The Earl's New Bride (Entangled Scandalous) (13 page)

Chapter Eleven

Simon roused to a numb arm and a wide-eyed, wild-haired Henrietta shaking him awake and sliding from the bed.

“Simon,” she hissed. “You must leave. The maid will be here soon, and I cannot have her finding you in my room.”

His body hardened at the feel of her bare legs against his. He pulled her close, his palm flush against the small of her back.

She squirmed against him, inching out of his grasp. “My sisters are also known to come in unannounced, and on occasion, my mother.”

The first rays of dawn broke through the slits between the curtains, the soft orange beams illuminating Henrietta’s panicked features and agitated stance.

Groggy, he ran a hand over his head and stretched. While he wished to go about their marriage in the proper way, where her reputation was not damaged and his not further tainted, he was quite comfortable under the covers. With Henrietta beside him, warming his body, and making him hard with want.

He hadn’t been so affected by a woman—ever. Anne had fulfilled his needs, had made him feel something akin to love. Her station had prevented any notion of marriage, but Simon’s feelings toward her had been genuine.

But Henrietta…changed everything. Never before had he connected with another on a level so deep, so intimate. Simon could not bear the idea of waiting to be with her again.

He had lost himself in her arms, had believed, for the first time since his injury, he could be loved regardless of his damaged appearance. Henrietta had given herself freely, the sheets between them still warm and scented with the earthy musk of their lovemaking.

“Simon,” she whispered, her voice insistent. “You need to leave, please.”

She was right, of course, but God, if he didn’t want to take her again, to have her beneath him, writhing, squealing with pleasure. “I’m up,” he murmured, wickedly, his erection lifting the sheets.

Henrietta blushed, her gaze darting to the floor. She reached for a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, covering her beautiful pink skin still flushed from their early morning exertions.

“You can use the servant entrance,” she said, her voice hushed. “Take three lefts and a right and you should be in the men’s corridor.”

Damn. He wanted to taste her again, to kiss her senseless.

Simon threw off the sheets and strode toward her.

“S-S-Simon,” she hissed. Her eyes widened, the bright golden brown orbs lowering to his bare torso.

He reached her, his hands wrapping around her bundled form and pulling her to him. He lowered his head, pausing inches from her mouth. Her breath tickled his lips, and he kissed her, unable to refuse the instant pleasure they promised.

She relaxed in his arms, the tension leaving her body as her mouth opened, allowing him to tease both of them further.

She gasped, and Simon pushed aside the blanket. His hands ran over her perfect curves, cupping her heavy breast in his hand. Breaking their kiss, he lowered his head and flicked his tongue across her hardened peak. Henrietta arched toward him, her firm breast thrusting farther into his mouth. Simon gladly suckled its warm fullness, his tongue moving over her nipple and eliciting a series of whimpers from her that made him near release into the blanket.

“Simon you must stop,” she whispered in soft little pants. “Should anyone hear…”

Grudgingly, he released his hold and lifted his head.

She shoved her hands onto his chest, a small smile on her lips. “Now go, you brute, before anyone should see you.”

Simon grinned and had bent to retrieve his shirt, when he caught a glimpse of his patch resting on the small table beside the bed.

His hand went to his face, the raised and knotted skin of his injury rough against his fingertips. He had forgotten its absence, his mind distracted by the beauty before him. A beauty who was now, in the early light of dawn, seeing the full extent of the damage done to his face and the hideous result. No wonder she was pushing him away.

She was ashamed.

Uttering an oath, he reached for his patch, when Henrietta’s hand settled on top of his.

“Must you wear it?” she asked. “I’ve seen the indentions the tie leaves in your skin, Simon. It is no wonder you suffer from maladies of the head. The patch and its ties are abrasive. If it is not required for the protection of your eye, I would advise tossing the thing. Your skin needs to breathe….and heal.”

Simon moved back, his hand still beneath hers, his gaze now intently focused on the woman standing half-covered before him.

She never ceased to amaze him. Her proposal was…well, he didn’t quite know what the hell it was, but he had not expected her to suggest that he…that he…not hide behind his eye patch. The notion was plain ludicrous.

“Are you serious?” he asked, certain she was playing some sort of joke.

“Entirely. I’ve never been more serious.” She squeezed his hand, his skin warming at her touch.

He pulled his hand away, along with the silk-covered patch. “I guarantee no else wishes to see what lies underneath.”

“You have nothing to hide. You are innocent, a man greatly wronged—”

“And scarred. The whispers… God, they follow me with the damn patch on. Without it—no.” He shook his head and lifted the stiff patch to his eye, tying the strands firmly behind his head. While beyond relieved Henrietta was not repulsed by his injury, even in the light of day, he was not about to run around without the small measure of protection the patch afforded.

Simon flung his shirt over his head, shrugging it over his shoulders. While stunned by her suggestion, he could not deny the tiny pricks of truth behind it. He
was
hiding behind the patch. His fears. His insecurities. His past…and his heart.

His heart had been stolen by Henrietta’s tiny hands, her acceptance, and her intelligent mind. Simon’s hands shook as he thrust his legs into his breeches. She had somehow taken something he had guarded so tightly…and he was not ready to part with anything else.

“Simon.” Henrietta reached for him, but he pulled away, still shaken by the depth of his affection.

“I need to leave. You were right. It is best if I am not seen until my intent has been declared.”

He snatched up his waist coat and shoved his arms through the holes, not caring if he tore the expensive jacquard. He’d have another one made. He was, after all, the bloody damn Earl of Amhurst.

Who had just claimed his countess, his reputation be damned.

…

Henrietta nibbled her bottom lip and frowned while her hands plunged into a deep pile of earth as she repotted a recently clipped chamomile plant. The early morning sun heated her back, its rays sinking through her knit shawl and the thin muslin of her gown, reminding her of the warmth of Simon’s arms.

He had touched her with such tenderness, had loved her with a gentleness she would never have expected from a man of his impressive height and rough exterior. To deny the excitement pulsing through her at the idea of having him as her husband would be futile at best.

A lifetime would not be long enough to enjoy the pleasures wrought by his embrace.

“He’s on the verge of offering for me, I can feel it.”

Henrietta froze at the voice. A soft breeze caressed her skin, tossing the loose curls on her neck—and sending hushed murmurs of feminine conversation across the garden.

“Has he declared his intentions?”

A high-pitched giggle erupted in the morning stillness. Miss Saxton
.

She hadn’t counted on anyone being up so early, especially Miss Saxton, who should still be recovering from her bout of illness the evening prior. But then, she had seen the physician, a man who routinely prescribed cool fresh air along with short walks to rid the body of ill tempers.

Of all the mornings for the physician’s advice to be followed. Brushing the dirt off her hands, Henrietta scrambled to her feet, slipping between the stone wall and a full bush of rosemary. Heaven forbid the women see her kneeling on the ground, with her hands dirtied, adding yet another offense against her character and another layer of tarnish atop her reputation.

Miss Saxton and Lady Georgiana strolled around the corner of the wall, their covered heads bent low together.

“He has not said so much in words as he has in his behavior toward me.” Miss Saxton linked her arm through Lady Georgiana’s. “He came to my room last night. Chaperoned, of course. To dote on me.”

Lady Georgiana’s eyes widened. “He did?”

“Oh, yes. Under the guise of being a dutiful host and making certain I was on the mend, which of course I was, thanks to his staff’s diligent care, but his eye said otherwise. I am certain he came to gauge the depths of my affection toward him.”
Fear crept up Henrietta’s throat, its icy grasp stealing away her breath.
A dutiful host. His eye.
Singular. As in one. There could only be one person to whom Miss Saxton referred.

“And how deep are your affections toward him?” asked Lady Georgiana.

“Deep enough for me to accept his offer once it is given. The two of us are well-suited. He requires a proper wife, and I, a wealthy husband.”

“But what of the trial and the rumors of his past? Are you not fearful you may befall the same fate as his late mistress and end up…dead?”

Miss Saxton pulled away, her back stiffening. “I am not some fallen woman for him to carelessly cast off. I shall be his wife. With a very powerful and respected father. He wouldn’t dare lay on a hand on me. Not if he wishes my father’s support.”

“Yes, but you cannot disregard what everyone believes to be certain,” said Lady Georgiana.

Miss Saxton lifted her chin. “I trust my father’s judgment. If he is willing to overlook the earl’s past transgressions, then so shall I. Once I become the countess, my father will make certain all this nonsense of the
Black Earl
ceases, never to be circulated again. No doubt the details of someone else’s torrid affairs will surface and take its place.”

Lady Georgiana offered her a feeble smile. “Of course.”

Henrietta flattened herself against the house, shrinking into the shadows as the two women passed.

She had to speak with the earl, had to hear from his own lips, to whom he intended to offer—indeed, if he intended to offer for her at all. Doubt gnawed at her insides, for no matter how much she wished to disregard Miss Saxton’s careless comments, Henrietta could not deny the truth behind them.

Miss Saxton’s father was an influential viscount who could offer Simon something she could not—a clear slate. A fresh start without the whispers.

All she had to offer was a stutter…and her heart.

Slipping back out into the sunlight, she ran along the path in the opposite direction of Lady Georgiana and Miss Saxton. Henrietta bounded through the kitchen doors, past her alcove—and into her sister’s slender form.

“Henrietta?” Sarah’s light brown eyes widened with surprise.

“Sarah, I did not expect to see you here. And so early in the morning. Whatever is the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Wha—well, I have.” Sarah placed a hand to her chest. “You look near as pale as one. Are you feeling well?”

“I am.” Henrietta clenched her teeth. Or at least she had felt well before Miss Saxton had opened her mouth. “You, however, appear piqued. Perhaps you should sit down.” She touched Sarah, who waved off Henrietta’s hand.

“I am fine, just a little taken aback to find you out and about so early in the morning. Were you unable to rest?”

Not with the memory of Simon’s fingers dancing across her skin and his lips flitting over her neck. “I may have had some trouble sleeping.” Her cheeks blazed.

“Did you take some valerian or lemon balm?”

“No, I was just—” Henrietta peered at her sister. “Have you been reading up on plants?”

Easily the most intelligent sibling, Sarah’s thirst for knowledge was expansive, but it did not usually veer to nature, especially flora. Her interests were geared toward historical fact and politics, not earth science.

And yet, her sister had correctly identified not one, but two herbs known to induce slumber.

“Yes,” Sarah said quickly. “The last book I read on Socrates and his criticism of democracy had me curious to look up the poison the Athenians used to sentence him to death. I thought I would find more on hemlock in one of the books Father kept in the library, and well, you know how it is—one page leads to another and then to another, and I fear I read the entire book before everything was said and done.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Sarah was a voracious reader, putting Albina and Henrietta’s piles of completed books to shame. It was not unlike her to read through an entire book in one sitting.

“I was just repotting some chamomile. Over half of the plant’s blossoms had been harvested. The poor thing was severely abused.”

Sarah tilted her head, her face in a familiar expression of contemplation. “Chamomile?”

Henrietta nodded. “Chamomile is also known to induce rest. Perhaps another guest had difficulty sleeping. I only wished they had taken what was needed and not harvested so much. I require some for Sim—” She bit her tongue, the taste of blood sharp in her mouth. “A-a-a healing skin salve.”

Sarah shot her a curious look. “Perhaps they did not know the proper dosage. Likely someone from Miss Saxton’s entourage clipped the flowers. She had a difficult time of it yesterday, and along with restlessness, chamomile is also known to provide relief from stomach cramps.”

“Yes,” Henrietta said slowly. Sarah appeared agitated, as though she had things to accomplish, and one of those things was not standing here, discussing missing herbs with Henrietta. “Are you certain you are well? You seem…distracted.”