Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (30 page)

“Somehow, I can’t think Aristotle said that.” She licked her lips, all of her warm and muddled.

That fuzzy sensation in her head from mulling over the countess’s proposal melted under his stimulating presence. The corners of his eyes creased with a deeper smile. Edward looked very satisfied with the effect his compliment had on her.

“No, I came to that conclusion on my own.” He clasped his arms across his chest, taking a glimpse at her latest work. His head canted to the left and then the right as he examined the purplish mess. “But he did say that art consists of bringing something into existence, and that impresses me about you. I never quite thought of art that way.”

“Because you never thought about art at all,” she chided gently, but her heart swelled under his second compliment. “Does my painting something or someone make the subject more real to you?”

“Says the teacher to her student.” He grinned and moved closer to her.

His gaze went from her current, unformed painting to the Chinese pear tree painting that sat alone near the workbench. His lordship’s arms moved loosely in front of him as he wiped the rag once more over his face and neck.

“I can’t figure it all out yet. But I’m getting there.” He glanced back at the sensual fruit and grinned. “Want to know another conclusion?”

“Please.” Lydia coached herself to keep calm under the onslaught of unexpected charm.

“The month-long mandate is too long.” His eyes sparked with new light that had nothing to do with art appreciation.

Her sharp, involuntary intake of breath was quiet and heard only between them. Lydia studied her palette and schooled herself to regain composure before meeting his newly smoldering gaze.

“You’re full of surprises today, my lord—”

“Edward, remember?”

“Of course. Edward. What brought about the hastening of our bargain?” she asked, trying to regain equilibrium. “Surely not Aristotle. I don’t think he wrote a single romantic word, did he?”

His topaz eyes darkened. “No, I’m swayed by simple biology.”

Her heart dropped. She kept a semblance of a smile frozen on her face. “And here I thought you were going to wax on about being smitten with me.”

His molten gaze lowered to the practical neckline of her smock and then a little lower, where the swells of her breasts pressed against the coarse fabric.

“A few things have developed between us. Something mutual.” The line of his mouth flattened. “But, Lydia, tell me you’re not developing any affection for me. I’ll only disappoint.”

Could he have added another stone to her pile of confusion and discontent? She gave him her best nonchalant toss of her head and paid attention to her palette, dipping her brush into who knows what color.

“Of course, not. Our original agreement was very clear as to what was expected. And you have been more than generous with me.” Both her shoulders shrugged tightly then dropped. “We have the good fortune to enjoy certain attraction. And that works in our favor.”

“Good. Because I notified my solicitor that we should move matters along…late next week, I think?”

“Next week?” she yelped.

He balled the rag in his hand and called out, “Jonas, put this with the other rags, will you?”

He tossed the cloth at Jonas, who caught it handily on his way to the pile of swords. The Colonial, his massive chest working hard to grab deep breaths, picked up a pitcher and tipped it over. Empty.

“I’ll see about more water.” The way his clear blue eyes assessed her and Edward, Lydia needed to hide. His skills of perception were well-honed for a rough man of business.

As Jonas left the room, the countess’s proposition rang in her head, but the sound of it was as flat and unappealing as the alternative—a passionate if emotionless marriage. Then Edward dropped another offering at her feet.

“I may have been too optimistic with my timeline. Beside, all the better to help your mother. You could write her today and let her know. That’ll be a tremendous relief to her.” His tanned face glowed with the kind offer.

Lydia glanced at the floor and grimaced at the bald fact that she’d forgotten all about her mother’s welfare, so concerned with her own wants these two days. She jabbed the ox-hair brush, thick with purple, on the canvas.

“She’d like that news very much,” she murmured, not able to look him in the eye.

Edward stood near her shoulder, perusing the progress of this painting and trying to keep their earlier agreeable connection. For a man who didn’t like social discourse, he sought her out often enough.

“Of course, this means you cannot escape countess lessons.” He said the words with an amused thread in his voice. “We’ve all the more reason now we’re speeding things up.”

His words stirred her hair, and a tantalizing shiver grazed the shell of her ear. Edward’s fingers brushed back strands that had fallen loose from their pins. Her paintbrush halted under the unexpected touch. Like a cat purring from a tender stroke, her head tipped toward his caressing hand. Lydia’s body shivered under the voluminous smock.

“I suppose this means you no longer doubt me,” she said quietly, trying to keep some composure while her brush dabbed here and there.

His long fingers stroked and played with wisps of hair that had come loose around her collar, lulling her with gentle movement. His hand slid to her shoulder and then slipped lower, trailing warm pressure down her spine. Her brush slipped on what was supposed to be a petal, and purple flared.

“I was wrong that first night,” he said, his lips grazing her ear. “I know it in my bones I can trust you.”

A bolt like lightning in a dark sky shot through her. She gave up on the pretense of painting but didn’t move. Sensual quivers shook her body, spreading across her buttocks, the globes of which clenched. All of her thrummed like a plucked instrument to the man teasing and stroking her so skillfully from behind. His touch, his words made her long for more, but that gift he gave—his trust. What was more potent to her?

“And then there is this attraction between us,” he said, tracing one side of her face. “But there is one other serious proposition I have for you. About your art.”

Somber reason intruded. Her neck stiff, Lydia tilted her head forward a fraction, away from the earl’s drugging presence. She needed a clear head.

“What about it?”

“When I wrote my solicitor about our wedding next week, I mentioned your wish to sell your art and—”

She yelped from a surge of excitement, and swung around to face him. She had read him all wrong. He would support and promote selling her art. With palette in one hand and paintbrush in the other, Lydia flung her arms around him and set her cheek to his chest.

“Thank you, Edward. You’ve
no
idea what this means to me,” she cried.

His calloused hands gripped her forearms and carefully peeled her from him. “I welcome overtures of appreciation, but wait until you hear all that I have to say.”

The cultured, factual tone of his voice didn’t bode well, reminding her of stodgy requirements that always got in the way of what she wanted. Her arms hung at her sides. She waited for the latest ruling that would affect her life. Edward’s face bore that serious barrister’s expression, the same one he’d worn after he caught her snooping in his room.

“I get the feeling this doesn’t go well for me.” Lydia glanced down at her palette and brush, and the desire to paint diminished. “I’d better put these away.”

Edward followed her to the worktable. “It’s not all that bad. I asked him to look into the inner workings of the art world.” Edward set both hands on his hips. “I want to support you, but the Countess of Greenwich is a position of some esteem and expectation. Miss Lydia Montgomery may turn Britain’s art world on its ear, but the Countess of Greenwich? That’s a different matter.”

She rubbed a cloth vigorously over her hands. “So that’s it? My art’s on the shelf if I marry you.”

“If?” His eyebrows slammed together, and that sharp line between his eyebrows appeared. “We already have that one resolved, don’t we?” he asked sharply.

She slapped the rag on the bench. “Of course we do.”

“Good. I only beg your patience while my solicitor sorts this out. You’ve waited this long, a few more months won’t matter, will it?”

She wanted to toss his words back at him, but something worse began to happen. She refused to look him in the eye.

“I guess not.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen to her anymore. Hot, horrible tears formed; how long since she’d last cried? The prickling pain pinched the insides of her eyes, pushing, pushing until the first determined tears spilled.

When
would
this
ever
happen
for
her?

Lydia dipped her head and rubbed her forehead, hiding the wetness filling her eyes. This was not a resolved matter. And as scalding tears came one after another, she remembered the last time she wept: right after she saw Nate, her erstwhile farmer of four years ago.

She’d been politely asked by her mother to leave Somerset right after the Duchess caught her with Nate, but brimming with joy, she ran to the village public house where her handsome farmer waited. She was onto a better, different path. When Lydia, full of smiles, pushed open the door, his gorgeous eyes sparkled at her over the shoulder of a tawdry doxy giggling in his lap. He shrugged and mouthed:
sorry, luv.

And that was that.

Her dark-haired farmer would never know the painful destruction he’d meted out in her life. She ran out the door before he witnessed scalding tears of humiliation. Lydia packed herself off to Wickersham, swearing never to cry in front of a man again, which was easy when keeping them at a distance. But Edward was not satisfied with being shut out; he was determined to witness her shame. His hand tipped up her chin.

“Lydia, what’s this all about?” His palm grazed her cheek, brushing the damp streaks. “I know you want this badly, but wait. Please wait, and all will be resolved.”

Edward was a watery blur, his features distorted. His fingers slipped into her hair, and something about her must have touched a caring nerve, because he groaned and drew her into his arms. Once he kissed her forehead, all fragile threads of control broke.

And how good it felt to have a man hold her with the simple gift of his tender care.

His hands cradled her head, his fingers kneading her scalp in gentle touches. Strong, sculpted lips pressed her forehead, her temple, her high cheekbone, sliding along inches of skin until meeting her lips, open and ready for him. Her tears salted their kisses. The surprise of that contact exploded the air around them. Edward pressed her, or she pressed Edward, so tight, limb to limb, fitting curves and planes together. The buttons of his placket ground into her abdomen as both tried for as much contact with the other.

She was letting herself drown in a man. Again.

But this was Edward.

Her hands, searching, moving, gripped his untucked linen shirt and found access to the smooth skin of his waist.

Someone groaned, perhaps both of them, when her fingers connected with his torso, spanning to consume every inch of flesh: smooth flesh, hard and taut, narrow, slippery burn scars, thicker ridges, and gooseflesh as her touch feathered this way and that. His skin, hot from his exertions, was a wonder to feel.

Hot need shot through her, flaring between her legs. The shock made her stiffen. Her fingers slid along Edward’s ribs, and she held on for dear life. Lydia wrapped her hands around his back when her lower lip slipped between his roving lips. The gentle way he sucked on her plump lip, and his tongue exploring that wet space, her knees buckled.

Lydia swayed into him, her back arching, but his hands caught her. His warm hand splayed wide against her upper back. The other ventured lower, massaging circles, lower, lower. Edwards’s hands, like his kisses, belonged to an explorer, not a ruthless conqueror. Testing and checking, his firm but gentle caresses enticed her into his web of curiosity and question. His kisses, his touch were not the rehearsed moves of a long-practiced rake, but genuine affection and sensuality braided into an explosive mix that promised to incinerate them on the spot if they didn’t stop.

Her head tilted back, exposing her neck, and Edward groaned anew as his lips rubbed the smooth column. The tip of his tongue touched the pulsing beat at the base of her neck, sending another shudder through her. Lydia’s head rolled to his shoulder. Her eyes opened a tiny bit, enough to see a red-faced, round-eyed footman frozen in the doorway. She gave Edward a gentle push.

“Edward,” she whispered, drugged by him and not willing to let go. “Edward, there’s a footman…in the doorway.”

“Tell him to go away,” he whispered against her collarbone, his warm lips concentrating on her flesh there.

The footman raised a balled fist to his mouth and coughed loudly, taking tentative steps into the ballroom. He waited a moment. His eyes inspected the ceiling’s plaster work, and he coughed again with more volume. Something couldn’t wait. She pushed harder, and cool space separated them, setting the back of her hand to her swollen lips.

“This must be important,” she said, looking into Edward’s near-black eyes.

He bore the presence of a man roused from a warm bed who’d hastily dressed, not bothering to tuck in his shirt. Heavy breathing from their shared passion controlled them; their chests pumped in unison seeking air, but Edward followed the cant of her gaze and slowly went about tucking in his shirt in the back of his breeches. He gave her that brigand’s half smile and turned around to face the door.

“What is it, man?” he called across the ballroom.

“The countess, milord, she’s returned and wishes to see Miss Montgomery.” The older, red-faced footman, shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry to bother you, milord, but she was most insistent.”

Lydia’s shoulders dropped. All of her was a mess…her heart, her hair, the paint on her fingers. But the time of reckoning had come, and earlier than expected. She glanced outside: there was too much daylight left. Something had brought Lady Elizabeth back early.