The Daughter of an Earl (23 page)

He froze, rattled. Denials sprang up fast and furious. How could he love a woman who had promised to save herself for a man dead and buried? It was difficult to compete with the dead, particularly one who appeared to be a saint.

But perhaps, perhaps, it was time he did so.

His heart thundered. It was a novel thought, would change everything between them. Of course, Emily would fight him. She was brave, but a coward in love. She feared loving and losing again.

Well, then he would have to change her mind. He had always liked a challenge, and the rewards at the end would be well worth this one.

Because I love her.

And that was the truth in all its complexity. He loved everything about her. Her strength. Her fierce resolve. Even her thickheaded obduracy.

And he was keeping her—forever. There was only one way in which to accomplish this goal. He would have to seduce her as expertly as she had seduced him. It was only fair.

Quid pro quo
was the one Latin phrase he had learned well.

Emily was giving him an odd look. No doubt because he sat grinning like a besotted fool. At least this time, he was doing so over the right woman. He cleared his throat. “I was not fortunate in love the first time around. Jason was lucky to have found you,” he said.
As am I.

“Yes, we were fortunate to have shared something special.” Her gaze fell, and she bit her lip.

“You do not have to worry about me. I promise you, I am quite recovered from Lady Janice Wentworth's rejection.”

“But then . . . then why are you still so angry at her father? Your response to him did not look like someone recovered from past injury.”

He scowled. After his recent epiphany, Wentworth was the last person he wished to think about, but he owed her an explanation.

He caught a long coil of her hair, needing a moment to settle himself. “That is a different injury. Wentworth did not stop at thwarting our elopement. When Daniel and I first sought investors in Curtis Shipping, Wentworth steered potential backers away from us. When our goods were imported, we learned he had bribed a customs official to confiscate a shipment of our tobacco. He declared it rancid
and it fed the Queen's Pipe, costing us a small fortune when we were barely turning a profit.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you tie the corrupt customs official to Wentworth?”

“Not all customs officials are corrupt. Another heard our grievance, and investigated matters until he found the guilty man.”

“What about Wentworth?”

“A corrupt customs official's word pitted against a respected peer of the realm would not hold up, so we did not pursue the matter. Another of your aristocratic privileges is often immunity from liability. But I am not worried about Wentworth. I usually keep an eye out for the bastard, but he caught me off guard at Halford's. Other matters distracted me. And speaking of distractions . . .” He let his voice trail off suggestively as he slid the long strand of hair through his fingers. “There is a far more pressing matter that requires my attention.”

“Oh? Such as?” Emily's eyes gleamed.

“I appear to have lost a key.”

“So you have.” She laughed, and the trilling sound of it rolled over every inch of his body. “Wherever can it be?”

He turned in his seat and leaned over her. This time, she did not resist. “It appears a clever young woman has taken charge of it. She is cunning, fierce, and loyal. I am her prisoner until I can locate that key.”

“She sounds formidable.” She smiled into his eyes and looped her arms around his neck. “Perhaps you should make the best of your confinement.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I can think of something,” she practically purred. She slid her hands into his hair and with a yank, she brought his head down to hers and crushed their lips together.

He kissed her back, his body melting onto hers. She roamed her hands down his back and beneath his linen shirt. Earlier he had discarded his jacket, waistcoat, and tie. Impatient to feel her hands warm against his skin, he broke the kiss, sat up and whipped his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor.

Her gaze roved over him slowly, a languid smile curving her lips. The heat of her look was almost as arousing as her touch. When she splayed her hands over his abdomen and up his chest, his breathing quickened. He bent to plunder her mouth again, kissing her as if he could not get enough.

The taste and feel of her was like his own opium. He understood how a man could become addicted. His feelings for Emily were all consuming. He kissed her cheek, the tip of her nose, and drawing back, he stared into her eyes as they fluttered open, heavy-lidded and passion dazed.

“About that key . . .” His voice was hoarse as he grasped the collar of her robe and wrenched it apart with one quick tug. He caught his breath. Her nightgown was but a sheer veil over her body, and he eagerly feasted on the teasing view of smooth, creamy skin. The key was nestled in the valley between her breasts, gently rising and falling as she drew shallow breaths. He wondered if one could be jealous of an inanimate object.

He gathered her in his arms, burying his head between her breasts and inhaling deeply. Her body was soft and warm—but clothed. He grunted, craving more. He sat up and moved to the end of the settee. He caught the hem of her gown and with deliberate slowness, he began to ease it up her body.

It was like unveiling a sinuous nude carved in luminous white marble. He feasted on each tantalizing piece of skin he exposed. He spread featherlight kisses over her slim ankles, calves, and knees. His hands followed his lips, sliding up her legs, molding and caressing the long length of them.

When he reached her thighs, her hands gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging deep.

Slowly, inexorably he tortured her, inching toward his intended goal.

Suddenly aware of his intent, Emily grasped him by the hair and yanked up his head. “No! You cannot. Stop!”

“But we can. The door is locked. Have mercy on this poor besotted prisoner, who only seeks your pleasure. Do not torment me.”

Her eyes widened and she bit her lip. After a moment, she loosened her grip. He held her gaze as he slowly eased up her gown, watching her eyes darken. Her lashes fluttered and then lowered. He dipped his head to the junction between her thighs, to her most intimate spot. His breath brushed her legs, and he kissed the satin-soft skin of her inner thigh. A moan escaped her and then she fully surrendered.

He pleasured her with his tongue and his fingers, finding the sweet spot that had her writhing. He claimed her with the same desperation that a true prisoner would devour a meager ration of food. A soft whimper escaped her. Her hands fell to the settee, fingers digging deep as she arched against him.

She was better than the richest brandy or the most potent opiate. The small sounds she emitted were music to his ears. A gasping cry escaped her as she found her release, and her body shuddered beneath him. When the last spasm eased, he sat up and folded her into his arms, holding her against his heart, where he hoped to keep her.

“I think I could grow accustomed to having my own prisoner,” Emily whispered.

He smiled against her hair. Forget the key. There was no escaping her hold on him. She had enslaved him heart, body, and soul. He loved her.

E
MILY
slammed her book closed. She had reread the same paragraph numerous times and could not recount a thing. She set it on the nearest table, tipped her head against her chair, and closed her eyes. Instantly, she was transported back to her father's study. Brett was doing things to her, magical things, things that only a sorcerer should know. With his hands . . . his fingers . . . his mouth. Decadent things. Erotic things.

Wonderful things that Jason had never done.

Her eyes flew open. She shot to her feet and paced the library. It was the truth.

Brett had led her down a path that she and Jason had never ventured, but that was not what disturbed her. What bothered her, or what rattled her to the core, was her response to his touch . . . to
him
.

Like a maestro, Brett waved his wand, and her body became an instrument that sang under his direction. It was as if all her emotions had been in a deep sleep, and Brett
was awakening her to the full chorus of them. Passion. Desire. Excitement. Unleashed yearnings sang within her, and she doubted she could silence them.

That frightened her most of all, because while she knew she could not keep Brett, she did not know how she could let him go.

She pressed her hand to her throbbing heart. A knock on the door caused her to jump, so frazzled were her nerves. She frowned, having coveted a morning to herself. Brett was at his office and Julia had taken the girls and Jonathan to the British Museum. Emily had begged off with the excuse of a headache, and to her relief, Julia had not questioned her.

After calling out a response, Burke poked his head into the room.

“Pardon me, mum. There is a Mr. Drummond here, who wishes to speak with you.”

Her lips parted.
What could he want?
Well, he could go to Hades. Then again, once there, she would not know what the duplicitous bastard was plotting next. Conflicted, she gnawed on her lower lip. She could claim to be indisposed, but dismissed the idea. She was quite safe under her father's roof—but she had promised Brett she would not meet the bastard alone. She would keep her word.

“Show him into the drawing room,” she answered Burke, who patiently awaited her response. “And send for Agnes.”

There was no impropriety in having a gentleman caller visit her at Keaton House while her father was but a short distance away, working in his . . . office. A rush of heat suffused her cheeks when a fleeting image flashed before her of Brett in that studious enclave, his hair tousled from her fingers and him leaning over her body.

She pressed a hand to her temple. She needed to stay focused, because Lawrence Drummond was dangerous. With Agnes close and the servants about, Drummond would not dare to risk another murder. She shook her head. She was being ridiculous.

It was Brett's fault for keeping her awake to all hours. It
had dulled her wits, but it was too late to beg off now. Truth be told, she was interested to hear what story Drummond would weave today.

I
N
THE
DRAWING
room, Drummond stood with his hands clasped behind his back while he studied a portrait of her family that hung above the hearth. Dressed in his usual impeccable style, his dark burgundy jacket hugged his broad shoulders.

She directed Agnes to a chair in the corner and waited until the maid was settled with her embroidery before addressing Drummond. “That is my father's favorite, despite Jonathan's absence,” she spoke to his back. In the painting, her father stood behind her mother, who was seated. She and Julia framed her, leaning on opposite sides of their mother's chair.

When Drummond turned, she directed him to a portrait on the adjacent wall. “My father had this one commissioned of Jonathan. It was only recently finished.” Jonathan was a belated surprise, joining their family a decade after the completion of the first portrait. Sadly, their mother had not survived his birth. “Lord knows how the artist got Jonathan to sit still long enough to pose, but I think it captures his impish grin perfectly.”

Drummond studied the likeness. “I believe you are right. I am sure Jonathan was plotting his escape while the artist was distracted with brush and pallet.”

“No doubt,” Emily said. Not for the first time, she wondered how this man could be a cold-blooded murderer and what had driven him to it.

“Please have a seat. I will see about refreshments.” She turned to have Agnes summon a maid, but Drummond stopped her.

“That will not be necessary. This is not a social visit. I did not come to discuss the finer points of family portraits or to exchange social niceties over tea,” he said tightly. He
braced his feet apart and crushed his fine leather gloves in a balled fist.

It was the stance of a common boxer, and she braced herself for battle.

“I have learned that you have been continuing your own search, independent of mine, after I expressly asked you to leave this matter in my hands. That I would take care of it for you.” He waited for her response, and when she did not deny his accusations, he continued. “I know that you and Mr. Curtis sought to meet with Winfred, Jason's former valet, the evening of Halford's ball.”

Her eyes widened. She recalled Brett's conviction that Drummond was following her. Had he trailed them then? She had not seen Drummond at the ball, and not for want of looking. “Pray tell, how on earth did—?”

He dismissed her question with an impatient jerk of his hand. “It is not important how I came by my information. The point is, not only are you still doggedly pursuing this matter, but you are doing it against my professed wishes and with the very man I warned you against keeping company with. More important, I have come to learn that Mr. Curtis and his sisters are your guests at Keaton House. I cannot fathom how Taunton has been duped into sanctioning this, but as I have shared my concerns with you in regard to Mr. Curtis's character, I find this arrangement untenable. I must press upon you the need for you to find them alternative lodging. You must have a care for your reputation.”

Just who did he think he was?

Bristling, Emily drew herself up to her full height. This man was not her father, husband, nor anyone else whom she was obligated to honor and obey. It was a struggle to respond with civility. “Mr. Drummond, as I have told you, Jason's letters are dear to my heart. They are all I have left of him, so while you have agreed to assist me, for which I am grateful, I never said I would sit idly by while you did so. I see little harm in my desire to speak to Winfred.”

She ignored his frown. “As for Mr. Curtis, your
introduction to him was not under the most favorable of circumstances, nor did his behavior improve upon a subsequent meeting. For those reasons, I understand your reservations about the man. However, as you know, he was my brother-in-law's partner and is godfather to the twins. Bedford would not bestow such an honor upon a man he did not respect
or
trust, nor would my father sanction having him as a guest in his home. Those credentials are also enough for me. Now I do hope that we can—”

“I see. So that is the way it is.” His mouth pressed into a disapproving line.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Once again you have formed an attachment, and your choice has not favored me.”

She blinked. This was how rumors started. They began with an incendiary comment, and if not snuffed out immediately, they ignited and spread. “Mr. Curtis is a family friend, nothing more,” she said firmly, praying that her burning cheeks did not betray her second bald-faced lie.

“Let us hope that you speak true, because I did not have the chance to warn you about Jason's weak character, but heed my words. I have warned you about Mr. Curtis, but will do so again. I do not know how he has managed to mislead your brother-in-law or the earl, but I have it from a reliable source that the man is not to be trusted.”

Wentworth
. The man was nursing his ancient vendetta like it was a treasured heirloom. “And would that source be the Earl of Wentworth?”

A flicker of surprise crossed Drummond's features. “So Mr. Curtis has been honest in regard to one area. You know then that he tried to abduct Wentworth's daughter?”

“It was far from nefarious. Mr. Curtis asked for Lady Janice Wentworth's hand in marriage, and he was accepted. There was no abduction. Furthermore, the lady was of age, had her own income, and was free to change her mind. She chose to do so. No harm done.”

Drummond visibly struggled to digest her defense of
Brett. He looked as if were choking on it. “Once again, it is evident that your mind is made up. I could not compete against Jason, so I sailed to India. But I thought with Jason's death, I might have another chance. I hope that I am not too late.”

Her lips parted. She had not realized that was why Drummond had taken the post abroad, sailing to India a full year before Jason. “Mr. Drummond, I—”

His hand shot up, forestalling her response. “I could not protect you years ago, but as I said, I hope I am not too late to prevent you from making another mistake. If your relationship with Mr. Curtis is but a friendship forged through family connections, I suggest you reconsider it. You need to distance yourself from the man and see that he lodges elsewhere. Rumors are afoot, and I would be remiss if I did not warn you against him.”

“What are you talking about? What rumors?” The cunning look in his eyes gave her pause.

“I can say no more at present. However, if you promise me that you and Mr. Curtis will curtail your alliance and leave me to find your letters, I might be able to intercede and speak up on his behalf. Otherwise, I cannot help him,” he said and let his hands unfold in a helpless gesture.

Stunned, she stared at him. Surely, she could not have heard him correctly. She had to moisten her lips to respond, her mouth bone dry. “Are you saying that if I do not stay away from Mr. Curtis, he could find himself mired in some scandal or trouble of some sort? And that you can prevent it from unfolding should I heed your words? Let us speak plain, Mr. Drummond. Are you threatening me, or Mr. Curtis?”

Drummond's brows snapped together and his nostrils flared. “Interpret this information as you will. I am simply informing you that this matter is best left in my hands. I have promised you I will handle it, and in exchange, all I request is your word that you and Mr. Curtis stop poking into areas best left alone. The East India Company does not
appreciate outsiders snooping into its business. If you continue to do so, there could be repercussions.”

“I see,” she said, her heart pounding. Good lord, he
was
threatening her. She folded her clammy hands in her skirts.

“I hope that you do,” Drummond said. “I cannot stand by and watch you endanger yourself as Marsh was endangered, and God knows what has happened to Winfred.” He narrowed his eyes on hers as if to gauge the impact of his words.

She did not disappoint, unable to suppress her start of surprise at his reference to Marsh.

“Yes, I have heard about the clerk's injuries. I do not know what has precipitated these incidents, but I believe it has to do with Jason's incoherent ramblings about conspiracies and embezzlement that he foolishly imparted to you. So you see why it is understandable that the company does not want these old accusations to be dredged back up. It is dangerous to dig up cold graves.”

Heat climbed her cheeks, and her body vibrated with her barely contained rage.

How dare he threaten her!

Then again, the man fought for his life. If she found the evidence convicting him of being the vile, contemptible blackguard that he was, he would be ruined.

He planned to destroy Brett's reputation in the same manner that he had destroyed Marsh. He had played his hand well.

Devil take him!

She struggled to keep her voice level. “I certainly do not wish to endanger myself—or anger the East India Company. Nor do I want Mr. Curtis to run afoul of the company either. I promise you that much. I just want . . . I want my letters returned to me. They are all I have left of Jason,” she finished softly. She clasped her hands before her, feigning the contrition the bastard expected.