The Earl in My Bed: A Forgotten Princesses Valentine Novella (6 page)

Paget frowned. “I think you have that in the reverse.”

“Do I?” Alice Mary angled her head. “Well, no mind. My point is this—” She leveled a serious look at Paget. “I for one never thought you and Owen were fated. Not as everyone else.”

Paget blinked and sat up straighter. “No? That certainly puts you in the minority. Why did you never tell me before?”

Alice Mary shrugged one shoulder. “I figured you would realize it for yourself, but then he went away to war, and you’ve formed no other attachments. I fear that obligation to Owen holds you in check.”

Immediately, Jamie’s face flashed before her. Evidently she was not in check. Not at all.

“You don’t think it wretched of me?” She moistened her lips. “I mean how will Owen feel if he returns to find me and someone else—”

Alice Mary covered her hand with her own. “You cannot prevent yourself from living for fear of hurting Owen’s feelings. I’m sure he only wants you happy. No one would blame you for seeking out your own happiness. Not even him.”

She winced. “I’m not so certain of that.” She could think of one person who would blame her if she sought her own happiness. He would
heartily
blame her.

“There was never that spark between the two of you.” Alice Mary nodded almost sadly. “I watched you both together and always thought you behaved more like friends than sweethearts.”

Paget nodded, understanding perfectly now that she’d sampled the spark firsthand. “I confess that I’ve come to think the same thing myself.”

“Ah-ha!” Alice Mary’s eyes danced with delight. “So there
is
someone. Hm.” She tapped her chin. “Who could it be? He’d have to be young . . .”

“No,” Paget quickly rejoined. “There is no one.” The last thing she wanted was for her friend to start wondering thoughts that led her to conclude that the Earl of Winningham had struck her fancy. “Only I’m open to the possibility of forming an attachment to an eligible gentleman. That is all.”

Alice Mary clapped her hands together gleefully, her blue eyes glinting conspiratorially. “Well! Then we shall endeavor to find you a worthy gentleman who can deliver a spark. My ball shall be the perfect place to start. Let me think. An old school friend of John’s will be attending. Mr. Bromley is quite the gentleman. He cuts a fine figure. I’ve witnessed many a lady bat her fan in his direction. And what better setting than a Valentine’s ball to set the stage for romance? If my efforts come to no avail, Cupid will surely have a hand in this.”

Paget smiled and hoped it looked sincere and not as brittle as it felt.

Somehow after yesterday’s kiss—
kisses
—very well, it was rather more than a simple kiss. Her face heated as she thought of all the wicked things his mouth did to her—it felt false to forge a romance with someone else so soon. To feel passion again in such a short amount of time. Surely passion wasn’t that easy? Surely it wasn’t something to be had with just anyone?

If that were the case, she would have had it with Owen. That would have been preferable. Instead her body had reacted and chosen Jamie.

She scowled at the turn of her thoughts. It almost sounded as though she felt loyal toward Jamie. Absurd. He certainly felt no fondness for her.

But she refused to let him ruin her dream.

Her smile widened. Perhaps a Valentine’s ball
would
be the perfect place to begin the romance she so desperately craved.

She nodded and smiled at Alice Mary. “I should be delighted to meet your Mr. Bromley.”

J
amie strolled amid the partygoers, edging the dance floor where hundreds of delicate love knots dangled from ribbons attached to the ceiling. The baroness had obviously gone to great efforts for tonight’s ball.

He stopped to greet familiar faces as he scanned the crush, straining for a glimpse of Paget. He hadn’t seen her since their encounter in the rain. He imagined there would be some awkwardness. Especially on her part. No doubt she would not even be able to meet his gaze. Despite her bold manner, she was a country miss. A vicar’s daughter. Inexperienced. She was probably mortified, hiding behind a potted fern hoping to avoid him.

For the best, he supposed. Especially considering he’d thought of little else besides her. Her scent. Her taste. It was utter torment. Although worth it if he had succeeded in securing her for Owen. That’s all that mattered. Not her discomfort. Not his.

His smile grew pained. He wasn’t one to endure idle banter. Meaningless chatter was simply that to him. Meaningless. He would typically have avoided a fête like this. He always had before. As a boy. As a young man. He’d never felt at ease in these gatherings. He was not like Brand or Owen, so at ease and free with a quip.

But he was the earl now, and a voice inside him had prompted him to attend and be more sociable. More like his father and brothers. Beloved among the villagers and local gentry. The kind of lord who took his station seriously, who embraced the responsibility of his role and fraternized with the people under his care. The kind of earl even Owen would be if he was the heir. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, he thought his father might be looking down on him now.

He winced. Still chasing after his approval it would seem.

He nodded at a widow, garbed from head to foot in starched bombazine, whose name he couldn’t recall. She prattled on, sharing some anecdote about his father.

He gulped down the last of his champagne, wishing for something stronger.

“Oh, it’s splendid having you home safely, my lord. We’re all praying for the safe return of your brother.”

“You’re too kind,” he murmured.

“Nonsense. Lord McDowell is loved by all. We can’t lose him, too.”

“I am sure he will return safely.”

Suddenly he caught a glimpse of hair as pale as moonbeams. It was there for a second and then gone, lost amid dancing figures and fluttering love knots.

He set his glass down. “If you’ll pardon me,” he murmured, not even hearing the widow’s response as he walked along the perimeter of the dance floor, stalking only one female.

He saw nothing else, acknowledged no one, nor the stares he was getting as he chased after another glimpse of the hair that could belong to only one. Suddenly bodies parted and there was a break in the crowd.

And there she was.

Fetching in a white gown trimmed in pink and gold ribbon. The waltz faded to a close and she stepped free of her partner’s arms.

Jamie inched along, watching as the pair glided together from the dance floor. Her partner settled her hand in the crook of his arm much too intimately in Jamie’s opinion. She glowed, her face flushed and her dark eyes gleaming like polished onyx.

A foul taste coated his mouth as the fair-haired man at her side closed his hand over hers in the crook of her arm. Who was he? Had she already moved on, found a suitor to deliver on the passion she sought? Apparently his actions hadn’t frightened her from her selfish quest, after all. A growl rose up in his throat as he watched them move toward the balcony door.

“Lord Winningham, so delighted you could attend our little fête this evening.”

He turned his gaze to the baroness, detecting the barest hint of scorn in her gaze. No one else would note it, but he did. Although all politeness, he detected the chilly reserve in her blue eyes. She’d never cared for him. Of course not. She was a friend to Paget and probably knew every wretched thing he had ever done or said.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he returned, performing a quick bow over her hand and donning an affable smile.

“Indeed.” Her smile deepened but still did not quite reach her eyes.

He could not help himself; his gaze slid to the balcony doors just as Paget and the stranger reached them.

“Have you made the acquaintance of Mr. Bromley yet? Such a delightful man.”

He shot her a quick glance, seeing she had followed his gaze to the departing pair.

“No, I have not had the pleasure.”

“Mr. Bromley attended school with my dear Sir John.”

There was something in her voice that snared his attention. A certain wistfulness. He looked at her again. Even though Paget and the gentleman in question had vanished outdoors, the baroness still stared after them, a vaguely cunning look on her face.

Watching her closely, he murmured, “Unfortunate he does not live in closer proximity.”

She looked back at him. “He’s close enough. Relationships have been forged with greater distances as a hurdle.”

And with that, he knew. She was matchmaking Paget with this Bromley fellow. He inhaled deeply, his chest tightening uncomfortably.

From all appearances, Paget had no intention on waiting for Owen. She had made up her mind. She was actively searching for her
passionate
romance. Anger simmered in his veins. Apparently she had found her first candidate in Bromley.

He clung to his smile and murmured, “I understand completely. And so would my brother, Lord McDowell.” He let his gaze settle on her pointedly. “He would agree with you that relationships can stand the test of any distance. And time.”

Faint color spotted her cheeks. It gratified him to see that she was not without conscience. She might not care for him, but he knew she cared about his brother. She should consider Owen as she was thrusting Paget into the arms of other men. His hand curled at his side at the mere notion.

“Indeed,” she muttered. Looking over her shoulder, she feigned an expression of distraction . . . as though suddenly seeing something that required her attention. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord.”

“Of course.” He wasted little time watching her weave through the crowd. He cut a line straight for the balcony doors, intent on locating Paget and putting a stop to her budding romance with Bromley. For Owen. He owed it to Owen.

It had nothing to do with the hot surge of possession that rose up inside him at the thought of Paget in the arms of another man.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

S
everal guests milled along the stretch of balcony, reassuring Paget that a stroll with her dancing partner was not unseemly. Flushed from dancing, Paget didn’t even mind the chill.

“You dance like an angel, Miss Ellsworth.”

Paget stifled a snort at the compliment. An exaggeration to say the least, but she was flattered nonetheless. Jamie would never bother to praise her with such a falsehood. He wasn’t the sort to issue empty praise. At least he wouldn’t waste his breath doing so to
her
. On the other hand, perhaps a lady he was courting . . .

Blast!
Must he her thoughts turn to him at every turn?

She slid her companion a glance beneath her lashes as he led her down the steps toward the burbling fountain. A self-proclaimed outdoorsman, Bromley was handsome and ruddy-faced from long hours outside. Only a few inches taller than herself, he was stocky and solid enough to make her feel feminine beside him despite his lack of height.

They circled the fountain, her hand snug in the crook of his arm. “You’re not cold?” he inquired. “I could fetch your cloak for you.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, no. The dancing left me quite warm.”

He nodded agreeably. “Dancing can be exerting, as well as diverting. An excellent recreation.”

She nodded, too, wondering if they should move on to the topic of weather next. She bit the inside of her cheek and reprimanded herself to give him a chance. He could simply be nervous and not merely boring. She needed to be more amenable. Every other male in the vicinity considered her unavailable. He was the first gentleman whom she had not known all her life who actually appeared interested in her.

Fewer people mingled around the fountain, so close to the spray of the water. Paget and Bromley rounded the backside of it, well out of sight of any guests.

“I confess to apprehension when the baroness insisted that we meet.”

Paget laughed lightly. “She is not known for her subtly.”

“In this case, I am only glad at her enthusiasm.”

Her gaze flicked to his lips. Nice enough, she supposed. She wondered if they possessed the power to reduce her to a quivering state of desire as Jamie’s mouth had done.

Devil it!
There she went again, consumed with thoughts of him, comparing the first gentleman she met to him.

He turned and caught her staring so intently at him. She knew modesty should dictate that she look away . . . for her to behave as a demure vicar’s daughter ought to in the company of a gentleman she only just met. And yet she couldn’t do that. She was too curious. Too determined to see if what had transpired with her and Jamie had truly been a singular event.

His look turned speculative as he held her gaze.

Clearing his throat, he turned away for a moment, scanning the area around them, confirming that they were in fact alone.

Satisfied, he inched ever closer. “Miss Ellsworth,” he murmured. “Is it rash of me to say how propitious I find our meeting this evening?”

She smiled, trying to ignore her frisson of unease as the front of his jacket brushed against her. How would she know if what she experienced with Jamie was a truly singular occurrence if she did not . . .
practice
with other gentlemen?

He reached a hand to her cheek and brushed back a loose tendril of hair. “I owe a debt to our hostess.”

His eyes were close now, and she could see, even in the dim shadows, that they were quite brown. Dull and lightless.

She was suddenly filled with the certainty that he was going to kiss her. His face inched closer, moving slowly, testing her willingness, giving her plenty of time to pull away. But why should she do that? She had begun this.

Except now, kissing this man, this stranger—on the heel of Jamie’s kiss—struck her as thoroughly distasteful. Drat the man! He was ruining matters even when he was not present to do so.

She flattened a hand on Mr. Bromley’s chest, ready to push him away, when a deep voice cut through the evening.

“Ah, there you are.”

Mr. Bromley jumped and took a hasty step back.