The Spinster and the Earl (6 page)

“Excellent, superb, prime,” he muttered between bites. “All of it tastes as if the gods themselves prepared it, ma’am.” He barely glanced at her, so intent was he upon his present pleasure.

Lady Beatrice daintily ate her toast and sipped her tea. It was not becoming for a lady to be seen drinking and gorging herself with food. These two rules of decorum were the few feminine virtues her mother had managed to instill in her before she passed on. That she did not dance particularly well, nor sew, draw flowers, or sing like a nightingale mattered not at all. To her thinking, what was important for the Mistress of Brightwood Manor to know was how to run a vast estate whilst sick abed with a raging fever, being able to entertain a manor full of demanding guests for an entire rain-filled week, and to play a quick-paced game of whist while bandying interesting stories in French with her nearest neighbor.

These peculiar talents were the finer ones she counted upon daily to profit her family. They were qualities her mother had encouraged, believing that a young lady must be both a brilliant conversationalist and an accomplished estate manager. While some gentry lived off their inheritance with little idea as to how to make it more profitable, Beatrice’s family was already seeing to her future and that of the next generation to follow. She bordered on being a paragon of perfection any young lady in Ireland might have chosen to follow. That is, if the young person didn’t mind being branded a bluestocking by more envious, lesser-talented ladies of society.

A single-mindedness of thought, which any man might’ve envied, led Beatrice to make wise investments and helped her achieve well-defined goals. And at that precise moment all her energies were centered on one task only, ridding herself of that accursed coin. With that single goal in mind, she picked up a small, silver pitcher containing her father’s favorite brew and presented it to him.

“Some whiskey, Your Grace? It be one of m’father’s own making. Some say ’tis the best in all of the Emerald Isles.”

The earl took a sip.
Nectar of the gods.
He smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Not just Ireland, dear lady. But all the rest of the Union, as well.”

His dark blue eyes twinkled with delight. It had also been one of the strongest brews he’d ever chanced to taste.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. And seeing how it came from an English lord, a grand one at that.” She poured him some more of the potent brew.

He looked at her with a trusting smile of approval. She was almost sorry for what she was about to do. He really hadn’t been such a make-bait since his arrival. Of course, he’d been a bit arrogant and full of himself, but then weren’t most men? He drank down another dram.

“Sir, you must be terribly thirsty,” she said pouring him another.

He waved a hand over the goblet to stop her, his eyes blurring. “I think I’ve had my ration, sergeant. Don’t want to deprive the rest of the men.”

“I’ll have you know that this is ‘elixir,’ my dear Captain. And do you know your English word for whiskey comes from our Gaelic one for ‘
the water of life
.’ So, one can therefore assume that one can never have enough. And as for the rest of the other brave gentlemen being deprived, no need to worry, Your Grace. There be plenty for all. We O’Briens see to it that our men are well watered and fed.”

She had heard men were more apt to do one’s will when filled with strong spirits. She hoped as well that he wouldn’t notice her odd behavior. She needed him to be malleable and uncaring about what occurred about him for her plan to work.

He grinned, and firmly placed the drinking cup back on the table. His head felt light and he said in slightly slurred words, “I’m certain ’twas found to have extraordinary powers. But, I think I ought to pass-s-s . . .”

Undeterred, she took the drinking goblet and placed it beneath his numbing lips. Batting her long lashes at him, she did her best to be as coquettish as any young lady flirting behind a fan at her first assembly ball. She’d been waiting for this opportunity, now was the moment to seize it.

“Lord O’Brien will be dreadfully disappointed if you didn’t drink another dram.” She pouted prettily. “Why ’twas he who sent it up with his best wishes for your improved health, Your Grace.”

James gave a lopsided, half-drunken smile at her. She looked so pretty sitting beside him, coaxing him. Demme if the chit didn’t have pretty green eyes, too. Such a tiny waist she had. He hadn’t noticed before. Why the vixen was almost winsome in both her attire and manner. Aye, she was most becoming this morn.

“That s-settles it!” he said in a half-drunken slur. “It would be intolerably ill-mannered of me if I were to insult my host’s offering of goodwill.” He took the goblet and drank smoothly down the rest.

The moment had arrived for action. She stealthily removed the cursed coin from her apron. She leaned closer to him, holding her breath as she daringly hid the magic coin amongst his bedclothes.

“There,” she said breathlessly, her heart pounding in her ears from the near danger and deception. “I best take my leave and go tell Father how much—”

She chanced a glance at him and forgot the rest of her words of farewell.

He was looking into her eyes through a drunken fog, silently caressing her, without touching. He ran his eyes over her long dark hair, the soft curves of her oval face, down the line of her smooth, pink cheeks to her softly parted lips. An intoxication only a woman could give him pricking at his baser appetites. His head spun.

She held her breath and stared up into his handsome eyes. In one spectacularly impulsive moment, she wanted him to cover her mouth with his, to discover that heady feeling of being passionately kissed.

As if reading her thoughts, he lifted his hand up and removed the hairpins, which held back her hair. With one gentle tug, the long strands fell down about her shoulders. Her head felt suddenly lighter.

Encouraged by her silence, he combed his fingers through the glossy tresses. He placed his other hand firmly around her waist, pulling her up against his body. She took in a breath, surprised by the bold gesture.

“You are invitingly delectable,” he whispered in her ear, his breath smelling strongly of whiskey.

He began to gently nibble on her earlobe, lowering his head, placing a series of small kisses along the column of her exposed neck. He murmured between kisses, “Delicious, soft and warm . . . absolutely enticing.”

She whispered back, “Thank-you,” briefly remembering the first time he’d placed his hands around her, how her body had quickened at the feel of his body brushing up against hers when she helped him out of the bog.

Gathering her hair, he gently moved it to one side as he continued his exploration along the nape of her neck. When he reached her shoulders, he gently tugged down the muslin covering, causing her to shiver at his touch. He bent his head and began kissing her again . . .

She delighted at the feel of his lips against her skin, each kiss causing her pulse to quicken and her heart to pound in anticipation. Finally, wanting his lips on her own, she took his head into her hands and forced his bleary eyes to look into her own.

She commanded him, “Kiss me.”

Obediently, he complied, his mouth descending on hers, his tongue gently coaxing open her mouth. He tasted of a mixture of tobacco and whiskey. His mouth savored her lower and upper lips as he sucked on them, awakening long forgotten feelings she’d tried to forget when she vowed to become an independent spinster.

She felt his hand reach inside her bodice and fondle her breast. In a gentle circular motion, the soft pad of his thumb applied pressure, rubbing her nipple. Involuntarily, she let out a soft moan of pleasure.

The sound of the outer chamber door clicking open, however, pushed away all thoughts of any further kisses or heated embraces. Startled, she backed out of his arms.

Not bothering to knock, Wise Sarah strolled in dressed in her best Sunday frock, a blue homespun gown lined with fine Irish lace. She wore a winsome smile and turned to speak to her patient, but the words she’d prepared died on her lips.

Head sunk to one side, the Earl of Drennan lay openmouthed like a dead fish in deep slumber. A drunken snore buzzed the air about him.

“Oh!” she muttered, surprised, spun on her heels, and walked out, slamming the door shut behind.

And that was a grand shame. If she’d but lingered a moment longer, she’d have seen a sight worthy of remembrance. Her friend, the renowned Spinster of Brightwood Manor, that waspish maid of virtue, slid off the bed and onto the floor in a breathless heap.

Eyes closed, the lady of the house sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. “Praise be the good Lord above for small favors,” she whispered leaning her head weakly against the wall for support. “He fell asleep.”

So once again she’d miraculously managed to slip through the manacles of holy wedded bliss. For if she had been found lying in the handsome earl’s bed kissing him, letting him fondle her body, she surely would have been trapped in a marvelous scandal.

Aye, even the becoming witch would have reported her to her father. For such scandalous behavior as being found in a bachelor’s bed was not tolerated by the upright religious folk of Urlingford. But as the earl had fallen fast asleep when the witch entered the chamber, there was no reason to question her slightly ruffled state or the flaming color in her cheeks. She nodded in sober solemnity. A blessed angel from above was watching out for her this day.

And with a triumphant smile, she reminded herself that not only had she not been found in the earl’s arms by the witch, she had skillfully rid herself of that blasted coin.

“Aye, and I wish him good fortune with it,” she murmured, and left the room with nary another thought about what she had just said and done.

It was not, however, the noise of his own snoring that awoke Captain James Dermott Huntington, the new Earl of Drennan. Much like the princess who could not lie asleep on a pea, he could not slumber with a magic coin in his bed. It poked. It prodded. It intruded upon his person until he could bear it no more. He’d slept on the rocky ground of the Guadarrama Mountains more comfortably than in this bed.

“What in blazes!” he muttered, searching for the intruding object. What was it? A protruding nail? A lost cuff link? Any number of small items came to mind as he searched madly under the coverlet till at last—

“Voilà!” He clasped the rough-edged object in his hand. He examined it closely. It glowed a shiny yellow in the afternoon sunlight, its magic qualities hidden cleverly beneath its smooth, golden surface. Pleased, he pocketed the yellow-boy telling himself it might bring him some much needed luck. He then pulled on his morning dressing jacket and as he did, glanced out the bedchamber’s dorm window.

Outside, the lady of the house, Lady Beatrice, stood by a bed of roses, pruning the dead blooms. Her hair was primly tied back, completely hidden by a straw longhorn hat. A pity that, he thought, observing her movements. It would’ve pleased him to see it in the sun flowing like long black waves of smoke down her back. He grimaced. He was waxing poetic over none other than the person who’d been the cause of his present cumbersome injury.

“She’s nothing but a shrew,” he told himself firmly. “Your reasoning must’ve been badly addled by Lord Patrick’s elixir, old boy. ’Tis a sorry day when you have difficulty telling the difference between a beautiful Irish colleen and a cold-hearted wench, such as she.”

A problem, no doubt, brought about by months of all-male companionship endured on that rock in Spain. Not to mention the strong potent drams consumed earlier that morn. Apparently, he had not learned how to resist the temptation of too many tumblers of spirits.

He put a hand to his temple and felt a dull throbbing there. It matched his confused state of mind. For which was the dark-haired lady below? Was she the enticing lass with the soft lips who’d been ready for a passionate embrace this morning? Or was she the aloof, frostbitten spinster who’d so rudely shot him out from under his mount? The perplexing questions were worthy of the boggy marshes of Ireland where he’d been unceremoniously thrown.

Befuddled, he reached for the cold compress that’d been thoughtfully left by his washbasin. He placed it on his forehead and laid his head back. His recline was short-lived, however, for the sound of the garden-gate swinging open alerted him to the presence of another entering the garden below.

A tall dandy strolled into the ladyship’s flower garden with the air of one who expected to be always the praised tulip in it. What’s this? A suitor for the lady’s cold hand? The earl rubbed his eyes clear of sleep. And without any thought for the lady’s privacy, the seasoned soldier drew out his field glass from his kit beside the bed and fixed them upon the colorful popinjay.

Immediately noted was the rather large beauty spot the jackanapes sported. It stood out, a small dark mound on the dandy’s pasty white chin.

“My word! ’Tis as big as my little finger!” James exclaimed out loud, focusing his field glass more firmly upon the byword for bad taste.

The object of his interest, one Squire Herbert Lynch by name, bowed over Lady Beatrice’s gloved hand. The dandy wore a superfine morning jacket of striped pink and yellow, with large shoulder pads. His long, spindly legs, the envy of any stork, were gartered in yellow silk clockwork stockings and beribboned in bright pink at his knees. Yellow shoes buckled with shiny brass, the kind one usually wore to a ball, completed the gentleman’s elegant attire. His yellow teeth smiled down at her from his pasty face.

Lady Beatrice still wore a pair of soiled garden gloves. Belatedly realizing his intention to make a gallant gesture over her hand, she removed one. The tall, thin pole of a gentleman buzzed around her like a bee to the lucrative honey pot with his lisping compliments.

“M’—m’dear, you are a breath of fresh spring air this fair morn,” he said, affectedly forming his body into the perfectly required serpentine S. He drew her hand into his own. The wax padding he wore braced underneath his coat cracked audibly from the sudden strain.