The Daughter of an Earl (17 page)

He stepped back, needing the distance between them. “So we find Patricia and the portfolio, which she hopefully will be able to retrieve from Jason's trunk.”

“Yes. She should be arriving tomorrow,” Emily said, eagerness lacing her words. “Do you think it could be all over then? That the ledger and Jason's diary will be incriminating enough? That we can bring them to Lord Roberts? Have you had a chance to speak with him?”

“I hope so. And no, I have not had a chance to speak to Roberts. But I will. Perhaps he is here, because half of London appears to be.”

“Lord Sutton's house parties have always been popular with the ton. Invitations to his events are coveted.”

“I have an idea as to why.” Unable to resist, he drew her back into his arms. He heard the worry and uncertainty in her voice despite her attempt to hide it, and he wanted to distract her as she did him. To give her all she wanted from him.

He dipped his head to the slim column of her neck and pressed his lips to the throbbing pulse there.

“Why?” she breathed, tilting her head to the side to give him better access.

He laughed softly and lowered his voice to a seductive murmur. “He has an elaborate maze, and rumor has it that those who dare to enter never emerge the same. I spent a school holiday here once.” He spoke between the nibbling kisses he rained along a rounded shoulder. “Sutton warned us that all sorts of dangers lurked in its hidden corners and crevices. He said they emerged only after dark, so we boys best stay clear of it when the sun set. And you know, he was right.” He kissed the silken curve of her breast where the lace décolletage teased him. He inhaled deeply, smelling the subtle fragrance of lilacs.

“Yes, I believe he was.” She arched back against his supporting embrace.

He lifted his head and caught her lips in a plundering kiss. As his mouth devoured hers, he pressed his body full
length to hers, easing her backward until she was braced against the marble base of Athena. He leaned in and deepened the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of her.

He liked the fashion of the new gowns with their straight lines, lack of hoops, and thin-layered petticoats. He eased off his glove, needing to touch her skin to skin. To feel the heat that radiated from her body. To feel her passion. He drew up the embroidered hem of her lavender satin gown, sliding it up a silk-clad calf to cup his hand below her knee. He lifted her leg to his waist, moving his hand along the strong muscle of her thigh, squeezing and caressing.

She drew a ragged breath as his hand slid further. “This danger of which you speak . . .” Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her voice breathless. “Did . . . did you heed Sutton's warning and avoid it?”

“Of course I did.” He smiled, resting his gaze on her swollen lips. “As a boy,” he added and lowered his mouth to the curve of her ear, his breath stirring the soft tendrils of hair. He finished in a whisper. “Then thankfully, I grew up.” A groan escaped her when his hand closed over the juncture between her legs, cupping the moist center of her.

Her lashes lowered as his fingers moved intimately against her.

He slid aside her silken pantaloons, separating her moist folds and slipping a finger inside.

Gasping, she gripped his shoulders. “Yes, well . . . Oh lord, you do have a way with . . . with danger.”

He laughed, the sound husky even to him, for his mouth was spit dry, parched from the need of wanting her. He closed his lips over hers as he pleasured her. Soft strokes that teased and taunted. She pressed herself against him, moving in rhythm to his thrusts.

He struggled to ignore his own pulsating need that was near the breaking point.

When a soft whimper escaped her, he swallowed the sounds with his mouth. She broke their kiss and tossed her head back in her abandon, lost to the desire sweeping her. Good lord, she was exquisite. Passionate. Responsive. Exotic.

Her body eventually shuddered and then sagged against him. He gently removed his hand and caught her about the waist, supporting her limp body.

It was a while later that her words, barely audible over the pounding of his heart, drifted to him.

“I think . . . I think it was wise you did not venture into the maze as a boy.”

He grinned. “Alas, there would not have been much of interest to me then. No toy soldiers or guns.”

“Yes, but lots of intense engagements and some clever swordplay.” She slid her hand down and pressed her palm against his arousal that strained against his pants.

“Too true.” He smiled and leaned toward her just as a loud, hacking cough erupted and shattered the moment. With a groan, he reluctantly removed Emily's hand and stepped back, allowing her to regain her footing. “Alas, that skirmish will have to wait.”

She straightened her skirts with an unsteady hand. “Yes. We should vacate the area before we are discovered. I . . . I will go first.” She tucked a loose curl into her coiffure, and nodded to his head. “Your hair is standing on end. Best see to yourself before you depart.” She then slipped around the statue, and in a flash of lavender skirts, disappeared.

Nonplussed, he blinked at the space where she had stood. Sutton had been right. One who entered the maze did not exit the same. An unfilled hunger tugged at him. He raked his hands through his hair and regretted that he could not heed Emily's advice further and take a moment to see to himself. To find his own release.

Hell.
He was in trouble. However, as Emily had once so sagely said, a man deserved to live before he died. And by God, he hadn't felt this alive in a long, long time.

L
ADY
Sutton drew out the last plaintive, discordant, note on her violin and finally deigned to put her audience out of their misery. Emily blinked at Brett who exploded from his seat to give a resounding round of applause. She stood more slowly, wondering at his enthusiasm. The man must be tone deaf. It was the only explanation. She was not a connoisseur of classical music, but if that was Bach, she would eat her new bonnet. And that bonnet boasted at least a dozen ostrich feathers.

“You enjoyed the performance?” she said beneath the thunderous clapping.

“Despised it. God-awful. Worse butchering of Bach I have ever heard.” His smile was unwavering, his tone cheerful. “Sounded like a cat under torture. But that is maligning the pitiful beast who is doing no more than what this audience yearned to—lamenting his fate.”

Bemused, she pressed him further. “Then why the enthusiastic response?”

“Surely the Egyptians celebrated after the tenth plague and their suffering came to an end?”

“You cannot equate Lady Sutton's solo to a biblical calamity,” she admonished, but her lips twitched.

“No? Would you not prefer frogs, lice, or locusts for an encore?”

She laughed, but changed the subject lest they be overheard. “Is Melody musically inclined? I wondered, considering her name. If so, she might have played this afternoon.”

They were in the Suttons' music room, where a handful of guests had been invited to provide afternoon entertainment. They had attended the performance because Patricia and Viscount Weston were seated up front. Fortunately, most of the performers played with a mastery their hostess lacked. Guests were now making a hasty exit, no doubt hoping to avoid being put in the awkward position of showering false compliments on Lady Sutton, a charming hostess, but a truly dreadful violinist.

Emily followed Brett down the row of chairs, hoping to catch Patricia before she disappeared.

“My name is a product of my mother's admirable, albeit futile optimism,” Melody said in answer to Emily's query. “She harbored the misguided conviction that I was destined to be a pitch-perfect prodigy. After numerous instructors informed her that I did not possess an iota of musical talent and my tenth instructor quit, my mother finally put her hopes to rest and my listeners out of their misery.” Melody's smile was wry.

Clearly she did not suffer lingering guilt over her failure to live up to her name
or
her mother's expectations.

“But I am sure Melody could manage our hostess's rendition of caterwauling. Couldn't you, Melody?” Brett said, smiling at his sister.

“Probably,” she sighed. “But you scooted me off the stage before I plumbed the full range of my potential. Miss Sutton needs an overbearing older brother to whisk her from center stage under the auspices of protecting her from misunderstood critics.”

“I prefer protective to overbearing,” Brett said. “No one would dare interrupt Lady Sutton's performance. A benefit
your aristocracy enjoys is the privilege to indulge their proclivities, regardless of whether or not it is at another's expense—such as the loss of their audience's hearing, wallet, or patience.”

“I fear you may have a point,” Emily said. They had wended their way to the back of the room, and when Melody turned to converse with another, Emily took the opportunity to address Brett privately. “You need to distract the viscount so I can speak to Patricia alone.”

“What? Absolutely not. I have been tortured enough for an afternoon. No birds. I will speak to Patricia with you.”

“Do not be absurd. You cannot accompany me. I am supposed to be inquiring about long-lost love letters. How do you propose I do so with you hovering like a hulking shadow? Or address an intimate subject in mixed company?”

“
Hulking, hovering shadow
? Shadows do not hulk. I will hover. Quietly. If I am a shadow, she will never know I am there. People give little heed to shadows.”

She fought to keep her voice level. “I understand you are still upset over my meeting with Drummond, but you have to learn to trust my judgment. I promise to keep an eye open for anyone wielding suspicious instruments. But I assure you, Patricia will not sit quietly should someone attempt to strangle me with their violin strings.”

“You do that so well. 'Tis a gift,” he said dryly, a teasing light in his eyes.

“What?”

“Making me feel like an idiot so that I have no choice but to agree with you, lest I prove the point by arguing otherwise.”

“You are not an idiot. You are, as you recently admitted, protective. But Melody is right. That well-meaning trait tends to veer toward overbearing. I think it is due to having three younger sisters. If you only had one, things might have been different.”

He looked surprised, then he laughed. “That is another talent of yours. I think there is a compliment in there until I realize you are using them to distract me from the point at
hand.” When she only grinned, he blew out a breath. “Fine. I will discuss the
edifying
and
most interesting
Quinarian system of whatever with the viscount.
For you.
But you will owe me. And I
will
collect. I am tempted to ask Lady Sutton to give you a private performance.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You would not dare.”

“Well, there are other ways in which you can thank me for my sacrifice,” he drawled. He dipped his gaze meaningfully to her lips, and then over the red flush she felt spreading over her breasts and up her neck. “One more thing. You would be wise to remember that the most dangerous instruments are not musical—or in plain view.”

When Brett winked at her, she found herself tilting toward him before she straightened. “Go. Now. They are almost here.”

“The Egyptians could not have suffered more than I,” he groused.

“Poor you,” she crooned to his back as he stomped off.

“Why
poor Brett
?” Melody said. “Where is he off to? He does look rather disgruntled. Is he worried about Miranda? She is with Julia and Daniel taking a turn of the gardens. Shall we join them? Or stay and rescue
Brett
?” Her eyes gleamed, clearly anticipating a sweeping rescue plan for her beleaguered brother.

Emily had dispensed with one Curtis, surely she could deal with another. “Brett is fine. I promise, no rescuing is required.”

Melody was still eyeing Brett. “He is looking more glassy-eyed than disgruntled. I can fake a swoon. I have used it before when he needs extricating from a woman's . . . ah, that is, when he needs to excuse himself to attend to a pressing business matter.” Flustered, her eyes shot to Emily's.

“I understand,” Emily said. She had no doubts that Brett Curtis needed to be
extricated
from many a woman's pressing
business
interests, but she did not feel sorry for him. The man dispensed charm like bees cultivating flowers, thus he created his own difficulties with women. She dismissed
Brett, needing to concentrate on Melody, or rather getting rid of Melody.

As Patricia paid her respects to Lady Sutton, Emily looped her arm through Melody's and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Can you head to the gardens without me? My friend, Miss Patricia Branson, is about to join us, and I need to speak with her privately. You see, the man with whom Brett is conversing is her brother, Viscount Weston. I believe Brett seeks to garner the viscount's goodwill because he is interested in Patricia.”

Intrigued, Melody eyes widened. “What makes you think
that
?”

“The viscount is an avid ornithologist”—at Melody's blank look, Emily clarified—“a bird-watcher. As we both know, Brett has never given birds any heed. I suspect he is feigning an interest in them to get in the viscount's good graces in order to court Patricia.”

“Brett has not shown an interest in women of late, but you may be right,” Melody said, wide-eyed. “He is clever like that, and he definitely has no interest in birds. Daniel's cousin is an avid bird-watcher, and Brett called the man a nice enough chap, but a bit of a banal bird-obsessed bore.”

Emily bit her lip at Melody's indiscretion.

“Her brother is a viscount?” An odd look crossed Melody's features, and she gnawed worriedly on her lower lip.

“Yes, Viscount Weston. He was my late fiancé's younger brother.”

“That makes his sister
Lady
Patricia?”

“No, she is
Miss
Patricia Branson. Only the viscount holding the title goes by lord and his wife will be lady, but his offspring go by miss or mister.”

“Goodness. I cannot keep all this straight. I would be in a horrible muddle if I lived here,” Melody said.

“Then perhaps it is a good thing you do not. Is her title or lack thereof a matter of concern to you?” She glanced at Patricia. Their hostess appeared intent on holding her sole admirer captive, because she was now pointing out something on her violin.

“It is just that . . . well, Brett vowed to never give his heart to another English aristocrat. He said that if the featherbrained female . . . ah . . .” She flushed and hastened to continue. “That is, if a woman cannot accept a man on his own merits, rather than judging them on their ancestral pedigree, he wants nothing to do with the shallow-minded lot. I believe those were his words. I overheard him muttering that to Daniel years ago. Despite his slurred words, he was emphatic. Of course, he did not notice me, being under the influence of strong drink. Daniel was half dragging him, half carrying him upstairs to his chambers.” Melody wrinkled her nose.

Emily doubted Brett would feel as protective toward his sister if cognizant of this breach of confidence. But it did explain Brett's deep-seated disdain for the English peerage. Not only had an aristocrat trampled his heart, but the woman had also rejected him for being an untitled American. Her rejection was cruel, shallow, and most damning of all, unforgivable.

She recalled the words he had tossed at her in the Earl of Dayton's library when she had sought to seduce him.
You are the daughter of an earl. Sister-in-law to a duke. I am an untitled American who works in trade. There can be no alliance between us. Not in your world.
Bitterness had been etched in them. Her heart twisted.

Brett was right. There could never be an alliance between them, but not for the reasons he stated. The true reason had nothing to do with who
he
was, but all to do with who
she
was
. A damaged woman
.

Their alliance was no longer just about getting caught. It was about not hurting each other. About protecting each other so that when this wonderful interlude that they shared wound to an end, they could walk away unscathed. She and Brett carried enough wounds.

“You do not have to look so worried,” Melody said. “If Patricia is amiss all is well. Brett is only averse to getting involved with a member of the aristocracy.”

Melody snapped Emily back to the present. She frowned at Melody's reminder, but Patricia was heading toward them,
so she had little time to contemplate them—or if they held a warning. “Let me handle matters from here. I will meet you in the gardens later.” Melody had a gift for the dramatic, but she was a terrible actress and Patricia would see right through any glib excuse she gave to leave them some privacy.

“Oh, I wanted to meet—”

“Later. I promise.”

Melody looked conflicted, but then with a wink that was so like her brother's, she dashed off.

“Who was that? I did not mean to interrupt you,” Patricia said. She approached slowly, her gaze following Melody.

“Brett Curtis's sister. I shall introduce you later, but she was overdue to meet the rest of our party,” Emily said and caught Patricia's hands in hers. She held her smile steady as she stared into Jason's blue eyes and such heartrendingly familiar features.

Jason and Patricia shared the same spun-gold hair, a distinctive catlike slant to their eyes, and full lower lips. Jason used to quip that Patricia was his softer side.

“It has been too long,” Patricia said and smiled wistfully. “As I missed your visit, I was delighted to receive your letter. Truth be told, I was perishing from boredom, waiting for Tristan to leave his books and birds long enough to escort me to town.” She rolled her eyes. “I was plotting to travel on my own when your letter arrived and gave me something to occupy my time instead of nagging Tristan to get organized. You averted fratricide. Do not laugh, it was a near thing.”

“I am glad for my sake, but more important for Tristan's, that you have arrived safely,” she said, and then glanced around the room, ensuring they had it to themselves. “Let us sit.” She directed Patricia to one of the rows of chairs.

Once they dispensed with the social inquiries after family and mutual friends, Patricia's eyes gleamed, and she leaned forward. “So about those missing letters, dare I presume they are love letters?”