To Tempt an Earl (33 page)

There was no need to be impatient or
hurried.

Bethanny stirred and pressed into him
further.

However, this time he wasn't able to stifle
the groan, and it came out as a hoarse croak.

"Good morning," she murmured, her eyes far
too bright for one to have just awakened.

"Minx. But I must say your choice of torture
is quite persuasive," he mumbled as he kissed her deeply.

"Is that so?" she purred against his
lips.

"Hmm."

Hang rest,
Graham thought as he once
again sought the intensely captivating pleasure found in his wife's
arms.

Afterward, Graham caressed the soft, inviting
skin of her shoulder. "I almost feel as though I'm in danger of
waking up."

Bethanny shifted so that she met his gaze. "I
understand entirely." Her gaze was so perfectly clear, so full of
love it was almost blinding to behold.

"It seems so inadequate… but, I love you.
Utterly, completely love you." He leaned forward and kissed her
nose.

"I think I love you more," she replied
softly.

"I highly doubt that." Graham chuckled and
pulled her in closer.

"It's true. You know why?" Bethanny glanced
up at him, a twinkle in her eye.

"Why then? Though I must add that I will not
agree to the validity of your argument."

"Very well. But I love you more because I
loved you
first."
She raised a daring eyebrow for
emphasis.

Graham chuckled, tickling her ribs and
earning a squeal.

He was going to enjoy teasing her for the
rest of their lives.

Teasing and tasting.

It was a beautiful combination.

"You might have loved me first…" Graham
growled as he leaned into ravage her mouth, "but I most assuredly
love you the most," he murmured as he trailed kisses down to her
navel and paused, glancing up at her.

"And why is that?" She grinned, though he
could see the passion building in her eyes.

Graham shifted so that he was facing her once
more. Tenderly touching her face, he trailed his fingers down her
brow and over her cheeks to the sweet temptation of her lips. "You
know… how about I simply show you… for the next fifty or so years?"
He grinned.

"Fifty at least," Bethanny agreed and pulled
him into her embrace.

At least fifty.

"What do you
mean,
it's Beatrix?" Graham narrowed his eyes as he studied Neville as
the gentleman swirled brandy around the crystal glass, staring at
it.

"I cannot say… other than our first
assumption was that the threat was aimed at the eldest — your wife.
It seems that after her marriage to you, she was no longer a
threat, or threatened, however you look at it." Neville exhaled
tightly, his body a ridged pose of tension. "We are taking every
effort to assure that Miss Lamont is completely safe."

"I'm sure you are," Graham ground out. This
wasn't good. Heaven only knew what his wife would do when she found
out her sister was the prime target in such danger. As it was, the
duke hadn't informed her or her sisters of the possible threat.

Unfortunately, Graham hadn't known that when
he addressed the topic with Bethanny. His poor wife had gone white;
then as the news apparently settled, she'd turned a rather fetching
and dangerous shade of red.

And after her display of temper — aimed the
unnamed persons providing the threat — he'd decided that his wife
just might be able to take care of herself as well. And he'd
assumed that Beatrix and Berty were more like their sister than
Neville imagined. However, that didn't mean that they should take
the threat lightly; no, it simply gave Graham a small amount of
peace, knowing that his wife wasn't as helpless as he'd originally
thought.

"I simply wanted you to be aware of the
situation." Neville stood. Striding to the sideboard, he placed his
half-empty glass upon it and made his way to the door.

"Pardon me, my Lord, but—"Whitaker began but
was interrupted by the roar of the Duke of Clairmont.

"Graham! For pity sake, move, old man."
Clairmont blustered through the door, practically knocking Whitaker
over in the process. "You!" Clairmont paused and narrowed his eyes
at Neville. Slowly, he took menacing steps toward him. "You said it
was a threat, you didn't say—" Clairmont didn't finish his
sentence; rather, he swung and hit Neville directly in the jaw,
sending the man stumbling backward.

To Neville's credit, he didn't let the
powerful impact level him; reasonably, he rolled his shoulders and
wiped the blood from his mouth.

"She's gone," Clairmont spat, his voice
shaking with a fury born of fear.

"Who?" Neville whispered, though his face
turned white, and his fists clenched.

"Beatrix, you bloody bastard! She's been
taken!"

Graham felt his blood run cold.

"No," Neville whispered, the sound
hoarse.

"Yes," Clairmont responded, his voice just as
hoarse and broken.

"Good Lord, tell me you have something to go
on, some lead to find her," Graham spoke up, striding toward
them.

At his question, Neville eyes snapped from
their horrorstricken expression and transformed him into a man with
a vendetta, with a mission he'd not fail. "I have my suspicions…
but know this. I
will
find her." He swore, his dark eyes
resolute, his voice cold with purpose.

"See that you do, or do not come back at
all," Clairmont threatened and turned to leave. "I have a family
that needs me, and you…" he turned back to Neville, "fail this and
I'll make sure you have nothing."

Graham watched as his friend left with a dark
scowl, his very steps threatening.

"If she's lost, I'll have nothing
regardless." Graham heard Neville whisper a moment before he left
the room, his form engulfed in shadows before his footsteps down
the hall.

Graham exhaled a tired breath.

He had to tell Bethanny.

Don't miss Beatrix's story. Coming soon.

CHAPTER ONE

Charles Evermore,
Duke
of Clairmont, glared at his solicitor, narrowing his
eyes until he could no longer see the small framed man before him.
There had to be a mistake. There was no other explanation for the
words coming from the man's mouth.

"Your grace, if you'll simply read the
documentation for yourself…" Mr. Burrows spoke with practiced
patience.

Charles stood and stalked around the desk,
ripping the papers from his grasp. Mr. Burrows leaned back, folding
his hands and watching Charles with unaffected impassivity. Not for
the first time, Charles thought the man looked like a praying
mantis, all long and lean with exceedingly large eyes and a patient
demeanor that was all to deceptive.

But he was the best solicitor available.

He had better be for what Charles paid for
his services.

"If you'll start on the second page…" Mr.
Burrows suggested.

Charles read the endless prattle of legal
terms until his eyes focused on the chilling phrase.

Wards.

Three girls, to be exact. Ranging from ages
seven to sixteen.

And, as heaven stood by laughing, he was to
be their guardian.

Charles stared at the words, willing them to
disappear. He hadn't the time, the energy, or the inclination to
take over the raising of three insufferable miniature females! He
could hardly tolerate his mistresses, and they were full grown and
low maintenance! He studied the rest of the document, searching for
any other names that might take this plight away from him.

"You're likely curious as to why you were
chosen," Mr. Burrows suggested.

"The question had crossed my mind." Charles
remarked sarcastically.

Mr. Burrows wisely ignored the duke's surly
attitude. "It was a tragedy, to be sure. The poor girls lost both
parents in a carriage accident—"

"And there were no aunts or uncle to take
them in?" Charles interrupted.

Mr. Burrows simply blinked, raising his
eyebrows slightly and waiting.

"Carry on." Charles waved his hand, somewhat
chagrined at his idiotic question. After all, if there
were
a spinster aunt or bachelor uncle, hell, any relative at all, they
wouldn't be given to him as wards.

"As I was saying…" Mr. Burrows shot Charles a
pointed gaze. "The girls were left quite without any family. Only
providence connected them with you, your grace. You see, they are
actually your mother's second cousins, God rest her soul."

"So I'm the urchins' cousin? Bloody perfect."
Charles mumbled under his breath.

"So it would seem." Mr. Burrows stood,
collecting the papers from Charles's outstretched hand. "You'll not
need to worry about a dowry or any such things for the young
ladies. Their parents left them quite a bit of wealth. However, I
would suggest you begin a search for a proper governess."

"Bloody hell, another female in my house.
Exactly what I need."

"Yes, well, that female might be your
salvation in helping you train the children into young ladies.
After all, they'll need to someday make a match."

"That's the only way I'm ever going to be rid
of them, isn't it?" Charles combed back his jet-black hair with his
hand, feeling a miserable headache beginning at the base of his
neck.

"Perhaps." Mr. Burrows nodded and turned
away, but not before Charles saw the slightest hint of a grin. "The
young ladies will arrive in a few days, I expect. If you need
anything more, you know where to reach me. Good night, your grace."
Mr. Burrows paused at the door.

"Good night, Mr. Burrows."

Charles strode over to the fire, studying the
orange and red flames. Truly, this was the worst sort of news. At
three and thirty, he wasn't necessarily old, but he was quite
accustomed and comfortable with his way of life. Oh, he knew
eventually he'd have to suffer through a woman's presence enough to
marry her and produce an heir, but he still figured he had at least
five years before that would be necessary.

And to be sure, he was waiting until it was
absolutely necessary.

A few days, a mere forty-eight hours and his
entire existence would be in upheaval. To think, only four hours
ago he was looking forward to a cozy evening with Céline, the opera
diva he had sequestered in a little townhouse not far away. Under
the present circumstances, he no longer was looking forward to
anything. Rather, he was quite content to stand before the fire and
feel sorry for himself.

Of course! He could take the girls to the
country and leave them there with a governess.

Why hadn't he thought of it before? It was a
stroke of brilliance. He needn't have his life interrupted after
all! Surely the young ladies wouldn't want him around anyhow. Why,
he'd only be in the way. A governess would be infinity more
suitable for them. He needn't interfere!

Suddenly the evening was brighter, even the
fire cast a cheerier glow about the room. All he had to do was
secure a governess. And that couldn't be hard to do. He'd simply
inquire about and interview prospective persons. Better yet, Mrs.
Pott, the housekeeper, could interview. She'd be far more capable
and wise in knowing what made a good governess.

Charles congratulated himself on his
brilliant plan and to celebrate, strode over to the liquor cabinet,
and poured himself a glass of amber-colored brandy.

"Cheers," he murmured.

Already those girls were as good as gone.

Two Days Later, Near Bath.

Mr. Burrows regarded his young client,
impressed with the poise and grace in one so young. Why, she
couldn't be a day over eighteen. Miss Carlotta Standhope was
uncommonly pretty, it was a shame that she'd not have a come out.
The
ton
would have celebrated her golden hair and clear
green eyes, but it was her character that made her supremely
appealing, he decided.