The Daughter of an Earl (14 page)

Emboldened, she stood on her toes and leaned close, dropping her voice to a breathless whisper. “You are a smart man, so listen carefully. If you are so convinced that my father will kill you, it might be in your best interest to grasp whatever pleasure you can before he does so. A man deserves to live life to the fullest, to—”

“Hell. I give up,” he growled and yanked her to him, his breath warm against her lips. “I am an idiot.”

“You are,” she whispered. “But I will give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

His laugh was low and sultry, pouring through her body in a delicious wave. Then his mouth was on hers, hot, demanding, and kissing her senseless. Every thought drained from her head, replaced with a flood of desire and need.

With a moan, she arched, vised her arms around his neck, and kissed him back. Giddy in her success, she reveled in his surrender. More so, she relished the hard strength of his body against hers, the wet and warm softness of his mouth, and the scorching heat of his kiss. She parried her tongue with his, wanting more. Wanting him. She caught his lower lip in her mouth and nibbled.

A deep, masculine groan rumbled out, and then his arm lowered to slip beneath her knees. She was swept off her feet and into his arms.

A laugh escaped her as he tossed her onto the bed, but then her amusement fled when he whipped off his shirt. She caught her breath. The flickering light of the fire danced over his body, and she drank in the hard contours of his chest, his taut waist, the lean, strong muscles of his abdomen. He was masculine beauty personified. She sighed.

But while he carried his own weapons, she had come
armed as well. She sat up and with a languid shrug of her shoulders, she let her wrap slide down her arms.

His eyes flared and his lips parted as his gaze roved over her gossamer night rail.

The groan of pleasure escaping him ignited a slow, burning fire in her body. Heat slid down the column of her neck and over the curve of her breasts bared above her plunging décolletage. The gown was from her trousseau, and she was glad she had worn it. After all, it was bought for this purpose . . . to drive a man mad.

“Christ, Emily. You are killing me.” He lifted a knee and climbed onto the bed, a sleek, well-toned cat stalking her. He dropped his body into the welcoming cradle of her arms. “But you are worth dying for.”

“You are not dying.” She wiggled her hips against his, feeling the heat of his arousal. “On the contrary, you are very much alive.”

He grunted and then lowered his head, his tongue moving over the swell of her breasts. She threaded her fingers through his hair and opened herself up to the passion he unleashed in her. But the intimate touch of his mouth on her burning skin had her yearning for more. She freed her arms from her sleeves and shoved her gown down to her waist.

There was a sharp intake of breath before his hands moved to her breasts, caressing and molding, his lips following. With a gasp, she arched against him, digging her fingers into his shoulders. His skin was hot and sweat slicked against hers. She moved her hands over the planes of his back.

She had waited so long for this. The smoldering rush of heat. Of need. She had been so alone, but had never been lonely until Brett had stumbled into her life and stirred up these forgotten yearnings. Cravings for the simple comfort of being held. Being touched. Memories of intimacy and passion resurfaced. Her heart might have been broken, but the rest of her body remained whole, responsive, and very much alive.

She lifted her leg and planted her foot against the edge of his bedside table, his hard arousal settling intimately
against the juncture of her legs where moisture pooled. When his mouth closed over a nipple, she couldn't suppress the cry that sprang to her lips. Good lord, the man was good with his mouth—or his mouth was good on her. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, and clutched him close.

She braced one foot against the bed, and the other on the table, and arched. The table moved, teetering and then tipping over with a resounding crash. The unmistakable sound of glass shattering shortly followed.

Brett jerked back.

She stared blankly at the empty space where the bedside table had stood.

Brett surveyed the debris on the floor. “I hope that vase was not a family heirloom.”

Grunting, she ignored his jest and scrambled to the edge of the bed beside him. Broken shards of china, the remnants of a white vase and a mug, lay in pieces over the floor. A pool of water was edging its way toward the oriental carpet.

“Looks like there were some casualties in our battle. Perhaps we should retreat for the evening. Things are getting dangerous,” he quipped. He stood and snatched a towel from a nearby rack, using it to sop up the water.

Emily couldn't help it; she buried her face in the bedding to suppress her laughter. When she lifted her head, she found Brett standing with his hands planted on his hips, a grin curving his lips.

“I take it that is a
no
, it was not a family heirloom?”

“No, it is but a small sacrifice,” she said and shrugged a bare shoulder. “I was distracted by the spoils of war. I will be more careful next time.”

He laughed and tossed the wet towel at her. “You are shameless.”

She grabbed the cloth and launched it back at him. He caught it against his chest and smiled. She returned his smile, but when his eyes met hers, dark and dangerous, her smile wavered. Something lurched in her chest, and she swallowed. Good lord, he was beautiful. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

The sound of someone knocking on the door shattered the spell and she gasped. Quickly scrambling to her feet, she yanked up her gown and snatched her robe to her. She turned to see Brett frantically tugging his shirt over his head.

“In a minute,” he bellowed from behind its folds. “The wardrobe,” he hissed. He grabbed her arm and whipped open the door to the large cabinet. Shirts and jackets were shoved aside as he hefted her inside the cleared space. “Quiet,” he warned before slamming the door in her face.

The pitch-black darkness silenced her protests at his dictatorial manner, and she clamped her mouth closed. Once her eyes adjusted, she caught a shadow of white and fingered the sleeve of one of Brett's linen dress shirts. As if against her will, she brought it to her nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled of starch and soap. Appalled, she shoved it away. She was acting like a love-struck fool, and that she was not.

Tonight was about desire, passion. Sex. Satisfying a need. Nothing more.

She heard the low murmur of voices, and unable to resist, she pried open the door a crack.

“But however did you knock the table over?”

Miranda.

“A restless dream,” Brett said, and continued when Miranda made no response. “Ah . . . I was fighting a losing battle. There were casualties.”

Emily slapped her hand to her mouth to stifle her snicker.

“Are you worried over Drew? Have you learned anything? He will return, won't he? He does not believe Aunt Beverly's horrid accusations that he is unfit to assume the title? That he is incapable of learning—”

“No, of course not. He will return. I am certain of it. Not for Aunt Beverly's sake, but for Olivia and Elise's. He will never abandon his sisters. Now stop worrying, and go back to bed. All is well here.”

She nodded. “Are you sure you were not worried over our spending all our allowance?”

He laughed. “That was last night's nightmare. But, Miranda, your money, your responsibility. Spend it wisely.”

“Yes, but spending it frivolously is much more fun!”

“And my nightmare continues,” he muttered. “Good night, Miranda.”

Miranda's soft laugh carried to Emily, and she waited a minute before moving.

“She has gone, and you need to leave as well. Now.”

She shoved the wardrobe door open and slipped out. He was right. They risked discovery should they continue their
battle
. She wanted to ask about his cousin and his aunt's aspersions, but that would have to wait for another day. She crossed to where he stood near the door and paused before him. “A kiss good night?”

“Hell.” He stared at her, then snatched her against him, giving her a hard, scorching, and quite thorough kiss.

When he set her from him, she was weak-kneed and blurry-eyed.

He opened the door, ensured the corridor was empty, and then shoved her unceremoniously into it. “Good night.” He winked before firmly closing the door.

She grinned when the lock clicked in the latch. He did not trust her, but she had breached his defenses and felt confident she could do so again.

Brett was right again. It
was
a good night. But for the first time in years, she looked forward to tomorrow.

A
WEEK
had passed since Brett had surrendered to Emily. There had been a few stolen kisses since then, but a crisis at his company had kept Brett working to all hours. The forced separation gave him time to come to his senses. The problem was, he was not ready for either common sense or self-preservation to prevail, particularly when images of Emily stole into his dreams at night.

He recalled the passionate abandon of her response, the feel of her in his arms, her lips warm and locked with his. Each night, he had awoken tangled in his sheets, a sheen of sweat filming his body, his loins aching. No, he was not ready to abandon the reckless path on which he was treading. Not if it meant giving Emily up. After all, she was right. A man deserved to live before he died. And Brett was going to die. If her father did not kill him, Daniel would.

He confronted his friend's sharp, green-eyed scrutiny from across the table at White's and cursed himself for being too late to intercept his letter inviting Daniel and Julia to
London. Their arrival yesterday further complicated any clandestine trysts with Emily.

Brett sipped his whiskey and pointedly ignored Daniel. The man did not know a bloody thing, and Brett had no plans to enlighten him.

“You look guilty as hell. Who is she?”

Brett sputtered, nearly choking midswallow. He coughed and straightened in his seat. “I do not know what you are talking about. My hands and my time are tied up with my sisters and . . . and . . . Lady Emily,” he stuttered, cursing his trip over her name. “Even I, with my considerable gifts of persuasive charm”—he ignored Daniel's snort—“cannot juggle more than three women at a time, regardless of the activity.”

Daniel waved away his protest. “No. There is something. You could never carry off a bluff. It is why I trump you at cards. You get edgy, shift in your seat, and avoid eye contact—exactly as you are doing now. It is a telltale sign that you are hiding something.”

“You beat me at cards because Robert Shaw is a wily cardsharp who taught you all his tricks. You never should have—”

“Now you are hiding something
and
prevaricating. What is your interest in Lord Roberts? Why did you ask about him? Is he interested in investing in Curtis Shipping?” His eyes widened. “Christ, the East India Company is trying to buy us out.” His voice rose, and he slammed his glass on the table. “Do not dare consider—”

“They are not moving to buy us out! I asked because a friend mentioned that Roberts was responsible for recruiting Emily's fiancé to work for the company, and I—”

“I was right!” Daniel cried. “There is a woman.” He studied Brett with that narrow-eyed scrutiny.

“What are you talking about?”

“Emily, not
Lady
Emily, but Emily. So I take it that you no longer want her lovely neck in a noose?”

Brett made to shift in his seat, and then froze, cursing Daniel for reading him so well. The man was like a hound
on a scent, and Brett had no intention of being sniffed until Daniel extracted the truth. He did what he had learned made Daniel and his sisters stop hammering at him. He confessed—minus a few details.

“After all
Lady
Emily has done for my sisters, it would be my neck in the noose, feet dangling, should I not behave myself around her. I am grateful to her for squiring Melody and Miranda around town. I am also quite capable of exhibiting a modicum of civility, even when the woman is just as capable of driving me mad.” In the bedroom and out of it.

Daniel simply laughed. “It is a God-given gift those Chandler sisters have. Take it from me, smile, nod, and do not fight them. I will admit, I was surprised Emily extended the invitation to you when she made a point to disappear when you visited, or to ascertain your departure date when she could not avoid you. Then when in your company, the two of you always sparred.”

Brett kept his expression neutral, but at the mention of sparring, heat crept up his neck. He and Emily were still sparring. It worked for them. Very well—a detail best kept to himself—along with his assistance in a murder investigation. Definitely under the “detail to omit” column. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps seeing me with my sisters made her reassess her opinion of me. After all, they love me.”

“No. That is not it,” Daniel said. “Emily is not swayed by others' opinions, particularly biased ones. She makes up her own mind.”

Annoyed, Brett shrugged. “As they say, it is a woman's privilege to change her mind. After spending more time in my company these last few weeks, Lady Emily appears to have changed hers. It was inevitable.” He smiled, having moved to familiar ground. “After all, I have a way with women, I have three sisters and—”

“Please, spare me,” Daniel warned and then sighed. “I had hopes for Emily. She seemed such a bright, young woman.”

“Oh, Lady Emily is a clever woman, of that, there is no doubt.” She had roped him into dancing attendance on her
like a bloody marionette doll—again, in bed and out. He took a sip of whiskey before he said anything damning.

“Then I trust her to take care of herself. As for your inquiry about Roberts, I was not aware he was responsible for recruiting Viscount Weston, but Roberts is one of the ministers loyal to the crown who sit on the Board of Control. Pitt created the board to oversee the East India Company and its directors, and to give the government greater control to regulate the corruption riddling the company. To do so, the ministers recruited upstanding young men from public schools, even some of rank, to work in the company, hoping to redeem its reputation.” Daniel's eloquent grunt revealed his opinion of the futility of that venture.

“But if Jason was engaged to be married, why would he accept a position that would send him to another continent?”

“I believe the plan was for Jason to get settled over there, and Emily would follow later. Jason always yearned to travel to India. His father had been a clerk in the company. He had taken the post because he was the second son and did not expect to inherit the viscounty, but did so later in his life due to his elder brother's death. Most Englishmen who worked for the company and held stock in it made fortunes over there and returned home to flaunt it. Regular
nabobs
.”

“
Nabobs
?”

Daniel smiled. “The English's pronunciation for a Mogul leader.”

Emily had neglected to mention that Jason's father had worked for the company. It could explain why the details of Jason's death had been kept quiet. If it was in deference to his late father, a former company man, that made the company's hushing it up admirable rather than suspicious. He puzzled over it, finding the empathy to be at odds with the company's more unscrupulous practices. “How long was Jason over there?”

“Not long. He sailed March 1818 and died in December of that year, suffered a fever of some sort. There are frequent outbreaks of cholera, and many officers have died over there. It is not a soft posting.”

And some were murdered in others' pursuit of a fortune. Brett clenched his jaw.

“Emily discussed Jason's work with you?” Daniel's gaze narrowed on Brett.

Once again, his friend appeared to be on the scent of something. “I might have asked about his time there, or Miranda and Melody expressed an interest,” he glibly lied, keeping his gaze level with Daniel's and nary one shift in his seat.

Daniel nodded. “I ask because as I have warned you before, Emily does not usually discuss that period in her life, so tread carefully down that path. If Emily is upset, Julia will have my head and if Julia has my head, then—”

“Yes, yes, my own is forfeit. Tell me about the period following Jason's death. As you have said, it was difficult. I know from Emily and you, that with a few exceptions, she has been on a self-imposed country hiatus for the last three years or so. Her friends and acquaintances appeared surprised, albeit pleased, at her return. I was wondering why her reentry in society took so long.”

He recalled Emily's words,
You can never fully return to who you once were.
He was curious about who she had been before tragedy had transformed her into the determined, single-minded woman whom he knew now. He wanted to know the young girl she had been, and perhaps better understand this beautiful, complex woman.

It was Daniel's turn to look uncomfortable. “When I returned from America, it was two years after Jason's death. I do not know—”

“Now you are prevaricating.”

“It is not my story to tell.”

“I understand, but I will not betray your confidence. You do not need to give me all the details, just those you are willing to share. I have come to consider Lady Emily a friend, and I simply wish to better understand her.”

Daniel stared at Brett for a drawn-out moment before arriving at his decision. “Emily was very young when she and Jason met. Her mother had died the year before her
debut, and she became engaged during her first Season. I think she was seventeen. Julia said Emily and Jason were inseparable once they were betrothed, quite besotted with each other. First love and all that.

“So it was hard enough for Emily when Jason accepted the post, but she knew what it meant to him, and hoped to sail over and join him. When she received word of his death, Julia said it was as if Emily had died with him, as if a light in her had gone out. She became but an empty shell of her former self. Julia feared Emily would never emerge from her grief.” Daniel paused to sip his drink. “Julia took her to the Lake District to separate her from memories of Jason, as well as to squash the whispers that were beginning to circulate. It was the best thing to do. With time and Julia's care, Emily made her way back.”

Not all the way back
. I am not looking for marriage. Have no plans to enter that contract. The last one nearly killed me. I . . . I will not go back.

Suddenly, Brett understood Emily's proposition more fully. She had not lowered all her defenses; a fortress still encased her heart—and it was securely locked, the key destroyed. She was willing to indulge her passion, to flirt with desire, and to fill the emptiness of Jason's loss, but she refused to open herself to love again.

Well, they made a pair.

“Now that you understand how far Emily has come, I suggest you stop poking at her unless your intentions are serious.”

“I understand.”

“I am serious, Brett.” Daniel gave him a hard look.

Brett nodded. “So am I. I have come to care for her, too. Very much.”

He did not need Daniel to tell him that he and Emily were playing a dangerous game. Hell, he already knew that. But he understood Emily, something Daniel could not do, secure in his marital bliss. This arrangement worked for him and Emily. They might have to proceed cautiously, but Emily was worth the risk.

They both were getting exactly what they wanted, nothing more.

E
MILY
GAZED
INTO
her nephew's face, mesmerized when Colin's tiny hand curled around her finger, clutching it so tightly, so trustingly. Pity that trust given so freely in the young had to be earned as they matured.

She glanced up to see Julia smiling at her, her daughter, Emma, in her arms. They were waiting for Melody and Miranda to change before they departed for an afternoon concert. “How long are you in the city?” Emily asked, keeping her voice neutral, despite being desperate to know.

“A few weeks. We need to visit the town house and ensure the work is progressing on schedule. And of course, I wanted to see you. See how you fared.”

When in town, Daniel and Julia usually resided at Daniel's town house, but its rooms were undergoing renovations. Daniel's late brother's taste ran to the ostentatious. Julia, like most wives, had decided it was time to put her own stamp on the town house.

Julia and Daniel were settled in Julia's former room at Keaton House, which was across the corridor from Emily's bedchamber. The proximity to her sister's keen-eyed scrutiny put a damper on Emily's investigation, not to mention curtailed any assignations with Brett. If cognizant of either activity, her sister would urge her to abandon both courses. And that she would not do. Frowning, she hoped that when everything came to light, Julia would understand—at least about the investigation.