The Earl and His Virgin Countess (5 page)

As he stood over her, she scooted back on the chaise. Andrew’s face held an odd mix of confusion and anger. She understood the look, or, at least, the feeling, because she had been feeling similarly about him for weeks. Nay, months, or perhaps years.

He took a deep, calming breath before addressing her. “I have never had that insult hurled at my head before, and now, in the course of a month, I have had it hurled at me with great violence twice.” He held his hand inches from her face.

“What are you doing?” she muttered.

Without bothering to respond, he covered her eyes and the bridge of her nose, opening his fingers so he could see her left eye.
Good God, he’s mimicking a demi-mask
. After a moment, he pulled the hand away, and her sight returned. However, his face remained close, his anger replaced by brows furrowed in confusion.

“Blessed hell, it’s you. The woman from the masquerade!”

She nodded, because there was nothing to say that wouldn’t make him sound like a fool. And, in a small sense, the shock on his face played into the guilt she had been carrying for punching him.

“You have a hell of a punch,” he said.

“My aunt insisted I learn how to defend myself.” Remembering the knuckle pain from hitting him, she rubbed the healed skin.

“I commend her, though I can’t quite bring myself to thank her.” Andrew sat on the table before Miranda, and she worried for a second it might not hold his weight. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tight between them. “I can’t remember your full name, Miranda. Would you be so kind as to fill in the gaps? Please, forgive me, I usually am not one to forget a name or a face, but….”

“You usually aren’t on the receiving end of a fisticuff?”

A self-deprecating chuckle escaped his lips. “Exactly.”

“My name is Miss Beauchamp.” She waited to see if the name gave him any pause, but his face remained passive. “Miranda Beauchamp.”

Rubbing his upper lip, he asked, “Any relations to the Beauchamps of Windenshire County?”

“Yes. Peter Beauchamp was my father.”

“Your lands neighbor mine.”

Lands? That’s all he considered, after her revelation? Bloody lands? Her inner voice screamed, but she calmly said, “They do, indeed.”

Leaning closer, he reached out to touch her but must have thought better of it, as he pulled back at the last moment. “I need you to answer this next question calmly, without violence or anger. Can you do that?”

“I can try.” She hated that he thought her a crazy woman, given to fits of hysterics. However, on both occasions, in his presence, she
had
shown him a side even she hadn’t thought existed.

“Who is your betrothed?”

Flabbergasted, she could only stare. His face showed nothing but questioning concern, and, for the first time, she realized he knew nothing of her existence. He truly had no idea they were betrothed, that she was his future countess. Miranda wanted to cry. She’d spent her whole life being reared to be his ideal bride. And in most things, she’d succeeded. Yet, unlike what she’d believed in the garden during the duke’s ball, it wasn’t that Andrew hadn’t bothered to learn her name; he genuinely had no idea of the contract between his father and hers. A contract signed days after his birth and years before hers.

“Andrew,” she started. His flinch at the use of his given name surprised her. “It’s you. You are my betrothed.”

“I see.” He began to pace, before sitting again, then repeated the action several times. Only his clenched fists remaining at his side showed any sign he had comprehended her words. But, when he opened his mouth to speak, she noticed his hands shook. “I…we…that is, this is the first I have heard of this.”

“I believe you.” She had no choice but to do so, as the color in his face had drained, leaving him with an unhealthy green tinge; his eyes, always so warm, appearing cold. He was not a man denying her claim, but in shock that she had made it. Empathy filled her, and, if her blasted ankle were not an issue, she would have gone and thrown her arms around him in comfort.

“I do not blame you, now, for punching me, or even throwing a dish at my head. Though I am thankful your aim isn’t as good as your fist. If I had been in your shoes, I might have run you down with a carriage.”

“The thought did occur to me,” she said, in jest, trying to lighten the dark mood because his admission of being ignorant about the contract had done a great deal to mend the pain her soul had suffered with each passing year he hadn’t arrived to claim his bride.

He walked to a writing desk at the far end of the room. Sitting down, he opened it, and scratched out a note then, by the sound, she assumed he sanded the ink. Only when she smelled the wax did she know he had sealed the letter with the signet ring on his pinkie. Her mind raced at what and to whom he had written. He stepped outside into the hall and spoke to someone, but, try as she might, Miranda couldn’t hear the conversation.

A moment later, he stuck his head in the room again. “Are you comfortable, or do you wish to move to a more private room?”

Surprised by the question and unsure how to answer anyway, she shook her head to show she was not uncomfortable then nodded that she would indeed like to move.

Propping the door open, he headed her way. He leaned down and put one arm under her legs and the other around her waist. “Wrap your arms around my neck, my sweet.”

Without thinking, she did as he asked, but protested, “I am too heavy.”

“You are quite perfect.” He maneuvered through the room, careful not to bump her ankle.

Clutching his shoulder, she found it hard to believe he could lift and carry her weight with so little effort. “What about your coat and my corset?”

“Someone will collect them for us later. For now, the two of us have some serious talking to do.”

“Perhaps you can tell me to whom you sent that letter?”

He paused in the entryway, glanced about to ensure no one lingered, then headed up the stairs. On the top landing, he said, “I summoned my solicitor. I am hoping he has the paperwork pertaining to our marriage contract.”

“Oh.” Miranda couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He stared down at her. “I love the delightful way your mouth forms an O.”

Nearly doing it again, she stopped and said, “It’s rather late in the evening to summon someone, isn’t it?”

“It’s about ten, I should think, but I pay my solicitors a damned good amount of money to do very little. They had best come when I call.”

“Very lordly.”

He laid her down in the center of a gigantic bed. “Just efficient.”

“Is there not another room for us to wait in?”

‘If you are concerned that I plan to breach your virginal barrier tonight, put your mind at ease, I have no such aspirations. But with your ankle, you will be far more comfortable here. There is a private dining room which will allow me to speak to my lawyer and you to remain comfortable.”

“I see.”

“You sound disappointed.”

Was she? Perhaps so. Since the reason to hate him had been taken from her, the charming man she’d kissed had become the man of her dreams once more.

“Perhaps I am.”

“Rest assured, once I get to the bottom of this, I hope to make love to you, but it won’t be in a strange random room, but in a marriage bed.” Heat filled his eyes and laced his words, and then he turned away. “If you plan to break the contract, which I will not contest should you wish to, I will not take from you what is a gift for your future bridegroom.”

“Now it is you who sounds disappointed.”

“Perhaps I am.”

Really?
Until he’d answered her in kind, she hadn’t been aware she’d spoken aloud.

“Why are you surprised? I made no secret of my attraction to you at the ball. What makes you think it changed simply because you are my betrothed?”

“For one, I punched you in the eye. For another, I have been downright rude to you this evening.”

“With good reason, and, if you think those things can delay the amorous appetite of a man, you have a great deal more to learn about my sex than I thought.”

“So you believe me about the contract?”

“I believe someone led you to believe, as well as your father, that a union between us is a foregone conclusion. Until I have spoken with the family retainers, I won’t have an idea of what has been going on.” Andrew peeked out the window to the street below before facing her again. “Either way, I do not doubt your side of the story. You had nothing to gain by telling me, short of the satisfaction of watching all color seep from my face. But, in the end, if you are truly meant to marry me, showing me the extent of your violent nature would be the wrong way to do so.”

“I am not violent. You simply bring out the worst in—”

“Shh.” He placed a finger on her lips. “I was jesting.”

“Oh.”

“I warned you about that facial expression.”

“You did?”

“Perhaps warned is too strong a word.” Before she could reply, he took her lips with his, kissing her deeper and more thoroughly than the first time. Thoughts of who he was didn’t stop her, for he remained her betrothed, at least for the moment, so she had every right to kiss and be kissed by him. Perhaps the location wasn’t proper, but nothing about their relationship had gone according to plan, so why would this?

One second, she lay on the bed, propped up on pillows, and the next he had her lying across his lap, his arms around her before returning his attention to her with more fervor than the other two embraces combined.

For reasons she didn’t understand, he had branded himself on her. Heaven help her, she still wanted Andrew. Not with the schoolgirl crush she’d had as a young teen. The nervousness she’d experienced whenever she’d heard he was at his estate paled in comparison to her present jitters. Small tremors ran through her until they became outright shivers. He responded by tightening his embrace.

How long they sat in each other’s arms she wasn’t sure, but she became aware of a soft knock on the door leading from the bedchamber to the dining room. Miranda would have giggled at the long-suffering groan Andrew let out if she’d been able to catch her breath.

“Don’t you go anywhere,” he commanded.

“Where am I likely to hobble to?” The husky tone in her voice surprised her.

“I will be right back. Or at least back as quickly as I can be.” He kissed her one last time before striding away far more slowly than usual.

Falling back on the pillows, she smiled. Though her plan for the evening had been to lose her virginity in order to void the betrothal contract, she had no reason to complain. She’d arrived expecting one thing, yet, now, lay there feeling tingly and downright giddy.

She had so many ideas, or perhaps beliefs, about who Andrew, the man, was. And, so far, they’d all been proven wrong. The years Miranda had spent being groomed to be his countess had all been for naught, because the man before her wasn’t the man she’d been trained to marry, he wasn’t the cold, heartless man she’d believed him to be. No, he was considerate and passionate. Rather than expressing disbelief or anger with her, Andrew had taken the news about their betrothal with concern, and also with anger directed at those who had left him in the dark. She believed he’d been in the dark about the betrothal, just as she believed those who had were about to feel his wrath.

The biggest shock had been the discovery she liked Andrew as a person, as well as an earl. His answer about hiring people to put them to work had been the first of many things to start thawing the ice block around her heart. She had grown up idolizing him, all the while the girls in town would tease her mercilessly about his lack of attention. Yet Miranda had continued to see him through puppy-love eyes, although only as the handsome lord, not the man behind the title. That all changed, however. While none of the people who worked his land ever spoke poorly of him, she’d found fault in him where she could. As the years passed, the faults grew ever larger in line with his neglect of her.

Now, the faults built on misconceptions were replaced with new ideals of a man she might grow to love. Not a young girl’s notion of love and marriage to a lord, but one built from the respect of a woman who views life with eyes wide open. Discovering his true wants and needs, she’d concluded they couldn’t be satisfied by the porcelain doll she’d been reared to be, but by a partner both in society and, if the kisses he’d graced her with were anything to go by, in the bedroom as well.

Andrew’s attorney stood from the dining table as Andrew entered. “Milord.”

“Do not
milord
me,” he barked. His anger, growing by the minute, had to be noticeable to Gordon Lynd, of Lynd and Son.

Andrew’s missive had been blunt, making his displeasure clear. Not to mention being dragged from Miranda had left him frustrated beyond reason. Leaving her in that bed could very well have been the hardest thing he’d ever done. The same instant attraction he’d felt at the ball, the sizzle between them, hadn’t dimmed.

In the instant he’d stepped into the room to find his lawyer drinking the expensive brandy, Andrew had gone from aroused to furious in one step. Sitting in the chair closest to Mr. Lynd, he focused on the servant hovering nearby. The well-trained man fidgeted from one foot to the other. He could not have seemed more uncomfortable if he had walked in on the two men having sex. “You can leave us.”

“Thank you, milord.” The young man made his escape, leaving Andrew and his solicitor alone.

“You asked me to bring you the betrothal contract.” Gordon’s voice held no hint he knew Andrew might be close to jumping over the table and throttling him. Instead, the man pulled a leather satchel from the worn saddlebag on the floor by his chair. Untying the leather bindings, he handed over several yellowed pages. “This, as I am sure you aware, was signed on the day you were born. My father is the one who drew up the papers between your father and the late Mr. Beauchamp.”

“Actually, I didn’t have clue about this contract until about,” Andrew glanced at the clock on the mantel, “two hours ago. Shortly before I had you summoned.”