Earls Just Want to Have Fun (7 page)

“I—”

He held up a hand, cutting her off. Ha! And the swells were supposed to be well-mannered. He turned away from her and rubbed a hand over his face. “I will murder Brook for this. It is the middle of the night, and I want to sleep.” He looked back at her. “What do I need to do to be able to sleep?”

She opened her mouth, and he held up a hand. “Do not say allow you to go. We will discuss it after we break our fast.”

This was probably the best offer she would receive. She knew it, and she was clever enough not to argue further. “Fine.”

“Fine.” He scrubbed his face again. “Now she says fine. Would that we'd saved that hour and a modicum of my sanity. Then let's go to sleep.”

“I want the bed,” she said. She hadn't even known she would say it. She certainly hadn't expected to say it, but the words seemed to rush forward without her permission. He lowered his hands and raised his eyebrows.

“You want to sleep in my bed.”

She did. She'd never slept in a bed, and if he would force her to remain here, the least he could do was give her the bed, not tie her to a chair, although the chair had been more comfortable than her usual sleeping quarters. “I do.”

His brow rose again, and when her chest tightened, she quickly added, “Alone.”

He stared at her, and she noticed he had a tick in his jaw. He was angry again. Good. That made the strange feeling lessen substantially. He stalked away from her and toward the bed, ripped a pillow off it, and walked back toward the door, muttering something about
gall
and
pummel
Brook
and
Gentleman
Jackson
. He threw the pillow on the floor in front of the door, and she jumped out of the way. “Are you sleeping there?”

“Correct. Even if you steal the key, you'll still have to move me from the door to escape.”

“I could just slit your throat.”

“Do you have another dagger?”

He still had hers. What had he done with it? She didn't have another, but she wouldn't reveal that to him.

“Go ahead and slit my throat, but you'll have a difficult time moving my dead body away from the door.”

“I could do it.”

“And I could wake, take the dagger, and slit
your
throat. Keep that in mind.”

Oh, she would. She turned toward the bed and smiled. It was all hers. But before she could climb on top, he said, “Take your dirty boots off, and you might want to fasten that last shirt button. It's gaping, and giving me quite a view.”

With a very maidenly shriek, she did up the button again and scrambled under his bedclothes. Thankfully, she'd removed her boots first. Dane looked at the floor and his pillow and tried to make the best of it. He wasn't comfortable on his side or his back, but at least on his back, his view was of the ceiling and not his bed.

He did not know how it had come to this. A chit from the streets was sleeping in his bed, while he slept on the floor. That irked him even more than the fact that he'd woken to find her straddling him with a knife between her lips. The foul-mouthed wench in his bed annoyed him even more than the realization that Brook was probably sleeping soundly and comfortably in some woman's bed while he, the blasted
Earl
of Dane, was sleeping on the cold, hard floor.

And what really rankled was that he wanted to be in the bed with her. In bed. With a street rat! There was something very wrong with him if he had lowered himself to desiring a…what had she called herself? Bundle-tail? Harridan? He had never been in favor of brothels. He didn't like the messiness of mistresses either. He was a man like any other, with needs, which he satisfied when he met an acceptable woman. A young widow or a wife whose husband looked the other way—usually at another woman. He didn't allow his needs to control him, but clearly he needed to meet them more often if he was lowering himself to lusting after criminals.

But what the devil was he supposed to do when she straddled him, all that lovely thick hair falling down around her shoulders, where it had come loose from the ridiculous cap she wore? His body reacted to her warmth and the smell of the clean apricot soap she'd used. She was a woman, even if she was also a thief. It wasn't his fault she had those big blue eyes and that wide mouth, and she stared at him as though in perpetual awe. The look on her face when he'd detailed the food they'd eat at breakfast had been akin to orgasm. He would have to send a note to Cook and ensure she prepared everything he'd promised.

On the other hand, what did he care whether the little thief had bacon or not? He didn't owe her or her kind anything. Let Brook worry about her. It wasn't as if Dane wanted to watch her eat again. Last night in the kitchen had been shocking enough. His hunting dogs had better manners. He couldn't imagine his mother and sister sitting down with her.

But he could imagine that look of pleasure on Marlowe's face again. He did want to see that, and if bacon or chocolate was required, he could provide it. He could imagine her sipping the warm chocolate, her small pink tongue darting out to lick a drop from her chin. She missed it, and the drop fell into that ample cleavage, on display because her damned shirt had come unfastened again.

Dane groaned and shifted uncomfortably.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, voice clipped and short. “Go to sleep.”

“I will.”

The damned chit sounded almost gleeful. He'd be gleeful when he finally evicted her from his bed and his life. Just a few more hours…

Dane was awakened from his light sleep by the door to his bedchamber thunking him on the head. It would have been worse if he hadn't heard the handle rattle and then a key in the lock. He moved enough to avoid the worst of the blow. Still, he cursed as he sat, and rubbing his temple, looked up at Crawford. Crawford's face, his thin mouth pursed under his crooked nose, peered back at him through the slit in the door. The butler looked mildly surprised, which was saying something for Crawford, whose range of expressions generally traveled the gamut from grave to somber. “My lord,” Crawford said with a nod. “Do you need assistance?”

“No.” Dane rose, and immediately his back and neck protested. More good news. He was too old to sleep on the floor without consequences. Crawford pushed the door open and seemed to examine Dane closely. He was probably looking for injuries.

“Did you have a fall, my lord?”

“No. I…” Dane did not want to explain the situation to his butler. How he missed Tibbs, his valet. Tibbs would have screeched to see the state of Dane's clothing, but he would not have expected explanations or remarked on where or how Dane chose to spend the night. “Did you come to help me dress?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then let's begin.”

“If you do not mind my asking, my lord, where is the…ah…”

“Harridan?” came a feminine voice from the other side of the room. “Street wench?”

“Helpful, as usual,” Dane muttered.

“In the bed?” Again, Crawford looked mildly shocked, an expression on his face that equated to an eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch. “I shall have the bedclothes burned, my lord,” he murmured.

“I can hear you,” she said.

As Dane watched, the small mound in the bed moved. The girl was practically dwarfed by the large bed, the bolster, the half-dozen—minus one—pillows, and the bedclothes. She sat, pushing her hair out of her eyes and looking perfectly well-rested. His level of annoyance, which was already rather high, climbed heavenward. She raised her arms and yawned, stretching the fabric of her already too-tight shirt indecently. Dane had the choice to continue watching, and embarrass himself and Crawford with the resulting erection, or look away.

He looked at Crawford. The butler was ugly enough to stem his lust. And there was another surprise. Crawford, the very epitome of etiquette, was watching the girl stretch with undisguised interest. Perhaps Crawford was human after all. He might even be part man underneath all of that marble.

“Crawford,” Dane said.

The butler's eyes immediately focused on a point above the bed, and he said, “Yes, my lord?”

“Perhaps we should adjourn to the dressing room and leave the bedchamber to Mar—
Miss
Marlowe.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Dane started after the butler, toward the dressing room, then turned abruptly, withdrew the key from his pocket, and locked the door again. As he passed the bed, he could have sworn Marlowe hissed, “Bastard.”

He had a few choice words for her too—especially when she chose to insult him before he'd had his tea and after spending the night on the floor—but he was too much of a gentleman to use them.

For the moment at least.

An hour later, he emerged from the dressing room, feeling much better. Crawford did not possess Tibbs's finesse, but he was every bit as skilled. Dane was cleanly shaved, washed, and dressed in his favorite breeches, a dark blue coat and matching waistcoat, topped by a stark-white linen shirt and a flawlessly tied cravat in the Horse Collar style, which was all Crawford could seem to manage. Tibbs usually complained the
trone
d'Amour
was too austere, but Dane liked austere and liked his usual style.

“There you are!” the street urchin said, moving away from the fire and planting her hands on her hips. Dane clenched his fists. He really wished she would not do that in those clothes. He wished she would not do it at all, as it was not the sort of gesture well-bred ladies would ever affect. But he knew very well she was no lady.

“I thought you'd become lost in that theater you call a dressing room. Bloody hell. What is on your neck?” She approached him, hand outstretched to touch his cravat, but he stepped back.

“It is a cravat. I believe we had this discussion last night.”

“Why did you wind it and puff it out like that?”

Dane might have been mistaken—he had better be mistaken—but he thought he heard Crawford chuckle. He looked at the butler with accusation, and Crawford cleared his throat. “If I'm no longer needed, my lord.” And away Crawford went, using his key to open the door to the chamber and exiting. The key did not sound in the lock a second time, and Dane reached out and grabbed Marlowe by the elbow just as she bolted.

“You haven't yet broken your fast.”

She yanked her arm out of his grip. “After I eat, I'm leaving. Just try and stop me.”

“Madam, I will lead the parade to the door.”

He escorted her down to the dining room, though one could hardly call it an escort if the so-called lady one was escorting stomped as loudly as a battalion of soldiers behind him. Maids carrying linens hurried by, darting glances their way, while others stood with dusters in hand and mouths agape. Dane hardly took note of them, except that the uncultured urchin could not seem to ignore them.

“What are you looking at?” she challenged one young maid.

The girl clamped her mouth shut and bobbed a curtsy. “Nothing, miss.”

Far from appeasing Marlowe, the deference seemed to anger her. “Are you making sport of me?” she asked, breaking off to corner the girl until she was backed against the wall.

“N-no, miss!”

“Why are you calling me
miss
? What was that little dip you did?”

With a sigh, Dane took Marlowe's elbow. “She is trying to be polite,” he said, pulling Marlowe away. “You might take a lesson.” The poor maid looked so traumatized, he almost apologized. Instead, he said, “Go back to work, and when I see Mrs. Barstowe, I'll ask her to give you a raise.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The maid curtsied, and before Marlowe could chastise her again, he dragged Marlowe away. He kept his hand on her elbow as they traversed the long corridor, passing the portraits of the former earls and countesses, his illustrious ancestors. And they thought
they
had reason to frown before.

He and Marlowe arrived at the bottom of the stairs and the entrance to the dining room before he had to intervene again. A footman stood at the door to open it for them, and as Marlowe was preceding him at that point, the footman, in effect, opened the door for her.

“Do you think I can't open the door myself?” she challenged the footman, who had been too well trained by Crawford to respond or even look at the girl. He kept his eyes on the far wall, and merely nodded stiffly at her comment.

“Good morning, Nathaniel,” Dane said, pushing Marlowe into the dining room. He didn't usually greet the servants, but everything in his life had been upside down since he'd agreed to loan Brook his carriage. And now, God willing, all would be put to rights. He stepped into the dining room and immediately searched the table for his brother. He found only his mother, sitting in her usual spot away from the windows, which could be drafty, and sipping her tea. Her cup paused in midair when he entered, the only sign she noticed anything amiss.

His mother had been but a girl herself when she married his father, the earl, who'd been more than twenty years her senior. His father had passed away three years ago after a mild cough turned into pneumonia. Coincidence that the pneumonia had taken hold after the house had been pilfered and ransacked by thieves? Dane thought not. The countess had mourned her husband for the requisite period, but Dane never had the sense that she felt any real loss. Theirs had not been a love match. The earl was probably more of a father to her than a husband, although the couple produced five children, only three of whom survived. Possibly only two, as Brook might not live to see tomorrow.

The countess was a woman in her prime, not yet fifty, and her dark hair was still glossy and free from gray. Her skin was flawless and youthful, and she had a slim, willowy figure, much like his sister, Susanna. In short, she did not look like a mother, particularly a mother of three grown children. That was conceding his younger brother was grown, and Dane had a mind to dispute that. He'd often wondered why his mother did not marry again. She might have had suitors if she'd wanted them, but she seemed utterly uninterested. As much as he respected her, he did not love her. How did one love a marble statue? His mother was as warm and affectionate as the Bandinelli sculpture in the vestibule.

Slowly, and with the grace she was known for, his mother set her teacup on its saucer with nary a clink. “Good morning, Dane. And what is this?”

“This”—Dane said, crossing to the sideboard and lifting a plate for himself and one for Marlowe—“is one of Brook's projects. I have promised her breakfast, and then he will deal with her. Where is he, by the way?”

His mother's gaze never left Marlowe, who was obviously not foolish enough to ask the countess at whom she was looking. In fact, Marlowe still stood just inside the door, her gaze sweeping over the room and her mouth slightly agape. He tried to see it as she might. The room was light blue with white paneling and rather ornate medallions, from which hung two crystal chandeliers. The chandeliers were not lit, as to do so for a simple family breakfast was too extravagant, even for him. The windows faced Berkeley Street, the house being situated very near the square of the same name. The street was quiet at this time of the morning. A footman stood on the opposite side of the room, ready to be of assistance. Dane was certain that though the man pretended not to see, he was secretly committing all to memory so he might tell the rest of the staff later.

His mother had not taken her gaze from Marlowe. “I have not seen your brother since he came to collect you at Lady Yorke's soiree. Shall I assume this…girl was the reason he sought you?”

“You may.” He continued piling Marlowe's plate with food, because he hoped the sooner his mother saw her eat, the sooner she would forget all of her questions. He would prefer not to explain where the girl had slept last night or how she had come to be here.

“And what is your name, girl?” the countess asked.

Dane turned, bringing her heavy plate and his own lighter one to the table and setting them down. He placed hers at the chair Brook usually occupied, which happened to be beside his.

“Marlowe,” the girl said, dragging her attention from the room and to the countess.

The countess's eyes widened, and she flicked her gaze to Dane before aiming it back at Marlowe. “Are you always this impertinent?”

Marlowe opened her mouth, but Dane answered before she could speak. “She is usually more so.”