As an Earl Desires (12 page)

He certainly had a mastery of the kiss that
exceeded all expectations. He'd kissed her three times, and
each time he brought a richness that lured her in and caused her
good sense momentarily to flee.

She heard what she could only describe as
caterwauling coming through the slightly open window. She eased out
of bed, crossed the room, drew back the fluttering curtain, and
peered out. In the distance, with the help of the moonlight, she
could see the outline of two men weaving back and forth across the
path as though they couldn't agree where they should walk.
She would recognize the one—Archie—anywhere.

Hurrying toward the door, she grabbed her shawl
from the foot of the bed in passing. She rushed down the stairs,
through the house, and into the kitchen, just as Archie and his
brother stumbled inside. A lamp had been left on the table as
though their mother had expected just such a late arrival.

Archie's cravat was gone, his shirt
unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, his jacket disheveled.
“Lord Sachse!” she snapped.

He jerked his head back, then moved it for
ward, squinting as though he were having a difficult
time focusing. His eyes lit up, and his mouth spread into what she
could describe only as an idiotic grin.

“Cammie! You waited up for me. How
delightful!”

“Cammie?”

He held up a finger. “Camilla is too formal,
and I'm so wretched tired of the formality.”

His words were slurred, running together.

“You're foxed,” she said.

He shook his head, nodded, then grinned again.
“Yes, indeed, I believe I am. We need to talk. Win had a
brilliant idea.”

Horrified at what she was seeing, she looked at
Winston, who seemed in danger of losing his balance at any moment.
He also wore a stupid grin. “If you'll excuse me, I
believe I hear Mum calling.”

He smashed into the table, tottered across the
room, and slammed into the wall. He promptly spun around to face
her, his grin still in place, and slumped to the floor.

She was tempted to give him another kick. She
turned to Archie. “I should get your valet.”

He shook his head. “No, no.” He
gingerly walked around the table, using the chairs for support.
“I didn't drink as much as Win.”

He staggered over to her and slung his arm around
her shoulders. She very nearly collapsed
beneath his weight. She placed one arm around him and
one hand against his side as much for her own balance as his.
“Can you make it up the stairs?”

“Of course,” he said.

It was an ungainly ascent, and several times she
doubted his ability to make it to the top. But they persevered, his
weight becoming heavier as he leaned more fully against her, his
feet barely lifting as he moved them from step to step as though,
like his brother, he wished to succumb to the full effects of the
spirits and simply lie on the stairs.

They finally reached the landing, and she led him
down the hallway to the room where she'd seen his bags taken
earlier. There too a lamp had been left burning, and she wondered
if his mother was accustomed to this sort of behavior from her
sons.

They managed to make it to the bed, where his
ability to remain upright deserted him. Holding her close, he
tumbled them onto the bed. She shoved against his shoulders, and
ordered, “Archie, let me up.”

“Shhhhhhhhh,” he whispered in a long,
drawn-out voice. “I want to tell you Win's brilliant
idea.”

“In the morning.”

“Now.”

“At least let me get you properly into
bed.”

His grin was wicked, yet playful. “But it is
you that I want to get into bed…and improperly at
that.”

She shoved harder against him.
“Archie—”

“Let me explain, then I shall let you go and
put myself to bed properly.”

She heaved a weary sigh. “Very well, then
explain this brilliant idea, which I've no doubt is absurd if
it came to Winston this night after all you've
drunk.”

“We should be lovers.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs; her stomach
tightened into a hard knot. “I think not.”

“Hear me out,” he pleaded, placing his
finger against her lips. “It's brilliant. I promise.
You see, you said you wouldn't marry me because you are
barren, and I need an heir. But what if the old Sachse were the
barren one, not you?”

“Impossible. As I've told you
before—his wife before me had a son.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

Although he was lying down, he managed to angle his
head so he appeared to be thinking matters over. “Perhaps his
seed simply grew too tired to take root.” He shook his head.
“Doesn't matter.”

He placed his hand against her cheek. “We
would become lovers, and we would go at it like
a pair of rabbits. If you get with child, I will marry you. If not,
then I will marry the woman of your choosing.”

Oh, what an unfair proposal. Did he not think that
she might come to care for him more during their tryst? After
knowing her intimately, could he cast her aside for another so
easily? Could she turn away from him?

“You are not a duke,” she reminded him.
“I wish to be a duchess.”

“As we've discussed, I can help you
there. And if you are indeed barren, as we both know, you will
marry an old duke who is not in need of an heir, but you and I
could remain lovers. It's perfect, Cammie.”

Unless she got with child, in which case, she would
marry an earl—this earl. But even that had an appeal, to be
his, to have his child.

“What do you think, Cammie?”

She thought that when he called her that, she had a
difficult time keeping her armor in place.

He closed his eyes and began to rub her cheek
absently with his thumb. “We would make love every night. I
would warm you with kisses…heat you…with my touch. I
want to be…inside you.”

Everything within her stilled. She'd never
had a man speak to her so intimately or so
specifically—reveal exactly what he wanted to
do with his body and hers. She grew warm as images bombarded her of
him doing exactly as he'd indicated. His wants mingling with
hers, their bodies joining.

He stopped stroking her with his thumb, and his
breathing became long and even.

“Archie?” she whispered.

When he didn't move, she reached up and
touched his hair, his temple, his cheek, until she cradled his chin
and pressed her thumb to his lips. “You deserve much better
than me, Archie, even as only a lover. You have no idea how
difficult it is to turn you aside. But I must. You frighten me, my
handsome earl.”

She worked her way out of his hold and got off the
bed. She removed his shoes. She didn't have the strength to
get him beneath the covers, so she folded the top blanket on which
he rested over him. If he rolled over, the covering would slide
off, but for a while it would offer a little protection from the
night.

Gingerly she sat on the edge of the bed so she
could once again comb her fingers through his hair. In sleep, he
seemed so harmless. Who would think by looking at him that he
possessed the power to destroy her?

“Don't be afraid,” he suddenly
said, nearly causing her heart to burst through her chest.

She came up off the bed and took a step back, all
the while staring at him. He neither moved nor opened his eyes.
When her heart calmed, she turned down the flame in the lamp and
allowed the shadows to surround her.

How different things were here. How different he
was. She'd never seen him inebriated. Her husband had been a
mean drunk, but Archie had no unkindness in him at all. Not even
when he'd been drinking.

She eased closer to the bed and knelt on the floor.
She brushed her fingers through his hair. “Win's idea
is indeed brilliant,” she whispered, “but in the end, I
believe it would break our hearts.”

Standing, she bent down, kissed his brow, and
fought to ignore the fact that her heart was already breaking.

T
hey
were enjoying high tea. Arch was almost certain of it as he stood
at the window and gazed out on his mother's garden. His
nieces were seated in tiny chairs at a tiny table that Owen had
built for them. A little teapot and tiny cups and saucers were set
before them.

Camilla, the Countess of Sachse, sat with them and
was pouring imaginary tea. Arch was completely and utterly charmed
by her lack of guile, by the pleasure on her face as she played
with the girls. Fate was indeed cruel to deny her the opportunity
to have daughters of her own.

“Here, drink this,” his mother said,
shoving a cup of black coffee beneath his nose.

The aroma almost caused his stomach to revolt.
His head was pounding, his body sluggish.
Still, he sipped on the brew because he knew his mother
wouldn't leave him alone until he did. He could be an old
man, and she'd still be his mother, expecting him to obey
without question. And he imagined he'd continue to do exactly
that.

“I like your countess,” she said
quietly, out of deference for his aching head he was certain.

“She's not my countess.” He took
another sip, feeling the warmth of the liquid traveling through him
until it touched his head. She'd put something in the drink,
he was certain of it. She had all sorts of home remedies that
worked miracles.

“She can't have children,” he
said with a low voice, as though to impart a sad secret. He lifted
his cup. “You don't have a cure for that, do
you?”

Camilla having children wouldn't remove her
desire to marry a duke, but he thought it would guarantee her a
good deal more happiness.

His mother shook her head and looked through the
window. “A shame that. She has patience with the
girls.”

“And with me usually. She's taught me a
good deal since I arrived in London.”

“Have you told her you love her?”

He silently swore. His mother had always known
everything, been omniscient. Sometimes her uncanny ability to
ferret out the truth had been almost frightening. She always knew
if he
and Win had fought—even when they
took great pains not to hit about the face, not to leave any
evidence. She'd known the one time he'd cheated on an
examination. She'd said nothing, just looked at him, but
he'd known that she knew.

She'd known when he'd kissed his first
girl, and when he'd taken his first young lady in the
hayloft. He didn't know how she always knew. Only that she
did.

“Telling her wouldn't make a
difference,” he finally admitted. “Although quite
honestly, I'm not certain that I do love her. I care about
her to be sure, but beyond that”—he shook his
head—“I don't know.”

“You've never brought a gal home
before.”

“I couldn't very well leave her at
Sachse Hall.”

“I don't see why not.”

He closed his eyes, his headache suddenly
intensifying. “She guards her past. She has no curiosity
where mine is concerned. But I was shaped by all that happened to
me before we ever met. She was as well. I thought if I shared with
her, she'd share with me. I don't even know why I
care.”

She patted his arm consolingly. “I think you
do.”

“She would never settle for me.”

“You deserve better than a woman who would
settle
, anyway.”

“You only feel that way because you're
my
mother.” He downed the remainder of
the coffee before handing her the empty cup. “I'm going
to take her to see the school.”

Leaving his mother there, he walked to a side door
and stepped through it into the garden. He could hear the laughter
more clearly, Camilla's and the girls'. They were
having a grand tea party. A part of him was loath to interrupt, but
he wanted some time with Camilla. Besides, he thought he owed her
an apology. He had vague memories from the night before, and his
mother's coffee hadn't helped to clear his mind.

As though suddenly aware of his approach, Camilla
glanced up and smiled, and the warmth of it nearly stopped him in
his tracks. She belonged here, and even as he thought it, he knew
it couldn't be true. She wanted rank and privilege and to be
embraced by the Marlborough House Set. None of that existed in this
small corner of northern England.

“My lord, did you wish to join us?” she
asked.

He was disappointed to realize that her smile was
no doubt part of the game she was playing with his nieces.

“Actually, my lady, I thought to take you to
see the school where I once taught.”

“I'd like that,” she said, her
smile seeming to take on a bit of solemnity as though she were
moving away from the world of make-believe into
the one of reality, and she wasn't completely pleased with
the journey.

He offered her his hand. While she wore gloves, he
didn't, and he had no plans to put them on. Not here, not in
Heatherton, where his clothes had once been plain and his manners
simple. He drew her to her feet. “If you don't mind,
we'll walk,” he said.

She nodded, glanced at his hands again, puckered
her mouth as though she might comment on his not being put together
exactly right, must have thought better of it, and simply placed
her gloved hand on his arm. “Lead the way.”

He looked down on his nieces. “Go see your
grandmother.”

They scrambled away, and he knew they'd do as
they were told. It was simply an aspect of life here within his
family. Children obeyed their elders.

It wasn't a long trek to the other side of
the village, and yet it seemed so because people greeted him as
many had last night—a lord rather than their friend. He
noticed the tension beginning to mount because he felt as though he
were trapped between two worlds, the one into which he'd been
born and the one destiny had chosen for him.

He led Camilla up the dirt road that ended in a
circle before three buildings: the church, the school, and the
dormitory.

“Is it a boarding school?” she asked,
finally breaking the uncomfortable silence that seemed to have
worked its way between them.

Joy shot through him because she was expressing an
interest. “For the most part yes. Parents from the nearby
larger towns send their boys here. They board in that building
there.” He pointed to the distant wooden building with three
levels of windows. “The boys from the village simply come for
the day once they've done their chores.” Archie had
treated them all the same, because he believed that education was a
great equalizer.

“Do you not find it odd that attendance is
compulsory but parents must pay a fee for their children to be
taught?” she asked.

Attendance had become compulsory in 1876, but Arch
knew that people found ways to bypass the law. Poorer families
preferred for their children to work.

“Many fees are based upon a family's
income, and there are charitable schools,” he offered.

She glanced at him, her lips pursed. “And you
think they offer the same level of education as this school
here?”

He sighed. “I'll admit that it's
an imperfect system. What would you suggest?”

“More government involvement, more
regulation. A means to provide quality education for everyone,
regardless of income.”

“It sounds as though you've given this
a good deal of thought.”

“It weighs on my mind from time to time. You
cannot imagine how difficult it is for the uneducated to better
themselves.”

“You say that as though you speak from
experience.”

“Not personally.” She turned her face
away from him, as though suddenly taking a keen interest in the
trees lining the path. “But I have seen others
struggle.”

“So not only do you take interest in the
plight of the poor but in the uneducated as well.”

“I have a good many interests.”

“So I am learning.”

He wished he could determine how to convince her to
extend her interests more fully to him.

 

“This was my classroom.”

Arch watched as Camilla looked the room over. The
desks lined up in even rows. The blackboard where he'd made
notes for his students. The shelves that housed the books
he'd used. He'd left everything here when he'd
gone to London. The teacher who'd taken his place had not yet
settled in enough to erase Arch's presence. He was glad of it
because he'd wanted Camilla to get a sense of who he'd
been before he became the earl.

She walked to the window and looked out on
the tree-shaded lawn. In the distance was the path
that parents used to bring their children to the school for the
first time.

“I should think your students would become
quite distracted with all the comings and goings that would be
visible through these windows,” Camilla said.

“No more so than I. On days when the weather
was particularly lovely, we'd take our lessons out beneath
the trees.”

“How unconventional.”

He picked up a piece of chalk, tossed it, caught
it. He enjoyed the weight of it in his palm. He wrote on the
blackboard, “So great a love leads to so great a
passion.”

He tapped the board. She flicked a cool glance over
the words before returning her gaze to the landscape beyond the
window—obviously unimpressed with the sentiment he'd
written. Erasing the board, he wondered what he might do in order
to return to her good graces.

“Last night, I dreamed that you were alone in
my room with me,” he finally said, deciding that while not
blunt, at least it was direct.

She glanced over her shoulder, pinning him with one
of her familiar pointed stares. “Last night, you were
foxed.”

“So you were real and not a
phantom.”

“Someone had to tuck you into bed, and as
your brother continually hears his mother
calling for him, the task was left to me. I think you might want to
have a physician look him over. It's entirely possible that
he's quite mad, because I never hear her calling.”

He sensed that she might be teasing, that she knew
full well Win's words were merely an excuse to make himself
scarce.

“Win and I have always had an uncanny ability
to hear our mother when others can't.” And an
understanding from their youth that they would use the excuse
whenever sensing that the other wanted time alone with a pretty
girl.

“Do you also share his winking
affliction?” she asked tartly.

“No, mine is a smiling affliction. I merely
smile when I see a pretty lady.”

“You'd not struck me as a man
who'd drink to excess.”

He thought he detected actual disappointment in her
voice, not that he could blame her, but he also thought it unfair
that she would find fault with him when she didn't allow his
better qualities to ensnare her. “People escape in different
ways. Some turn to drink, other simply turn away.”

She gave him a sad smile. “Or turn to
ice.”

“You needn't. At least not with
me.”

“What are you trying to escape from,
Archie?”

The concern mirrored in her voice surprised and
delighted him. He crossed the room to where she stood, pressed his
shoulder to the wall, and looked out the window, careful to keep
her visible out of the corner of his eye. “I miss the
truth
of a simple life.”

She shook her head. “The truth?”

“You pretend to be an ice countess, but
you're not. When we attended balls, I've never seen so
many people with the ability to look down their noses on others,
and cannot fathom why they would want to. What is gained? A false
sense of superiority?

“I value hard work, Camilla. I value
mastering one's ability to reason and think. I value great
works of literature. I value man and all he has accomplished. I
find balls tedious, dinner party conversations lacking in passion,
and I say jolly good for Lady Jane Myerson for daring not to wear
gloves in public.” He slid his gaze over to her so she was
all that appeared in his vision. “I know I am unworthy of the
title—”

“No, I know no man more worthy.” With a
gloved hand, she reached up and cradled his cheek, the first time
she'd ever initiated contact, and he desperately wished that
she'd followed Lady Jane Myerson's example and removed
the damned glove first. “I've never known anyone who
believes so adamantly in the things in which
he
believes as you do. And I've never known anyone who believes
passion exists outside of carnal activities.”

“Passion exists everywhere. In the artist, in
the writer, in the architect, in the builder, in every person who
cares deeply about what he is doing. Passion doesn't always
take place between the sheets…” His voice trailed off
as he realized what he might have implied, and she averted her
gaze. “It never took place between the sheets for you, did
it?”

She moved her hand away from his cheek.
“No.”

“I could give you that passion.”

“I hear no doubt in your voice, and I
can't decide if you are truly skilled or only
arrogant.”

He tucked his hand beneath her chin and turned her
face to his. “I promise, with me, you would know
passion.”

“I have secrets, Archie. They are mine to
keep, and they will always prevent me from coming to your
bed.”

“Perhaps they won't keep me from coming
to yours.”

She laughed lightly, a warm sound that touched him
deeply.

“You do tempt me, Lord Sachse, but I fear you
would be deeply disappointed in what you would discover within my
bed.”