One Night with an Earl (8 page)

But there was still a tiny part of her that didn't believe, because she decided she must have been dreaming.

B
eatrice snuggled tighter against the warmth, slowly coming to awareness as she breathed in the pleasant scents of masculinity and linen.

She opened her eyes to a squint. The room was dimly lit by the encroaching dawn.

Reality washed over her in a flood.

Oh God.

She'd fallen asleep next to Drew. It was morning. And she wasn't at home. Without moving and risking waking him, she slid her gaze to the clock on the mantel. It was just after five o'clock.

If she slipped into the house at this hour, her parents would still be asleep. No one would be the wiser that she'd been out all night.

If she woke Drew, he'd insist on helping her. He'd take her home, and there would be a greater chance that her parents would learn about her liaison with him. And his servants and coachman would be involved. Servants talked. There would most likely be a scandal.

She'd send Drew a note later. For now, it would be best to just slip away and hurry home, hopefully without anyone noticing her.

She disentangled herself from Drew's arms. He didn't budge. When she had successfully scooted to the edge of the bed, she couldn't help but stop to gaze at him for a moment. His cheek was shadowed with scruff, his cheekbone stark in the dim light. His eyelashes fanned down over his eyes. His nose was a straight blade—a very masculine nose. He was so handsome…so…right. She still couldn't quite believe last night hadn't been some enchanted dream.

Or maybe it had been a dream. And now it was over, and if her parents found out what had happened, they'd probably disown her once and for all.

Stark naked, she slipped out of the bed, testing her ankle as she stood. There was a slight tinge of pain, but if it was a sprain, it was a minor one.

She found her dress right away and slipped it over her head. God only knew what people on the streets would think when they saw her. Hopefully there'd be no one out at this hour besides servants and tradesmen who wouldn't recognize her. She hoped.

It was good Drew lived close to her parents in Mayfair. Just several blocks away from his house near Grosvenor Square.

She pulled on one slipper, remembering he'd removed the other when they'd come into his house. That, along with her cloak, were in the drawing room.

She hovered at the door to gaze at him once more. He'd slung his arm over the empty space in the bed where she'd lain.

She'd no idea what might happen between them now. Would he come to see her at her house? Would her parents allow him an audience with her, or would they turn him away, fearing she might embarrass them somehow?

No…she wouldn't think about all that. She'd deliver a message to him later…they'd work it out. She trusted him.

With one last glance at his handsome face, she closed the door quietly behind her and hurried to his drawing room, where she found her ribbon, circlet, gloves, and cloak, but no sign of her slipper. Where could it be? She looked frantically, even crouching down to peer under the sofa, but it was nowhere to be found.

It was getting lighter outside by the minute. She had no choice. She had to leave without it. Her dress was long and flowing, her cloak even longer, so her missing shoe wouldn't be too obvious. And it was almost summer, so she didn't need to worry about her foot freezing.

She went downstairs. Hearing quiet activity in the back, where no doubt Drew's staff was beginning the day's work in the kitchen and larder, she looked out the window facing the front of the house. When the coast was clear, she exited boldly from the front door before drawing her cloak close around her, holding her head down, and making her way toward her parents' house.

It took longer than it should have, given the short distance. About a half hour of avoiding other pedestrians, slipping into shadows, and taking a circuitous route to avoid the heavier-trafficked streets. But finally, her overworked ankle aching, she reached the stately house that belonged to her parents, the Viscount and Viscountess Sheffield.

She went round to the back and slipped in, fully expecting Cook to be already in the kitchen beginning to work on breakfast. But the kitchen was oddly silent. She began to mount the back stairs when she heard her father's sharp voice. “Beatrice. Stop there.”

She froze. Oh God. She couldn't remember the last time her father had come in proximity of the back stairs. Only a dire situation would bring him back here. Slowly, she turned around. There he was, his dark eyes narrowed, his forehead wrinkled into a frown. Thin strings of hair crossed over his balding head, and he was wearing the clothes he'd worn to the ball he'd attended with her mother last night.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was tight, uncompromising. Fear crawled in dark tendrils through her.

Her father yanked her back down the two stairs she'd climbed. Turning without releasing her wrist, he led her through the kitchen and down the corridor toward his study.

He knew. He knew she'd been out all night. What would he do?

Her father pulled her into the room and finally released her to slam the door behind them. As they entered, her mother rose from her chair by the hearth. Her eyes glanced over Beatrice's bare toes poking from beneath the hem of her dress; then her gaze raked over Beatrice's body like sharp claws.

There was a heavy silence as Beatrice tried to calm herself down.

They aren't Fenwicke. They won't hurt you. You're all right. You will get through this…somehow. Be strong, Beatrice.

Her father was so angry his cheeks had reddened to the extent he really did look like a John Bull. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother rise from the chair.

“Where have you been?” The viscountess's voice shook with anger. “And why, by all that is holy, are you wearing that…that
obscene
dress?”

Beatrice turned to her mother. “I…”

“Answer her, girl!” her father snapped.

She squared her shoulders and faced her mother head-on. “I went to a masquerade with Jessica.”

Her parents were silent for a moment. Then her father spoke. “Did I give you permission to leave this house last night?”

“No,” she said, “but—”

“And did he give you permission to remain at that orgy the whole night through?”

“It wasn't an—”

“I have done everything,” her mother spat, “
everything
to reestablish this family's place in society after you destroyed it with that business with Fenwicke. As soon as I make the slightest bit of progress, you decide to ruin it.”

“You have brought down scandal on this house yet again,” her father bit out.

“I didn't—”

“You remained out all night,” her father interrupted, “doing God knows what. Without a chaperone, without your parents' knowledge of where you were.”

“Oh, I have an idea of what she was up to,” her mother said haughtily. “Masquerades are notorious for spawning immoral behavior. And no one who's spent a night dancing innocently and associating with her peers returns home in the morning disheveled, missing a shoe, and slinking up the back stairs like a common thief. You were whoring yourself out, no doubt.”

At that, the long-dormant spark of defiance burst to life in Beatrice's chest. She wouldn't cower under the force of their cruel words. Not this time. Beatrice gazed evenly at her mother. “No,” she said firmly. “Do not speak of me like that, Mother. That is not what happened last night.”

“You dare naysay your mother?” her father bit out.

“The impertinence,” her mother gasped.

“It is not impertinence. It is the truth.”

“Obviously you're lying,” her father said.

“I'm not lying, Papa. I have no reason to lie to you. And as far as I know, I am not a prisoner in this house. I am a woman full grown and capable of deciding on my own where I should go at night.”

“Oh, no, girl. If you live under my roof, you will obey me,” her father growled.

“Stop trying to sidetrack the conversation, Beatrice,” her mother hissed. “This is about your loose morals and your self-serving behavior, that is all.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together and shook her head. These two people—they were her parents, but they were like strangers to her. And though they somehow still had the power to hurt her, she could face them with her head held high. Somehow, she had found the strength that had always resided within her but had gone dormant…until last night.

“No,” she said quietly. “It is nothing like that. All I—”

Her mother raised her hand. “No. Nothing more from you, Beatrice. No more. I cannot bear having you in London. You seem determined to undermine us and our rightful place in society. I won't allow it, do you hear me?” Her mother came so close, Beatrice could smell the sherry on her breath. “I won't…
allow
…it.”

Beatrice stared at her mother, standing tall, being brave, bracing herself for the slap her mother's raised hand foretold. But the slap never came. Instead, her mother turned away, an expression of supreme disgust on her face.

“You will leave this house today,” her father said. “You will be retiring to the dower house on our estate in Berkshire.”

“And there you will stay,” her mother declared. “Out of our sight.”

Berkshire.

Oh, no. They were wrong. There was no way on God's green earth she'd go to Berkshire.

Berkshire was too far away from Drew.

Drew felt warm and languid, his body sated, his heart full, though he wasn't awake enough to contemplate why. He stretched languidly and opened his eyes.

Something was missing. For a moment, he had no idea what it was, but then it all came rushing back.

Beatrice. Where was she?

He rose, calling her name several times, the volume of his voice steadily rising. No answer. He slid out of bed, and finding his clothes from last night strewn across the floor, he quickly yanked on his trousers, tossed his shirt over his head, and shoved his feet into his shoes.

She'd gone.

But he knew where she lived. He hurried out the back door of his house and into the mews, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of a coat he'd found hanging on a peg at the door—Mitchell's coat, no doubt.

He mulled over why she might have left. After last night, she couldn't have had a change of heart. But then again, things appeared different in the harsh light of day, so he couldn't be sure. Had she worried someone saw them together and would start a rumor?

If that was the case, then she had nothing to worry about. He knew the rules of society enough to know what he must do. She was a lady. Regardless of her past history, he'd compromised her. He fully intended to do what was right and ask for her hand in marriage.

No matter that it was what he'd wanted years ago. It was what he wanted now, too.

Grinding his teeth at the thought of her slipping through his fingers yet again, he saddled his horse himself, and within a few minutes he was mounted and on his way to Mayfair.

There was little traffic at this hour—a bit past seven—and he arrived at the Viscount Sheffield's house in just a few minutes. He dismounted, handed his horse over to the groom, and took a moment to steady himself.

He never went out of the house in such disarray. He never went riding without the proper coat and footwear, and right now he wore only Mitchell's shabby coat over his shirt and the black shoes he'd worn last night. No cravat. He was a disheveled mess. And he didn't give a damn.

Straightening his shoulders, he knocked on the viscount's door.

A butler answered—a young man who looked like he'd been prematurely promoted from footman to a position that was beyond his abilities. The man did a quick once-over of Drew, then raised a brow.

“Sir?” His voice was ripe with disdain.

“I've no card. I realize it is early, but I am here to see Lady Fenwicke. Is she at home?” Of course she was, but Drew was too inured in society's rules to phrase the question any differently.

The butler pursed his lips, then released a long-suffering sigh. “No, in fact, she is not at home.”

The man began to push the door shut, but Drew stopped it with his foot. “The viscount, then. Is
he
at home?”

“I shall go inquire if he's at home to visitors. If I may ask your name?”

“Andrew Sinclair.” Then, because he knew it would help matters along, he added, “The Earl of Weston.”

The man stepped back, clearly surprised. Then he hesitated a second, his facial features smoothing out. “Of course, sir. Please, wait here.”

The butler scurried away, and Drew held his foot steady, keeping the door from closing.

It seemed to take forever. Was Beatrice really not at home? If not, then where the hell was she?

Finally, the man returned. “The viscount will see you now, my lord.”

He swiveled and Drew followed him down a long corridor lined with portraits of men, probably the succession of viscounts. The butler led Drew into the drawing room, a room brimming with ostentatious furniture that offended his sensibilities of order and balance.

As the butler announced him, Drew saw the viscount sitting upon a pink silk sofa bordered with dozens of gold tassels. Drew had encountered the man at various functions over the years and had never liked him. He was a haughty, self-important bastard.

He was as oddly dressed as Drew himself, in rumpled evening clothes as if he'd recently returned home from a ball that had lasted well into the morning hours. He hefted his portly body from the sofa and lumbered forward to shake Drew's hand vigorously.

“Well, good morning! I must say I am rather surprised to see you in my house at this early hour, Weston. What brings you here?”

With men like this, Drew never failed to get directly to the point. “Lady Fenwicke brings me here. Where is she?”