This Earl Is on Fire (3 page)

“I'm certain you'll be able to breathe easier by the time you're well enough to leave,” she crooned softly, but there was an edge of determination in her tone. This was the second time she'd mentioned his departure.

Her hands fussed over the bedclothes, tucking them tightly over his chest. A little too tightly for comfort. Then she began kneading his pillows. Again and again. They'd been perfectly fluffed before, but now they were lumpy and forced his chin to his chest.

On the other hand, it wasn't
all
bad. Each time she pushed and molded the feathers, her sweet breath rushed against his lips. The supple, unhindered weight of her bosom pressed against his chest in a combination that was half pleasure, half pain. And as she leaned over him, her hair fell across his face, enveloping him in a curtain of heavy silk and the hint of a perfume he did not recognize.

He focused on the scent, drawing it in bit by bit. It was pure and clean, reminding him of the white blossoms of a pear tree, the first of spring. It was light, almost as if a drop of dew had traversed the petals moments before it touched her skin.

A sudden hunger quickened low in his gut, surprising him. He was used to women and their rosewater, their cloying lily and lilac, and even lavender. Those perfumes were always applied liberally. Pungency concealed all manner of sins, or so some thought. But this fragrance—this unobtrusive essence—stirred him as well as calmed him. An odd combination that left him in need of more.

Despite his nursemaid's better efforts to the contrary, his body relaxed. Not only that, but her ministrations were invaluable at proving that his limbs weren't the only parts of him in working order. The quickening of his gut shifted southward.

“There now. That's better,” she said as if with triumph. “I believe I've been successful in anticipating your need for a plumper pillow. Would you agree?”

He would not. His neck was already starting to cramp. His headache was returning. And if anticipating his
need
had been her aim, then her efforts would have been more valued a degree or two lower.
If she weren't a servant's daughter
, he reminded himself.

Thayne the Reformer would have been proud that Liam had bothered to do so.

“Your question,” he began, drawing in another fragrant breath, “leads me to imagine that you are new to service . . . or that this is your first position as nursemaid.”

“Truly? You believe that I am qualified to be in service?” She lifted away but settled beside him with a small but perceptible bounce. Her enthusiasm was evident.

Confused and a bit terrified, Liam asked, “You are . . . old enough to be in service, aren't you?”

She laughed, and he did his best to ignore the throaty, unreserved sound. “At two and twenty, I imagine I'm far too old to begin, but your words offer a most welcome compliment nonetheless.”

A measure of relief filled him. “Then it is only your father in service.”

Better and better.

“My father? Why ever would you imagine”—she went still, her breath suspended for a moment, until—“
Oh
. I realize the misunderstanding now. After all, we haven't made our introductions, have we? I'm Adeline Pimm. My parents are Serge and Hildebrand Pimm, the Baron and Baroness—”

“A gentleman's daughter?” he interrupted, shock and incredulity biting through him, making him wince.

“I am.”

While her admission answered many questions, it also incited his anger. “Is this some sort of entrapment scheme? Spending time alone . . . in the bedchamber . . . with me, pressing your body against mine . . .” He was panting now. Seething. “Were you hoping that your parents would find us . . . in a compromising position that would force . . . our marriage?”

A similar circumstance had happened in his youth—a falsely innocent invitation that had turned into an ambush by the girl's parents. If not for Mr. Ipley's timely intervention, Liam would have been forced to marry when he was but a lad of seventeen. The young woman had been six years his senior and staring at a life of spinsterhood. Her only goal had been to become a countess. She'd cared nothing for him. And Liam, young, besotted fool that he once had been, had learned his lesson.

Now, more than ten years later, he was still wary of debutantes. They were a cunning lot.

“Compromising position?” Miss Pimm's voice rose as her weight left the bed. “I was fluffing your pillow!”

He scoffed. “You were doing far more than that . . . and you bloody well know it. No society woman of two and twenty is
that
naive.”

Proof of that was in the way he still could feel the tantalizing press of her breasts, taste her breath against his lips and—
damn it all
—breathe in her scent! That was the work of a practiced beguiler, not an innocent. Which was why he preferred the company of expert courtesans and audacious widows, ones whose aim was pleasure without deception.

“For a man who doesn't even remember his own name, you seem to think you know quite a bit about me. You do not know the first thing,” she hissed. “I would never marry you, regardless of the situation, compromising or not.”

“Even to become a countess? I find that hard to believe.” He felt his lip curl into a sneer that cracked open his cut. “I am Liam Cavanaugh, eighth Earl of Wolford.”

By reputation alone, no respectable debutante dared to venture too close for fear of being tainted by association. And that was exactly the way he liked it.

“Well then,
Liam Cavanaugh, eighth Earl of Wolford
, I pity you. Not only because you are obviously an arse of the first order, but because you no longer have a nursemaid. Enjoy the rest of your night. I hope you do not become
too
thirsty.” Then she closed the door with a succinct
click
.

Liam relished the sudden quiet. Hell, he even welcomed the pain. All the better to be rid of that exhausting bit of baggage!

But damn it all, he could really use another drink.

A
s was their habit in the country, the Pimms awoke at dawn. Or at least, Adeline believed the murky gray light beyond the windowpane was the rising sun. She had no view of it, however. All that greeted her was thick fog and an expanse of rooftops and dark windows. And when she opened the sash for an invigorating breath of morning air, all that greeted her was a fetid odor. Not even the stables at home or Mr. Doyle's pigs from down the lane smelled as ripe.

Adeline summarily closed the window.

Mother stepped into the chamber at the same moment and wrinkled her nose. “It will take some time for us to acclimate ourselves to the London air, I imagine. Your father warned me of it years ago, which was one of the reasons I was content to stay in Boswickshire after we married. Otherwise, I would have spent all my days preparing sachets, cloved orange pomanders, and flower vases for every room.”

Mother had been content to remain her entire life in their hamlet. She'd been born on a nearby farm, where generations of her family had lived. In fact, her grandmother had once been a cook for Father's great-grandfather. Then one fateful day, shortly after Father inherited the barony, and while visiting his tenants, he met Mother and instantly fell in love. Or so the story goes. Mother's common birth had never mattered to him. Pimms always married for love.

Yet, in Adeline's opinion, their history was all too unvaried. For her life, she wanted things to change, starting with the fact that she would not marry.

“I hope you were able to sleep,” her mother continued, crossing the room to the wardrobe while Adeline moved to the washstand. “With your window overlooking the street, I'd worried most of the night.”

In the framed oval mirror, she caught her mother's troubled glance before turning back to her task. Adeline knew this trip was going to be hard on her mother. She'd spent the past two decades doing her best to shield Adeline from any sort of unpleasantness. In London there would be no way to do that, not even from a poor night's sleep.

“I slept fine, Mother,” she said, pouring water into the basin. The truth, however, was that the clamor of horse hooves on cobblestone and the jangle of carriages had been constant until a mere hour or two ago. It hadn't helped her sleep. Not that she could have anyway. She'd been too busy fuming over the things their odious guest had said to her.

She glared in the mirror, the blue ring around her brown eyes turning darker from frustration. Liam Cavanaugh, eighth Earl of Wolford, had already made his mind up about her and her family. And his opinion of them was not favorable in the least. It was a first for Adeline—to be judged so harshly after a good deed.

Dipping her hands into the icy water helped to cool her head. Just as long as she didn't think about his insulting accusation.

“We will have to acclimate ourselves to a new schedule while we are here, as well,” Mother said, lifting out a pale blue day dress and giving it a shake. “Like our neighbors, you'll be attending parties until the wee hours of the morning.”

At last, a cheerful thought! A thrill shot through Adeline as she cast aside her irritation for more pleasant prospects. She couldn't wait to experience her first London party. Then of course, there were the shops, museums, the opera, drives through the park and even . . .
Rotten Row
.

A shiver stole over her as she lifted the facecloth away from her nape. Her bright eyes gleamed in the mirror. She'd read accountings of horse races there, and she truly wanted to see one. Not only that, but try it herself—her own hands gripping the reins, the horses under her command, the wind against her face—not forever tucked away inside a carriage. “Do you think we could ride through Hyde Park today?”

“Not today,” Mother said. “A messenger arrived a short while ago with news that the servants will be delayed, possibly even until tomorrow. So we have a few errands to attend to.”

Genuine concern turned Adeline's thoughts away from her own wishes for adventure. “What happened?”

“Nothing too serious. The storm lasted longer than expected, leaving the roads in poor condition. A carriage wheel broke in Banbury,” Mother said, appearing distracted by the task of finding a pair of stockings from the tidy pile of underclothes that Adeline had unpacked. “The inns are full, but thankfully, they are able to stay with Mrs. Harvey's son until the repairs can be made. Though I can only imagine how Mr. Finmore must be grumbling now, checking the pocket watch your father gave him every quarter hour and imagining we are falling apart without him.”

Their butler had been none too happy about Gladwin's impatience to set off for London before the storm, and more so, before the servants. He abhorred a change in schedule. “Then their delay will likely be a blessing for Mr. Finmore. He would have hated to know that we had an unexpected guest.”

“You speak as if you expect the stranger gone soon.”

Adeline didn't like the sound of that. “Of course. He cannot remain here. And . . . he isn't entirely a stranger any longer.” At the reminder, she saw the reflection of her cheeks turn from a healthy pink glow to a feverish rose.

He'd touched her last night. It all started with his arm draped across her legs.

The gesture was understandable, she assured herself. Given his condition, he likely didn't want to be left alone. But then his hand traversed to her hip, causing all sorts of tingles to
traverse
her body. Wondrous, exhilarating tingles that felt like the first step of a new adventure.

She knew in an instant that it was dangerous to be near him. Yet she hadn't been able to leave his side. Hadn't been able to stop touching him in one way or another. It was as if every inch of her flesh craved his nearness. Even now, she wasn't entirely sure if fluffing his pillow had been for him or . . . for
her
.

Another rush of heat flooded her cheeks. Hastily, she picked up the drying cloth and buried her face, not wanting her mother to see.

“He awoke?” Mother asked and received a nod from behind the flannel.

Then Adeline busied herself with dressing, slipping into a chemise trimmed in pink ribbon, followed by her short stays, fashioned to fasten in the front.

From early on, she preferred clothing that didn't require assistance. By request, most of her day dresses were bib-fronted as well. It did not escape her notice, however, that Mother had chosen the only one with buttons along the back.

“That is good news,” Mother said, finding the stocking's mate before walking toward Adeline. “Your father and I checked on him a short while ago and found him sleeping. Your father lingered behind to sit with him while I slipped down to the kitchen to make a pot of porridge and put the kettle on the fire.” Gathering up the hem of the dress, she lifted it to Adeline's head.

Adeline looked pointedly at her mother. “I am able to dress myself. I have been for quite some time.”

“I'm not trying to diminish your ability, dear. Merely enjoying the fact that I have you all to myself. At least for now.”

Adeline wondered if her mother
had
noticed her reaction to Liam yesterday morning. The undesired potency of it still remained, lingering beneath her skin the way a too-hot bath left her warm long after slipping from the water. Which only served to remind her that the sooner they were rid of the earl, the better. She was about to say as much, but before she could, Mother slipped the dress over her head and spun her around.

“Did our guest manage to speak? Do you know his name?” Mother asked as Adeline pushed her arms through the short puffed sleeves.

When Mother began fastening the buttons down the back, Adeline's hair got in the way. It was a common enough occurrence that she lifted the heavy mass without thinking and tied it into a knot. But it slipped free, uncoiling like a fat rope. “We exchanged a few words, yes. He is the
Earl of Wolford
.”

“Hmm . . . The last I knew of my daughter, she was not one to harbor prejudice over those who were born into the peerage, or even those out of it, for that matter. So I am left to assume it is not the title that bothers you but the man himself.”

Adeline thought she managed to withhold mockery from her tone. Apparently not. Thinking back to last night, her irritation returned. “Once we made our introductions, he accused me of having ulterior motives for tending to him.”

“I can see why you would take offense,” Mother said, plaiting Adeline's hair. “In our village, no one has ever questioned our generosity. But perhaps our guest has not been quite so fortunate with his own acquaintances.”

Adeline was unmoved. “Even after all I had done—remaining beside him day and night—his first inclination was to mistrust me.”

With the braid finished, Mother placed a hand over the curve of Adeline's shoulder. “That tells us a great deal, does it not? A man who cannot trust the kindness of a stranger must have learned not to do at some time in his life.”

Adeline grumbled, nursing her own wounded ego. Reluctantly, a fresh spark of concern kindled for that horrible man. “I suppose.”

“There is another matter to consider as well. He is a man who awoke in a strange place, injured and unable to see. Perhaps
fear
could explain what resulted in a tense exchange?”

Bother
. Mother was right. Adeline should have come to the same conclusion. After all, who wouldn't be frightened under such a circumstance? Now she felt as if she should have been more understanding instead of quick to temper. “Likely, he has hordes of people who are worried about him and will see to his care.”

“I'm afraid to tell you that a missive arrived from Uncle Peirce earlier as well,” Mother continued, returning to the wardrobe. “He recommended that we not allow the stranger to move or even to remove his bandages for another day, at least. He states that the blows to his head could lead to a sensitivity to light and sound that could be quite harmful. Perhaps even cause permanent injury. It seems as if he will be remaining with us for a short while longer.”

Remain here
and
without the servants to tend him? No. That would not do. Adeline would be forced to see him again. The very notion caused wayward tingles to whisper over her skin. Her body, it seemed, was still ignorant of her decision to ignore her response to him. And blind to the threat he posed—

Adeline came to a halt on her way to the vanity for hairpins. Just now, she'd witnessed her doddering gait in the mirror and winced. Strange, but at times she forgot about her leg.

All at once, she realized that she had no cause to worry. After all, even if she did feel drawn to him, likely he would not want the attentions of a lame young woman. From previous experience, she knew there were only two ways that men reacted to her—pity or revulsion.

Of course, everyone in the village already knew about her limb. Liam Cavanaugh, eighth Earl of Wolford did not. Nor did anyone in London. If it were up to her, she would keep it that way.

Which meant that she would continue with her tasks as if she were like any other young woman—strong, capable, and completely unaffected by the memory of his touch.

L
iam did not know what to think about Lord Boswick. By all accounts, he was just as informal as his daughter, immediately asking Liam to abandon all the
Lord Boswick nonsense.

“You may address me as Boswick, Pimm, or even Serge if it suits you,” he said a few moments ago, during his examination. And when Liam asked if he was a physician, he went into a lengthy explanation of an Uncle Peirce, listing all of
his
accomplishments.

Liam still didn't know if Boswick knew what he was doing. Or if he was a well-enunciating lunatic. Members of Liam's coterie did not poke and prod each other in order to heal a wound. They
hired
physicians for that sort of thing.
Nor
, Liam thought, embarrassed,
did they tend to a guest's chamber pot.
Not even his own valet would have done so. Then again, Neville was rather squeamish.

And while none of his acquaintances had daughters of two and twenty, he was certain they would never allow their offspring to play nursemaid.

“Have you no servants, Boswick?” he asked when his host returned to the room, clipped, heavy footfalls announcing his approach.

The baron stopped beside the bed and audibly slid the pot underneath—likely so that Liam would not have to hunt around in the dark for it.

“I do,” Boswick said. “Unfortunately, the servants were first delayed by a storm and now—for I received word just this morning—due to a broken strut on the carriage.”

Which meant they would both be forced to endure this intimacy a short while longer. Though Liam had to wonder if it disturbed Boswick at all. He certainly never let on that he was inconvenienced in any way. That notwithstanding, most members of the
ton
knew how to feign sincerity. They could smile behind their fans just as easily as plunging a dagger into your back without even a twitch in their countenance.

Yet with Boswick, there was no underlying tone of falsity or derision. In fact, he made Liam feel almost . . . welcome. What an odd fellow.

“And to answer the next obvious question,” Boswick continued, “yes. I realize my practices and even my mannerisms are rather unconventional by society's standards. After all, I spent the first years of my life with nannies and tutors, like any young man who expected to inherit a barony. I saw my parents once a week for the required recitation of my studies, as is commonplace. At ten, I went off to school and returned home only for holiday. I barely knew my parents before they died. And in the years that followed, I discovered that the person who'd made the biggest impact on my life had not been my father but my—”

“Uncle Peirce,” Liam interjected, coming to something of an understanding of his host. In fact, Liam's father had shared similar stories of his own upbringing. Perhaps that had been the reason his father had taken on the role of Liam's tutor himself. Liam had not known until he'd gone to Eton how unconventional
that
had been.