The Earl in My Bed: A Forgotten Princesses Valentine Novella (8 page)

Whatever she felt started when he showed her that glimpse of himself . . . the lonely boy he had been, looking with longing after her and Owen. He’d had no one. No friends that she could recall. His brothers preferred the company of each other . . . of
her
. That must have stung. Even his father seemed quite unaffected by his existence. As if he didn’t care one way or another if Jamie lived or died. Harsh, perhaps, but not untrue.

She knew the late Earl of Winningham had been exceedingly proud of Brand, his heir, taking him about the countryside and showing him the proper manner in which to oversee his holdings and attend those dependent on him. Owen had been favored as well, the son of his second wife, a Scottish countess whom he had doted upon.

Only now did she realize Jamie had been overlooked . . . and left alone.

She understood loneliness. Since Owen left her, she had been lonely. Living, going about her days, but without feeling anything. Bored. Numb. Jamie had changed all that the moment he returned. She was alive again. He’d brought her back to life.

Papa sighed. “I’m certain the earl will attempt to set matters to rights and offer marriage.”

She nodded, staring at her hands. “He has.”

“Paget, listen well . . . you needn’t make any decisions until you
do
know your heart.”

Paget snapped her attention back to her father. “I do not think I have that luxury.”

He patted her hand again. “You take all the time you need. Marriage is not a decision to be made lightly. It is the rest of your life you are deciding.”

“Papa, this affects you, too.”

“Don’t fret about me.” He smiled. “Do I look worried?”

She smiled hesitantly. “No.”

“Then you shouldn’t give me another thought. Look inside her your heart. Then go from there.” He slid his hand from hers and turned to stare out the window, looking quite at peace.

She wished she felt half as content.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

J
amie arrived at the vicarage at first light. He’d debated following Paget home the previous evening but thought it best to give her the night to gather her thoughts and adjust to the reality of her situation. Their situation, he amended, his jaw clenching.

He’d done this to the both of them. No mistake about it. And it had nothing to do with his need to protect his brother. He’d been selfish and greedy for her. Kissing Paget again had been totally self-driven, and the consequences were his to bear. Owen would never forgive him, but there was no way around it. He could not stand aside and watch as Paget fell to ruin. The least he could do was not openly
enjoy
the notion that she would be his . . . that he could have her in his bed. He could reach for her any time. Touch her. Kiss her. Sink inside her body and spend himself.

Amazingly, in the span of one night, he had grown to accept the idea. Even anticipate it. Almost like it was always meant to be. Paget and him. Not Paget and Owen.

The housekeeper led him to Vicar Ellsworth’s office. He waited only moments in the small space before the vicar joined him.

“Lord Winningham,” he greeted, moving before the crackling fireplace where Jamie stood warming his hands. He motioned for Jamie to seat himself in one of the wingback chairs. “I was hoping you would call.”

“Of course. I would not be remiss with my duty.”

The vicar lowered into the chair across from him. Despite his much shorter frame, he managed to look down his spectacles at Jamie. “Duty? Is that what brings you here?”

“I apologize for putting Paget’s reputation at risk. It was not my intention—”

“What was your intention, Lord Winningham?”

Jamie blinked, unsure how to respond to that bald question. How could he admit that he had not thought much beyond getting his hands on Paget? Touching her, kissing her, tasting her? He certainly couldn’t admit such a thing to her father—a bloody vicar, no less.

“I will not leave Paget to weather this. Naturally. I’ve come to offer marriage.”

The vicar studied him thoughtfully for several moments. “I appreciate your sense of responsibility, my lord. Very honorable. But I’m afraid that is not enough for my daughter.”

Jamie jerked slightly, certain he had misunderstood. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you are denying my suit?”

The vicar nodded. “I’ve always thought my daughter’s heart was bound to your brother.”

A growl rose up in his throat. For the first time, he felt a surge of violence toward his absent brother. Since the last night, he had grown quite accustomed, even gratified, with the notion that Paget was his now. He squashed the sentiment, disgusted himself for it.

“Have you asked your daughter? I think she would tell you that her heart is quite unattached when it comes to my brother—”

“I’ve come to gather that.” He nodded, pushing his slipping spectacles back up his nose. “I’ll grant you that she wouldn’t be so susceptible to your . . . charms if her heart were engaged with your brother.”

He sighed, relieved he did not have to persuade the vicar that Paget was not bound to Owen.

“That said, it’s
your
heart that concerns me.”

“My heart?”

“Yes. I’m not convinced your affections for my daughter run deep enough.”

He stared at the vicar, quite dumbfounded. “You realize I compromised your daughter. You both stand to become social pariahs? Your very livelihood could be threatened. Even with my support, empty pews on Sunday would be harmful to your position here.”

The vicar nodded. “Yes. That would be a shame, but there are greater tragedies in life.”

Jamie stared at him blankly. “Such as . . .”

The vicar continued, “Such as finding yourself married to someone for whom you feel nothing more than a fleeting attraction. The desires of the flesh are ephemeral. Only love lasts.”

He opened his mouth to object, but could not find the words to persuade the vicar, short of claiming he was in love with Paget. His throat tightened as the very possibility seized him. In love? With Paget? Could it be? The image of her filled his mind and his palms prickled with the overwhelming urge to find her. Hold her close until her father approved of his suit.

He visualized her perfectly. Heard the echo of her voice in his mind.
I want passion. Desire.
She had no qualms, no shame, admitting it to him. Like a siren’s call, her request was something he’d been unable to ignore. Even if she had not issued it directly to him. And yet she wanted more than that. She wanted it all. Everything. Passion wrapped up in love. The most alarming thing of all was that he couldn’t help thinking loving her would be the easiest thing in the world to do.

Perhaps he already did. Clawing panic swept over him. How could he let that happen? He’d never been good enough. Not even for his own family. What made him think she wanted his love?

Vicar Ellsworth stared at him as if waiting for his admission of love. When it didn’t arrive, the older gentleman stood. “Thank you for calling. I feel much better now that we’ve had this talk.” The vicar smiled as if he had not just denied the earl’s offer of marriage.

Feeling as though he had failed some sort of test, Jamie allowed himself to be led from the office. Upon departing the house, he stopped in the yard and turned. A flicker of curtains in an upstairs window caught his notice. He thought he saw a flash of pale, moonbeam hair.

His panic evaporated. The vague, unsettled feeling lifted from his chest. Resolve stole over him. He felt as though he were back in India, with fresh orders in his hands and a mission to complete.

He had not failed. This was not over.

He and Paget were not even close to being finished.

P
aget lurched up in bed with a gasp, her eyes searching the gloom. The remnants of a dream clung like shadowy cobwebs. She clutched the counterpane and pulled it high to her chest. The wind howled outside her window, rattling the panes.

She’d been on a battlefield, searching for Owen. She called his name again and again, pushing through the smoke, walking amid fallen soldiers. At last she’d come to him.
Alive!
She embraced him, holding tightly. He set her from him, looking at her sternly.

“Find Jamie, Paget.”

“Jamie?” She glanced around at the carnage, her heart constricting. “He’s here?”

Owen nodded. “Of course, he’s here. He’s always been here. Only you can find him.”

Nodding, she staggered from Owen’s side, calling for Jamie. Holding her skirts to keep from tripping, she hunted for him among the mayhem. Then she spotted him on a distant rise. She rushed to reach him, Owen’s words playing in her mind.
Only you can find him. He’s always been here.

Just as she was about to reach him, a blast of artillery shook the earth, launching her through the air. She landed on her back, gasping for breath. Rolling to her side, she looked to where she’d last seen Jamie. Only burning, smoldering earth remained. Staggering to her feet, she screamed for him, but he was gone.

Her breath fell in hard pants as if she were still on that battlefield, hunting for Jamie. She rubbed her hands over her face, wondering what it all meant.

“Just a dream,” she whispered to herself, shaking off the cobwebs of slumber. Still, she couldn’t slow her heartbeat.

Her window rattled louder. She frowned and shoved back the covers. Swinging her legs over the side, her bare feet dropped down silently. Rising, she moved toward the window. Pulling back the curtains, she almost screamed at the sight of Jamie, perched in a tree, knuckles rapping the glass.

She quickly unlatched the window and stepped back, watching in astonishment as Jamie dropped inside her bedchamber.

On the heels of her nightmare, she had to fight the urge to embrace him. She stepped back, hugging herself to stop herself from doing just that.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder toward her door—expecting her father to barge inside.

“I talked to your father. Now I’m talking to you.”

Her hands chafed her arms. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He advanced on her. “How else am I to learn if you’re as foolish as your father?”

She backed away, lifting her chin a notch. “Don’t malign my father.”

“He’s a good man. Just not very sensible. You’re ruined if we don’t wed, Paget. So is your father.”

“Papa doesn’t think I should rush to make a decision—”

He snorted and moved for her armoire.

She followed after him. “What are you doing?”

He pulled her valise out from the bottom. “Packing you.”

“Packing? For what?”

“Gretna.”

Her mouth sagged. It took her a moment to recover her voice. “You want to elope?”

His eyes gleamed down at her in the gloom. “Do you know a quicker way to wed in haste? Especially since your father’s not very cooperative on the matter.” He started rifling through her clothing. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You should probably do this.”

“No.” The single word slipped from her mouth.

He stopped and turned, his head cocking to the side. “Be sensible, Paget.”

“No. They only saw us kiss.” She shook her head. “The gossip will fade.”

He growled and closed the space between them, his hands closing over her arms. “Then I’ll have to thoroughly and truly compromise you so there is no doubt in your mind.”

His hands flexed on her arms, singeing her through the sleeves of her nightgown. She felt his gaze on her face . . . her lips. A secret thrill skated over her skin. She suppressed her shiver of excitement and gave a hard shake of her head.

She opened her mouth to deliver a ringing setdown, but the words never made it past her lips. His mouth crushed hers and her protest died in her throat.

There was no resistance. She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling his head closer, deepening their kiss and parrying her tongue with his. He backed her up until she bumped the bed.

He broke the kiss and her eyes fluttered open. Her chest rose and fell with each savage breath that shuddered free of her lungs. His eyes glittered at her in the dark. He gathered her nightgown into two fistfuls against her hips.

In a single, swift move, he pulled the nightgown over her head. The room’s cool air rushed over her body and she shivered.

“Do you want me?” he said, breathing against her temple, stirring the fine hairs there.

She managed a strangled sound, a gurgled affirmation.
Want him?
With every fiber of her being.

His big hand cupped her bottom and lifted her high against him, nestling her against his prodding erection. He rounded the curve of her bottom, sliding lower, fingers teasing, probing her entrance and tearing a sharp gasp from her throat.

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing just how wet you are,” he rasped against her neck.

Then she was falling. His body came down over hers, surrounding her, pinning her to the bed. Instinctively her legs parted wider, allowing him to settle deeper against her.

His hands cupped her face, held her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Their mouths fused together, a hot, wet melding of lips and tongues, of nips and long, deep kisses.

His hands moved, slid over her. She let herself go, reveling in his mouth, his hands on her naked body. He pulled back, and she moaned in disappointment, watching his shadowy form as he shed his clothing. And then he was back. She sighed at the delicious sensation of his skin against hers.

He took her hand and moved it between them, guiding it to his manhood. An incredible sense of freedom, of power, seized her.

“Touch me,” he drawled in a voice she hardly recognized, so deep and guttural. Harsh with need.

Her hand closed around his hard length. Her breath came faster. He was bigger than she had imagined. The skin softer.

His groan emboldened her. A shudder ran through him and vibrated within her as she pumped her hand over him—slowly, carefully at first, then in long, firm strokes that made him breathe harder. She rubbed her thumb over his tip, delighted at his low groan, at the bead of moisture that rose up to kiss her thumb and coat the head of him.