The Earl is Mine (21 page)

“Really?”

She nodded, her face turning bright red.

And suddenly, he knew what she was talking about.

He allowed himself a slow smile. “That’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

“It is when you can’t
do
that again.” She sounded wistful.

“Do what?” he asked, striving to look the picture of innocence.

“Gregory!” She stomped her foot. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Kissing and cavorting between the sheets? Against taproom doors? Or in tubs? Is that what we may never do again? Because you’re a sugar sculptor destined for greatness, I’m an architect designing dog cottages, and we’ll both be on opposite sides of the Channel very shortly, achieving our unparallel destinies?”

“Yes.” She looked away, clearly in a huff. “You’re impossible.”

He laughed. “I’m only teasing you. But I must agree. Our kissing days are numbered.” And he pulled the dressing room door shut behind him.

“They’re
over,
” Pippa called to him, always wanting the last word.

“Have a good day,” he called back.

“No,
you
have a good day,” she insisted before bustling out the door.

He waited until he heard her leave the bedchamber and then he allowed himself to fall onto the pallet, his face turned to the side.

She’d been the perfect sexual companion. To hell with the upside-down smiley faces. She was right—he’d never be able to see her mouth that way again without wanting to kiss it, and the rest of her.

He was rapidly becoming much too interested in her that way. He hadn’t been lying—the rest of the day would rot in comparison to the morning.

He allowed himself ten seconds to close his eyes and think about what had happened in the tub. After those seconds were over, he vowed to open his eyes and focus on his rather puny purpose at the house party: to work on that dog cottage design.

He’d already met the pack of Irish wolfhounds last night in the drawing room. There were five of them, yet he’d not been inspired, as much as he enjoyed their scruffy, sweet faces and thumping tails. Perhaps if he went to the site of the dog cottage and saw where it would actually be, fresh ideas would come to him.

Attention from John Nash was a worthwhile goal for a man who wanted a career as an architect. And Gregory did. He wanted it as much as he wanted anything, which wasn’t saying much, actually. Because there was nothing that truly stirred his soul these days.

Nothing.

Except Pippa.

And that was only a recent development. He’d nip it in the bud. His conscience reminded him that he couldn’t do it soon enough. But then he saw one of her hairpins on the dressing room vanity and he remembered her last night and today.

He gazed at himself in the looking glass, saw the hunger in his eyes.

He’d told her he was dangerous. He’d
told
her. Could he really be held responsible if they happened to fall together again that night? And every night thereafter at the house party?

He refused to answer the question. He ignored his own misgivings—ignored logic—tucked the pin in his pocket as a good-luck token of sorts, and left the room.

Chapter Fifteen

Pippa adjusted her wig one more time in the looking glass in the upstairs corridor. She wished she could giggle as she used to when she thought about looking at Gregory’s chin and mouth upside down. But instead she sighed … he had a perfect, supple mouth.

Very well. All she had to do was get through the day without thinking anymore about him at all. She could
do
that.

She’d think about Paris. Would Madame DuPont be kind? Where did Monsieur Perot work? But then all the Gallic imagery—the Left Bank of which she’d heard so much, Nôtre-Dame, that glorious edifice, and the gorgeous French fashions—all of it was replaced with an image of Gregory standing naked in that copper tub. He should’ve looked embarrassed or shy, but he hadn’t. He’d looked like a living, breathing Greek god used to being admired, but not in a conceited way. He merely appeared comfortable in his own skin.

She remembered also that casually posed question he’d asked her near the end of the morning’s exhilarating encounter, something along the lines of … did she really want to go just then?

She knew what he’d been suggesting.

And she’d been sorely tempted.

But, no. She was off to help Mr. Dawson because she needed to act like a valet—and she would not be dissuaded by a dangerous charmer who also happened to be her friend.

She might not want to be a valet, particularly, but at least she wasn’t at home with Mr. Trickle breathing heavily through his mouth a few feet away from her at the table. And she had to be thankful she wasn’t now married to Mr. Hawthorne and sharing his bed.

Oh, no. Now that she knew what went on there …

She felt a pleasurable, warm weight in her lower belly—it was that wanton named Desire, moving at a languorous pace lower and lower, finally settling between her thighs and refusing to move unless given some attention, some
proper
attention.

Doing her best to ignore her own entirely inappropriate impulse to turn around and visit Gregory again, Pippa sped around the corner and knocked rather hard on Mr. Dawson’s door.

“Come in,” Mr. Dawson said in that friendly, sweet way of his.

A burst of affection for him filled her at the sound of his voice. That—and her commitment to being the most excellent valet on earth—served as a lovely distraction. When she opened the door, he was already in his shirt and breeches, thank God. She spent the next half hour shaving him—which she heartily enjoyed, as she spoke about the people she loved at home, not mentioning any names, and of her never-ending fondness for walking the moors, especially when a wild wind moaned over the gorse and low, gray clouds scudded across the sky. Afterward, she picked out his waistcoat and coat. She also tied his cravat and shined up his boots. It was an entire hour before she was finished, but it had flown by.

“You look very dashing, if I do say so myself,” she said.

“But these are the clothes I always wear,” he answered.

“Yes, but it’s how you put them on that matters. Today, you had me to help you, and with every tweak of your cravat and buttoning of your waistcoat, I was beaming sincere admiration of you. In fact, if you were forty years younger—” she said flirtatiously, and then suddenly remembered she was a man, not a girl.

His eyes widened, and he tilted his head as if he found her most curious. “Yes?”

“If you were forty years younger,” she continued without missing a beat, “why, you’d be snapped up in an instant by a discerning young woman. As it is now, don’t be surprised if some of the elderly matrons at the house party find an excuse to sit by you when you dine.” She winked at him.

He gave a blustery sigh. “The last thing I need or want is an elderly matron speaking to me of her servants, her pickles and jams of which she’s so proud, her bonnets—all of which look alike to me—and her grandchildren, especially the infants. I believe if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all.”

“Mr. Dawson.”

He gave a little chuckle. “I’m an old curmudgeon and proud of it. Fortunately, Lord and Lady Thurston put up with me, anyway. What can they do? I’m Lady Thurston’s cousin. I was thirty when she was born. I lived next door and remember everything—the tantrums, the sulks, the wretched
tendres
when she got older … Of course, she’s the apple of my eye. But I don’t tell her so.”

“You should!”

“Why?” He raised both graying brows. “Then she’ll stop making me my favorite jam tarts.”

“You just said it annoys you when elderly matrons speak to you of jams—”

“You’re a cheeky valet,” he said.

“Indeed, I am.” She smiled.

“We’re rather alike.” He sent her a sly grin. “In fact, I’m taking you in with me to breakfast. Things seem to happen around you, Harrow.”

She gasped. “I can’t sit at the table. Not with the other guests.”

“No, I suppose you can’t. But you can wait in the corner, and I’ll bring you a plate of eggs.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“I hope Marbury will be there,” he said, all innocence.

“Why?” she asked.

He shrugged. “No reason.” But he had a twinkle in his eye.

She stood still. “Why, Mr. Dawson, I think you’re hoping Marbury and I will get into some sort of row!”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, but he was chuckling as they descended the stairs.

The breakfast room was empty except for one man—Lord Marbury. Pippa and Mr. Dawson exchanged a knowing look.

“I’m going to disappoint you,” Pippa whispered to him. “I vow to be on my best behavior.”

“We’ll see about that,” he whispered back.

When they walked into the room, Mr. Dawson said, “Good morning, Marbury,” as if he were a sweet old man and not a mischief-maker.

Of course, now Pippa knew better.

“I wanted to say good morning first, Mr. Dawson,” said the earl, “but I was busy scratching the back of one of the wolfhounds under the table with my boot. I love them like family already. And now that I’ve identified their temperaments, which range from moody to panting, I plan to make a nuanced adjustment to my design for the doggy cottage.”

“Oh?” Mr. Dawson asked in a pleasant manner, his eyes roaming over the plentiful dishes on the sideboard.

“But please,” Marbury said, “don’t tell Lady Thurston that I’m going to such supreme effort. I want her to be utterly shocked when she lays eyes on the sketches.” He rubbed his chin. “On the other hand … she might need her smelling salts, so if you’d like to prepare her in advance for my genius, you have my blessing.”

“You’ve put me in quite the dilemma,” Mr. Dawson said, and held a cup out to the footman to fill it with steaming tea. “To tell my cousin—or not to tell?”

Pippa sidled past Marbury and obediently sat in a chair in the corner. She laced her hands in her lap, but then she decided that looked too feminine, so she cupped them over her kneecaps and tried her best to glower.

Marbury turned his round shoulders to stare at her. “What the devil are
you
doing here?”

“He’s with me,” Mr. Dawson said in his placid manner, and filled a plate with eggs.

Marbury tucked an entire piece of bacon into his mouth. “You do what you like, Mr. Dawson,” he said with his mouth full. “I just find it odd to see a valet lounging in the same room as his betters. But you know how it goes. Someone like me—a person with tremendous design vision who also love dogs—has bigger things to think about than Harrow and where he sits. I think it’s bloody marvelous he’s here, actually. It’s a bit of comfort seeing him there in the corner, the same way it’s a solace having these slavering beasts under the table.”

Mr. Dawson’s brow puckered, but he said nothing. When he brought Pippa a plate filled with eggs and a fork, he winked. She thanked him, winked back, and began to eat. The footman, pouring Marbury’s tea, cast her a secret envious look, and she knew that she’d best avoid the kitchens today.

Just as the fellow put the teapot on the tray near his station in the opposing corner, a few sharp woofs and growls and then a thump came from beneath the dining table—dogs in the midst of a brief argument over territory. There was a clattering sound from where Lord Marbury sat, followed by a yowl emitted by that same gentleman. He pushed back his chair.

“Harrow?” he yelled.

Pippa jumped up with her plate. Good God, what had happened? And then she saw the overturned cup and the small milk pitcher on the carpet—and his wet lap. He sat stiff as a statue, his face in an awful grimace. Poor thing—he must have been preparing his tea and been jostled by the dogs.

The footman moved swiftly to his side. “Let me help you, sir,” he said in a low voice.

“Hot and cold hit me at the same time,” Marbury whimpered. He waved off the servant. “Harrow? Get over here. These are my best pantaloons. Save them.”

She held her plate to the side and approached. “Why don’t you go to your room and change them first?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but a dog the size of a small pony clambered out from under the table and knocked into Pippa and her plate, causing the eggs to slide right into Marbury’s lap.

His eyes blazed. “You didn’t,” he said in a menacing whisper without looking down.

She gulped and allowed her glance to flick at the new mess in his lap. “I—I’m sorry.”

The wolfhound turned right around and tried to gobble up the feast, pushing his long snout into the crevice between Marbury’s rounded belly and his thighs. He swatted hopelessly at the hairy head. “Footman!” he barked. “Come get this mongrel!”

The footman struggled with the hound but only managed to bump the table and cause a dish of sausages to hit the floor. This led to a stampede from beneath the table as the other hungry beasts dashed for the savory prizes. Marbury, surrounded by great quantities of wiry fur and slobbery tongues, was frozen in his panic.

“Do something, Harrow. Help me!” He held out his arms.

Mr. Dawson kept eating his porridge, watching with great interest but with only a mild expression on his face.

Pippa fought her way between two hounds and grabbed a square ivory linen serviette from the table. She dunked it into a goblet of water and began dabbing at Marbury’s soaked lap. The sodden pantaloons gaped at the front panel where a hound had obviously devoured a button in his zest to find some more egg, and Pippa shuddered at the notion of retrieving food remnants from beneath the flap.

Between Marbury’s howls of protest and the canine snorting and snuffling, Pippa hardly noticed when a loud cough escaped from Mr. Dawson, but she glanced up to see him shaking with silent mirth, his lips compressed but his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. He gave her a quick wink, one that she knew said,
I told you so. Things happen when you’re around
.

Before she could even return a smile, Marbury yelped when one of the hounds snatched the edge of a tea-soaked serviette from his lap and took off for the dining room door.

“Come back, you hairy beast!” Marbury snapped. He managed finally to get to his feet, waving his arms wildly to dispel the remaining animals.