied. Ella sagged with momentary relief. It was Mrs. Templeton. “Why must they wed?”

“Ahem, well, you see,” the footman blustered. If things hadn't been so dire, Ella might have laughed at the man's discomfort.

“We were caught in a compromising position,” Patrick's weary voice interjected. “But the baron is mistakenly assuming that the female in my home is Miss Brownstone. When he returns and sees that Amelia is not here, things may be quite different.”

“I see,” Mrs. Templeton said in a thoughtful tone.

Ella's chest heavy, her guts in knots, she turned and tiptoed her way back upstairs. This was bad. This was really, really bad. The baron thought that he'd found his daughter and that she'd be getting married in just a few minutes. How pissed would he be when he found out that it was Ella, and not Amelia, that Patrick had compromised?

Compromised
. She snorted inside the privacy of Patrick's bedroom. It sounded like she was a gallon of milk that someone had forgotten to put in the fridge after breakfast.

Putting the irritation aside, Ella started to pace in front of the dark ashes of the hearth. The sun was shining over the fields. It was a beautiful late spring day, flowers and green grass all waving and cheery in the light breeze. Too bad the day didn't match the mood. Trouble was everywhere, and she had no idea how to get them out of it.

Plan, Briley, come on. What in here could you use as a weapon?

She rifled through drawers, looked in cupboards and beneath the bed. She came up with a heavy metal poker from the fireplace and a wicked-looking razor from Patrick's washstand. Not a bad arsenal, if she said so herself. She gripped her weapons, drummed up her courage, and headed for the door.

She'd save him this time around.

But before she could leave the room, a knock came at the door.

“Miss Briley? Oh, Miss Briley, do let me in. It's Mrs. Templeton.”

Relief rushed through Ella's veins, and she dropped the poker to yank the door open.

“Mrs. Templeton, it's so good to see you.”

The housekeeper's face had gone bone white, and Ella glanced down. Oh yeah. Probably a bad idea to point the scary blade at her ally. Quickly hiding the razor behind her back, Ella opened the door wider to let the housekeeper in.

“Sorry about that. I was just trying to figure out how to free Patrick.”

“I believe it is too late for that,” the housekeeper said, wringing her hands as she entered the room. Ella clicked the door shut behind her. “There are three of those footmen, and the baron will return in but a moment. The Bishop of Cheltenham is at Brownstone's home, so he will not be long in fetching him.”

“Oh crap,” Ella said, because there didn't seem to be anything else to say. Biting her lip, she set the razor down on the bedside table.

Mrs. Templeton rushed to her, gripping the younger woman's hands in her own. “They said you were caught in a compromising position, miss. Now, think very carefully. What sort of thing were you doing? Perhaps the baron misunderstood the situation?”

“Ah.” Seriously? Was she really going to have to tell Mrs. Templeton everything? “Well, it was pretty compromising.”

“There are many things that could be misunderstood. Perhaps your lack of a chaperone? Was he kissing your hand, perhaps, or kneeling to pick up a dropped kerchief?”

“Listen, just trust me. It was completely, totally compromising.”

Mrs. Templeton shook her head. “Miss, I know that you care for his lordship, but if you do not wish to marry him this very morning, you will allow me to assist you.”

“I was naked. In the breakfast room.”

The housekeeper's jaw dropped and her gasp was loud in the quiet of the room.

“Yeah. I don't think I could get much more compromised,” Ella mumbled toward her slippers. “But listen, once the baron figures out I'm not Amelia, he won't care about how compromised I am, right? He doesn't know me; he doesn't have any kind of responsibility toward me. All he wants is to find his daughter, so once he knows she's not here, he'll leave, right?”

Mrs. Templeton didn't look hopeful. “You may be right, my dear, but I should not pin too much hope on it. Lord Brownstone is still, after all, a gentleman. And like the earl, who admittedly has been more lax lately, he would not sit by and allow a young lady's reputation to be besmirched.”

“But I don't have a reputation! I'm not even from here. Nobody cares about me!”

Ella's desperate declaration only raised Mrs. Templeton's eyebrows.

“If you think that, my girl, you do not know my Lord Fairhaven very well at all. Now, come. Whatever happens, I cannot allow you to go downstairs in front of the bishop and a baron, looking like squirrels have been nesting in your hair. Sit down here.”

So Ella sat. Mrs. Templeton began to pull all the pins from Ella's hair and start her hairdo over.

And the whole time, Ella's stomach turned slow flips. She didn't know what was about to happen, but it was certainly going to be interesting. Probably explosive, even.

For some reason, she felt like her whole life was about to change again. And she didn't know whether to be excited or terrified about that.

* * *

Patrick, now wearing both his waistcoat and jacket, properly buttoned, and his expertly, if hastily, knotted cravat, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The light coming from the east-facing windows of the drawing room was quite bright now, this late in the morning, but he could not be pleased by the cheeriness of the day.

The cold barrel of a pistol was set snugly against his ribs.

“I have told you, my lord, you are mistaken. Amelia is not here.” Patrick kept his voice pitched low, in deference to the bishop across the room, who was quaffing quite a large glass of claret for this early in the day.

“And I told you, my boy, that I know what I saw. My poor gel, quite naked she was too. You disgusting debaucher.”

The nose of the gun nudged against him harder, and Patrick swallowed.

“There was indeed a young lady, but it was most assuredly not Miss Brownstone.”

“Bishop,” the baron bellowed. “Let us begin this now. Where is that woman…what was her name?”

“Mrs. Templeton,” Patrick said dryly.

“Mrs. Templeton, bring the bride here at once.” The baron's small eyes glittered, with glee or anger Patrick couldn't be sure. “This cur will pay for his fleshly crimes now.”

Patrick gripped his hands harder behind his back, always mindful of the gun pressing into his side. He could disarm the old man quite easily, and depending on his reaction at seeing Ella, Patrick might need to with all haste. He rehearsed the maneuver in his mind—a quick sidestep, elbow to the baron's soft belly, grab the wrist, twist…

The drawing room doors opened, and Mrs. Templeton stepped aside to reveal…

Ella.

Patrick could hear the heavy sigh of the baron's disappointment, but God help him, he could not focus on it.

She was lovelier than anything he'd ever imagined.

Dressed in a simple gown of pink, the neckline revealing a delicious hint of cleavage, she was positively radiant. Her sooty, dark hair was caught up in curls studded with tiny rosebuds and baby's breath. Only one splash of purple was visible, in a curl just below her temple. Tendrils curled in front of her ears, dusting against her collarbone as if tempting him to kiss her there. Her face was solemn but no less beautiful for its seriousness. She held a small nosegay of flowers in her hands, but they were nothing compared to the beauty of the woman that held them.

She was the loveliest creature he'd ever seen, and in that moment, Patrick felt his heart sink.

Stepping into the room, she cleared her throat.

“I'm sorry, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy. “We haven't met yet. I'm Ella Briley. I'm sorry that your daughter is missing.”

The pistol dropped from Patrick's side, and his senses came back in a rush. Patrick turned to the older man, whose face had gone from manic to defeated in the space of a few short moments.

“I am sorry, Lord Brownstone. She is not here, and she never has been.”

“My Amelia,” the old man said, sinking onto the settee. “I knew she'd be here with you once I received confirmation that you had indeed returned home. But it isn't her. It's some other girl.”

Ella set her nosegay on a side table and sank down onto the settee next to the baron. She laid her hand over his, patting it softly. “I know. I'm sorry. But Patrick has been looking for her ever since she disappeared.”

Patrick's guts dropped as the baron's eyebrows arched.

“How did you know she was gone if you had nothing to do with it?”

Lying to the man's face was a distasteful idea, but taking the justly deserved blame of Amelia's continued disappearance did not seem any more palatable. Patrick swallowed as he considered his options, but Ella beat him to it.

“Patrick and Amelia have always been close. He heard she was gone and was worried, that's all. But then I got sick and he took care of me here, so he wasn't able to keep looking. Sorry about that.”

Patrick winced as the baron looked back at Ella.

“How long were you ill, my girl?”

“Oh gosh, I don't know, about a week or two? Hard to say. I wasn't exactly conscious through a lot of it. But Patrick was an awesome nurse. I don't know that I would have lived through it without him.” She smiled up at him, clearly unaware that, with every word, she was sealing both their fates.

“And you had no female relatives here to attend you? Your accent sounds very odd. You must be from far away?”

“No, I don't have anyone here—well, other than Patrick. And yes, I'm from the Colonies.” She nodded decisively, clearly happy with her made-up tale as Patrick smothered a groan. “My father is the mayor of New York, a really important man, and my mother is an expert knitter. She's won ribbons and everything.”

The baron sat forward, his paunch sagging with the change in position. Patrick stood still as a statue, waiting for the pronouncement.

“So you, a respectable young lady, were here in the care of a young, single nobleman for more than a week. Alone. With no chaperone.” Warming to his role of outraged gentleman, the baron rose and approached the still and silent earl. “And then, like the disgusting young blackguard you are, you stripped her naked in the breakfast room! Well, I tell you, my lad, this young girl may not be my daughter, but as a gentleman, I cannot stand by and allow you to sully her good name in this manner.”

Patrick didn't say anything to defend himself. What could he say? The baron was right.

“You'll marry her, and you'll do it now, my boy. Bishop, please issue the license. As you can see, they are both of age and have been living together most shamefully.”

“Wait a minute, what?” Ella flew to Patrick's side. “He didn't do anything wrong! It was consensual, and besides, I wasn't—”

“Ella, enough,” Patrick said before she could admit her lack of virginity aloud. He'd not have the baron treat her like a common whore now. “The baron is right—I have not taken steps to guard your reputation. As a gentleman, I must marry you to save your good name and my own honor.”

She looked up at him, confusion plain in her gaze. “Patrick, are you sure about this?”

In all honesty, he wasn't. He'd pictured his eventual marriage much differently than this. It would be to a woman of good name and probably some fortune, and they'd suit well enough, although never in what could be termed a grand passion. He'd certainly never pictured marrying a woman like Ella, strange and shy, yet bolder than she should be, artistic and beautiful and everything a man could want.