The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) (10 page)

“I am, which is why I know your mother would be far more upset to come across you atop your horse alone with Lord Satterfield, than riding astride with me at your back.”

No, Henrietta was fairly certain both scenarios would incite her mother’s ire, especially if anyone of consequence were unfortunate enough to witness either.

“Lord Satterfield is a gentleman.”

“Precisely.”

She frowned. “Then why the concern, my lord?”

“Because I know what sort of thoughts he entertains. He may be a gentleman by title, but he is a man.”

“As are you. Should I not be equally concerned whilst in your presence?”

“No.”

She did not find comfort in his answer, but irritation at his clipped voice, and…. and…. disappointment in his monosyllabic reply.

Her shoulders fell. She had thought…had hoped…

She blinked. He had been so attentive in the garden. She had assumed his interest in her person and yet, by his own admission, she had nothing to fear from him. He would not be pressing his suit. There would be no illicit advances or stolen kisses. He had obviously removed her from his list of potential brides.

Though, with her present breach in decorum, she could hardly blame the man for his decision. She had stumbled yet again, further blemishing a name the earl wished to clear. A feat that would not only further his advancement in Society, but her sisters as well. And one he could not manage with her as the countess.

“I-I-I am sorry for my behavior, both now and in the gardens,” she whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the horse’s clomping hooves. “I-I-I should not have been so forward.”

The horse stopped, the sudden movement wrenching the earl’s arm upward against her chest, and a whale bone into her skin.

Gasping, she clutched her side. He slipped off the saddle, pulling her off and setting her in front of him.

Goodness, he was close. His chest rose and fell, her nearness affording her a close view of his shaven chin and the first hints of the dark beard emerging along his jaw. Why, she could even see the splayed edges of white, where angry skin snaked out from under his dark patch.

Her fingers itched to smooth the taut flesh, to—

“You have done nothing wrong. The exact opposite is true. You have earned my esteem. As a gentleman, it is my duty to make certain you are kept from harm, both whilst in Lord Satterfield’s presence and in mine. I was the one who acted out of turn.”

Once again the rumors were in contradiction with the man before her. The
Black Earl
was a rake, a rogue—not a man wishing to treat her with consideration.

She steepled her gloved fingers, preventing them from reaching out and touching the earl’s scar. “I am grateful for your gentlemanly conduct.”

“Then I must ask for your forgiveness.”

“But you have already apologized, my lord.”

“Not for last night,” he said, his voice but a whisper. “But for this.”

He leaned over her and caught her lips between his.

…

Simon had done his best to forget the delicate shape of her lips, the taste of salt lingering on their lush fullness, and the way her teeth had so deliberately tugged on his sensitive flesh yesterday.

But he couldn’t. God, he had tried. But he could no more forget than he could stop himself from wanting more.

He had attempted to avoid her. For the entire evening after he’d kissed her, and the next morning, he had held his distance, had kept himself occupied with the other guests, with his role as host.

He was an imbecile, an utter fool. Unable to curb the monster of jealousy roaring within him whenever Satterfield gazed at Lady Henrietta. He had to rescue her from certain ruin. From Satterfield’s designs.

And from his own heated attraction. Lady Henrietta did not deserve a man tainted with scandal. She required a gentleman, someone who was not dogged with whisperings wherever he went. A man whole. A man with two bloody damn eyes to fully appreciate her beauty.

He was not that man.

The
Black Earl
indeed. More like the tormented-confused-and-frustratingly-desirous-of-Lady-Henrietta-Earl.

Which was why he found himself once again snatching up Lady Henrietta’s pink lips. Soft and full, they embodied the innocence he wished to reclaim.

She responded with an eagerness that banished any lingering resolve. His blood boiled, heated by her tentative tongue, her cautious hands, and shortness of breath.

His hands sunk into her hair, his palms pressing against her head. He couldn’t get enough of her scent, of fresh linen and lavender, floral and light, yet intoxicating—like the woman herself.

A soft moan escaped her lips, further inciting his hunger. He thrust his tongue between her lips, desperate to taste and drink his fill.

His senses were overwhelmed by the tremors of pleasure her wandering hands unleashed. Her tiny fingers running through his hair nearly undid him. His mind was muddled, enveloped in a cloud of desire-wrought ecstasy.

And this just a kiss. Were he to imagine what might occur should he remove her clothing…he might release his seed in his breeches.

Christ.
He was weak.

Simon slid his hand to her breast, to the soft swell covered in layers of wool and cotton, and supported by a contraption of bones and laces. The mound teased him, hinting at the pleasure hiding just beneath the surface.

Lady Henrietta’s mewling further provoked him. She arched her back and thrust her breast deeper into his palm.

He growled. Should he undo just one of the brass buttons on her damnably fetching coat, he would not stop. He would lay her down and feast until his hunger was sated.

Which would not do. Using every ounce of will power, he broke the kiss and stepped back. However much he wanted Lady Henrietta, he refused to take her on the outer edge of a pasture like some country maid.

“Lady Henrietta, I—”

“Stop.” She held her hand up, her eyes wide, her swollen lips begging him to reclaim them.

Had he hurt her? In his eagerness to claim her, he had forgotten her injury. “Forgive me, but I wanted you to know—”

“Don’t move,” she said, her gaze dipping. He lowered his head, peering down at his muddied boots. His valet would have a fine time removing the splatter of mud soiling the polished surface, but they were hardly worth noting. Especially when his heart still raced, and her taste lingered on his tongue.

“’Tis only mud. While my valet will not be pleased with the extra work in removing it from my boots, he—”

“Walk toward me.”

Admittedly, he admired a bit of boldness in a woman. He did not, however, like to be interrupted. Especially when he wanted her to know why he had shortened their embrace.

His agitation must have shown on his face, for Lady Henrietta thrust her finger toward the ground. “Stinging nettle. Behind and beside you.”

He glanced down at the pink blossoms and the sharp, pointed leaves. Little hair-like needles ran along the stem and leaves. Fortunately, he’d pulled away from Lady Henrietta’s lush lips and not taken her right there amongst the weeds. Discomfort would not begin to describe the level of pain the barbed leaves could inflict.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He stepped to the side and stumbled. His ungloved hand shot out to steady himself, his foot having caught on the raised root of a nearby tree—and winced in pain. The very needles Lady Henrietta had warned him of embedded themselves into his skin, biting the flesh and unleashing a painful sensation of burning.

Dammit all to hell.

He stood up and shook his hand.

Lady Henrietta frowned and began to wander about him, her head down, her navy riding hat in stark contrast with the green foliage surrounding her.

“What are you doing?” His pain mounted, his hand feeling as though engulfed by flames.

She glanced upward. “I-I-I am seeking out a remedy, of course.”

He strode toward her, peering at the ground. “What is it you seek?”

“The leaves of the dock plant. They are often found near nettles and provide swift relief. At least they did when I last required their services.”

“You’ve been stung by the nettles?”

She paused. “One often comes across dangerous and toxic plants in my area of interest, my lord.” She continued to search near the nettle plants, her skirts trailing over the mud and dirt. “There.” She knelt down, pulled off her gloves, and pinched a cluster of long broad leaves. “Your hand, please.”

He placed his palm in hers. His blood warmed at her touch, the increasingly familiar sensation causing him to adjust his stance. Lady Henrietta rubbed the leaves over his hand, firm and yet gentle in her strokes, reigniting the deep hunger in his loins.

“This should take effect soon. In a half hour or so, if not before.”

He wrapped his fingers over hers. “I am once again in your debt.” Her knowledge of herbs impressed him beyond measure. Thrice she had saved him from anguish.

He was beyond grateful for her intelligence. Her retention and application of knowledge was beyond that of some of his peers, her mind far surpassing his brother’s dimwitted and self-centered intellect.

“So it seems,” Lady Henrietta replied. She rolled her lips, pressing the plush pads together, and lifted her gaze to his. “As you are in my debt, I am owed payment.”

His mouth twitched. “Traditionally, yes. Though most often, gratitude is considered payment enough. What is it you have mind?” Another kiss? A promise to continue their intimacies in a more secluded and properly outfitted location? His cock hardened at the possibilities.

“A truthful answer to my enquiry.”

He cleared his throat and frowned. “What is it you wish to know?”

Her eyes pierced him, their intense golden gaze refusing to lower.

Damn.

Anne. She no doubt wished to know about Anne. Or his fouled-up eye. Of course she would have heard the rumors. They were everywhere, whispered whenever he entered and departed a room, and most likely spoken in his absence. They could not be avoided. But he had hoped…

He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. What had he hoped? That she saw past them to the truth? She saw him for the man he had been before the incident that left him scarred—both emotionally and physically?

He bit back a laugh. Good God. He’d grown sentimental.

“I-I-I wondered…that is, I-I-I wanted to know…”

“No.”

Her forehead crinkled. “No, my lord?”

“I did not kill my mistress. Not with poison, not with a pistol, and not with my hands. My innocence is, as the
Times
has stated, fully acquitted.”

Relief washed over her face, but so did triumph…and a touch of disappointment. Did she think him less interesting now the mystery was gone and the question answered?

“You believed otherwise?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“No?” He studied the change of emotions sweeping over her face. “Even though the gossip rags spout evidence against my virtue?”

“I’ve never put much faith into rumors.”

“No. Just enough to validate their truthfulness.”

Her eyes lowered. “There must be some story behind them, truthful or otherwise. If anything, they offer an explanation for your hasty departure to the Continent.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose they do.” He remembered the deception and secrecy, his abrupt departure under the shroud of darkness early one Monday morning. He remembered, too, the scribbled note found beside Anne’s slumped body, the one declaring she could no longer belong to half a man. A man not whole. Her heart belonged to the very powerful, very corrupt, and very married Lord Fenton. Knowing she would never claim the role of his viscountess, Anne despaired and took her own life.

For it was better to be dead than with a man in possession of only one eye.

Dammit. What was wrong with him? Dredging up the past was never a good idea. Never did he benefit from the memory of his mistakes.

Lady Henrietta wrapped her fingers around his jacketed arm and gave a gentle squeeze. “The hour grows late. The party is no doubt making their way back toward the house.”

“Anne took her own life. She was already gone when I found her.” He needed Lady Henrietta to know, to understand.

Her hand lifted to her hat, which she promptly removed and tossed to the ground. She wrapped her arms around him, burrowing her head in his chest. “I am so sorry.”

Simon sagged against her, the weight on his shoulders lifting, if ever so slightly. Five years he had kept the anger, the anguish, bottled inside, while others kept their distance, fearful the rumors might be based on truth and Simon DeVere, the newly christened Earl of Amhurst, was a killer.

No one had ever offered their condolences. Anne was a courtesan, an actress, a woman skilled in the arts of deception—and one unwelcome in polite circles. Most pretended she did not exist, or believed her beneath him, unworthy of his grief.

Lady Henrietta, however, offered sympathies without hesitation. He rubbed his hand over her back and took comfort in the arms still wrapped around him.

Until his stallion whinnied, jolting her from his embrace. “My mother,” she whispered, her round eyes widening. “She will be—”