The Earl's Bargain (Historical Regency Romance) (11 page)

Growing cold, she took up her rug again.
"What of your intellect, my lord? It seems to me you have carefully
concealed your own ideas from me."

He felt pangs of guilt. "I admit I have
spent much of my adult life amassing a fortune, giving little
thought to the wisdom of the great thinkers of today. I am now
trying to fill that void -- with your help." He sounded convincing,
even to himself.

She met his gaze with a frank stare. "Tell
me, Lord Wycliff, how did you make your fortune?"

Additional pangs of guilt vibrated through
him. "I was in the shipping business."

She nodded. "Were I to go into the shipping
business, could I make vast sums of money?"

"You're a woman."

"Exactly. Doors are closed in women's
faces."

"The next thing I know, you'll be demanding
the franchise for women, too."

"And why not? We comprise half the
population."

"I don't deny that we need women, but their
principal purpose in life is to bear children."

Her face looked wounded. "Are you saying
that since I have borne no children, I have no worth?"

"Damn it, woman, that's not
what I meant!" Despite himself, he tried to imagine her with a
child. He did not at all like to think of her bearing Godwin
Phillips' child. Not to say that she wouldn't have been a fine
mother. And wife, too, had she been given the chance to marry a man
who owned her heart. She might not realize it herself, but with her
capacity for compassion she could have been a great wife and
mother.
Had her circumstances of birth been
more fortunate
. Had she not been born to
the abominable father who could sell his spawn for mere money. The
muscles in Harry's face tightened. How he hated the man for what he
had done to his own daughter.

Harry's thoughts flitted to his own father.
As angry as Harry was with him, he knew his father always loved him
and his mother above worldly possessions. A pity his father's
weakness had led to Harry's mother's death. Harry remembered how
broken his mother had been when she lost first her home, then her
husband.

Louisa's declaration that the clouds were
breaking proved correct. When it was time to partake of a nuncheon,
the skies had cleared, and they were able to depart the carriage
and stretch their legs. Then Harry spread a blanket on the damp
grass beside the road, and the three of them sat down to eat the
generous repast packed by the innkeepers' wife.

The grass was wet, but their blanket seemed
to absorb most of the moisture. After they ate, the coachman went
to tend the horses and Lord Wycliff leaned back, his weight on his
elbows, his long legs stretched out beyond the length of the
blanket as he gazed up into the now-blue sky. It was warm enough
now that he'd removed his greatcoat, and Louisa -- with Lord
Wycliff's assistance -- had taken off her black cloak.

She tried to avert her gaze from Lord
Wycliff's limbs. They reminded her of one of those statues of
ancient Greeks she had viewed in the British Museum. Like them, he
was all firm planes and smoothly rounded muscles that must be as
hard as the marble from which the Grecian men were carved. Her eyes
traveled from his muddy boots, past his thighs and settled just
above his waist, where there was not an ounce of fat on his well
constructed bones.

She was once again reminded
of her first impression of him when she had thought him too manly
to be clothed in the finery worn by fops of the
ton
. Not that he sported the frivolous
frills worn by dandies, either. She could see him sparring with the
likes of Jackson or keeping his balance at the helm of ship, his
sword drawn in defense of his schooner.

"What keeps you so pensive?" he asked,
making no effort to sit up.

She watched him intently. The endless fields
of wheat behind him framed his head like a golden halo in a
Renaissance painting.

A week ago she would have lashed out in
anger at his presumptuousness in asking her so personal a question.
But this was now, and their close proximity had slowly been
weathering away the armor they both had worn for a considerable
period of time.

"I was wondering why you hate your
father."

He sat up and drilled her with his dark
eyes. "How do you know I hated my father? I never told you."

"You didn't have to say the words. Do you
take me for such a fool that I would not notice that you adored
your mother, yet said nothing about your father?"

He relaxed, taking a sip of the wine that
had been in their basket. "You know that my father lost
everything."

"I know he lost Wycliff House to Godwin at
cards one night at Waiters."

He looked as if a brace of candles had been
lit within his gaze. "How could a man who had nothing to leave his
wife amass a fortune great enough to play for stakes that would
include one of London's finest townhouses?"

Now the brightness of her eyes matched his.
"The benefactor!" she said. Godwin had certainly never been able to
hold onto money. Not with his obsession for gaming. And for lavish
living.

"That has to be it," he said.

They both stayed silent a moment, lost in
their own thoughts. Finally, she spoke. "Do you suppose the
benefactor chose his prey?"

He slapped at his knee. "You are positively
brilliant!"

"You are just learning that, my lord?" She
laughed.

"That you are considerably smarter than
other women of my acquaintance I learned the day I met you."

The corners of her mouth lifted into a
smile. "Lucky for me and my need for a good night's sleep that you
are not enamored of intelligent women."

A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes.
"Indeed."

Somehow, his answer seemed to lack
sincerity.

He began to gather up the leavings of their
luncheon, and she stood and stretched, lifting her arms straight
toward the heavens. The stiffness in her back from hours of riding
in the coach had lessened considerably, but she knew it would
return once they resumed the journey.

To her surprise, he came to her and gently
covered her shoulders with her cloak. Unexpected warmth surged
through her.

* * *

That night he repeated his practice of
leaving her to dress for bed while he went to the tavern. Only this
night she was awake when he came to bed.

Lying there in the dark, she pretended to be
asleep as he stood before the window and removed his pants. Her
heart accelerated when she beheld him, his wondrous body bathed in
moonlight. Then he tossed aside his jacket. She could no more
remove her eyes from the glorious sight than she could cease to
draw breath.

Had Godwin looked like that, she might not
have found his presence in her bed so repugnant. She wondered what
it would be like to lie beneath a man like Lord Wycliff. She
watched as he moved toward the bed, lithe and powerful and dark
like a panther, and she wondered how many women he had been
with.

He climbed beneath the covers, careful not
to touch her. After the brief whiff of cold air from lifting the
covers, she felt his heat.

She lay there for a very long time, her back
to him. She waited to hear his breathing change as a man's does
when he drops into slumber, but she heard no such change.

Was he, too, wondering what if would be like
to take her into his arms?

It was a very long time before she finally
heard the pattern of his breathing change. He had finally gone to
sleep.

Only then did she do likewise.

* * *

The following day, Harry consulted the
map.

"How long before we reach Cornwall?" she
asked.

He flicked a glance toward her. "We shall
sleep in Cornwall tomorrow night."

"Do we go to the northern coast first?"

He smiled. "I see
you
know how to read a
map." His glance darted back to the map. "We should make it to the
River Tamar tomorrow evening -- if the weather holds
out."

"Then Lord Arundel is our first
prospect?"

He gazed at her with amusement in his eyes.
"You are also in possession of a good memory."

She held herself proudly. "I believe I can
even predict the route you wish to take, my lord."

"Indeed?"

She nodded. "Tintagel first, then south to
Bodmin, and from Bodmin to Polperro on the south coast. From
Polperro, we'll continue west along the south coast to Penryn. From
Penryn we'll head directly north again to Curthbert. And Falwell --
being nearly at Land's End -- and shot her a devilish glance. "I
see your map skills -- and your logic -- are excellent. He frowned.
A pity she was a do-gooder. He rather enjoyed having for a
companion a woman of superior intellect.

The weather continued unimpeded, and they
slept at an inn in Minehead that night. Harry was disappointed that
Minehead was some miles short of Devon. He had assured her they'd
be sleeping in Cornwall the following night.

Then she grew dejected. "I daresay I never
realized when we embarked on this trip that if would be four days
before we even reached Cornish soil. Which means it will probably
be two weeks before we return to London. I deplore leaving poor
Ellie for so long."

"She'll scarcely miss you, she'll be so
elated over the Bentham chap."

Louisa continued to frown.

"What do you know of Tintagel?" he
asked.

"There's a shell of a castle there where
it's said King Arthur ruled."

"Perhaps our Lord Arundel is a descendent of
King Arthur."

"If one were to believe in Camelot," she
said solemnly.

Harry gave her a solemn look. A pity she
could never believe in Camelot or in happily-ever-afters.

The following day, as the afternoon sun
shone its brightest, Louisa was looking out the window of the coach
and seemed almost startled by his voice. "I think it's time for me
to send the coachman to the next inn while you and I begin to
explore the coastline on foot."

Since the weather had turned fair, they made
excellent progress and were now travelling along the first part of
the Cornish coast.

"An excellent plan," she agreed. "Glad I
will be to stretch my legs."

Harry and Louisa disembarked, with the
coachman given instructions to bespeak rooms for them at the inn in
Boscastle. "Aye, Mr. Smith," the coachman said, winking with great
emphasis. "Take good care of the Missus."

"Get on with you!" Harry ordered, a chuckle
in his deep voice.

Louisa wrapped her dainty hand around his
proffered arm as they began to walk along the single cobbled street
of this village that was not to be found on their map. "I trust you
are looking for our lordly friend," Harry said facetiously.

"To be sure, my lord."

In mere moments, the village lay behind
them, and they followed the mists that would surely lead them to
the sea.

Their instincts were correct. After
traversing a craggy land, they heard the roaring of distant waves
and tasted the salty air that seemed to cling to them like wool to
sheep. Soon, they began to walk along the coastal path where they
could see the dark seawater ringed by white far below. "I'm
assuming Lord Arundel is a man of wealth, and it's my bet that he
lives near the coast," Harry said.

Now that no one watching them, Louisa
released her hand from Harry's arm and skipped ahead of him,
stopping to pick a crocus blooming in the midst of rocky crags.

Had he been a painter, Harry would have
painted her stooping to smell the flower that grew wild on the gray
cliffs. With the wind catching her pale hair, Louisa Phillips was
undoubtedly the loveliest creature he had ever beheld. Almost as
refreshing as the complete lack of artifice in her beauty was her
total lack of conceit. Did she have no idea how beautiful she
was?

His eyes narrowed from the sun, Harry stood
watching her as if he were as rooted to the land as the nearby elm.
She looked up at him then, puzzlement on her face. "Are you unwell,
my lord?"

He stepped forward. "I have never been
better. It is a fine day, is it not?"

She stood up. "Wonderful, I should say. I've
never been to Cornwall before. Have you?"

She looked like an inquisitive child. "No I
haven't, and I quite agree with you. There's a loneliness about the
land, but also a peace."

Waiting for him to come even with her, she
watched him, a puzzled look on her face. "That's a most poetic
thing for you to say, my lord. I had no idea you were so
sensitive."

"Please," he urged, "do not imbue me with
qualities I do not possess."

She took his arm again though he had not
offered it. He was glad she did.

"There's absolutely nothing to be ashamed of
in having the ability to express one's feelings. Lord Byron did so,
and to my knowledge, he never lacked for suitors."

Harry laughed. "Then perhaps I shall become
a poet."

"Come, my lord, I hardly think you have to
begin writing poetry to woe women."

"But according to you, all my suitors are
women of easy virtue. Where's the fun of the conquest?"

She removed her hand from his arm. Though
she continued to walk beside him, he detected a stiffness in her
manner. Was she angry at his remark? Did she take it personally?
Surely his restraint last night as he lay beside her throbbing with
need assured her of the honor of his intentions. He had best change
the subject before he angered her further by confessing his desire
for her.

"Tell me, Mrs. Phillips, where is it you
wish to make your next home?"

His comment relaxed her. "I had thought to
buy a little cottage in a rural village, but as we left London
yesterday I realized I am needed there."