When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) (10 page)

“I am so very happy to see you again.” Her words were a murmur, her cheeks now blushing becomingly, her breathing fast.

He was happier to see her. And he should not be. Could not be.

The truth was as immutable as it had been three months earlier when he’d first set eyes upon her—he could not have Viola Darling. Not unless she could be content as his childless mistress. Impossible. And, somehow, deeply wrong. She deserved to be a wife. Cherished. Loved.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said the butler. “Miss Darling, if you are so inclined, I will show you to your chamber.”

“Ah, yes.” She grinned at the servant. “Thank you, Nash.” Giving James a glance from beneath her lashes, she murmured, “I look forward to seeing you again, my lord.”

He opened his mouth to contradict her, but all he could say was, “Tannenbrook.”

She shot him a mischievous glance over her shoulder and followed the butler out of the hall.

Behind him, he felt the presence of another stubborn, willful female. “Even for a Scottish stonemason, you are astonishingly dense.”

“Have you sent the letter yet?”

The dowager sniffed. “No.”

He glared into her eyes and uttered through a clenched jaw. “Do not speak to me again until you do.”

Then, he stalked from the grand hall, traversed the long, windowed gallery, threw open the doors leading to the garden, and slammed them closed at a near run. He must escape from this place. Escape from her. Before he lost his senses and chased Miss Viola Darling straight into a life of scandal.

*~*~*

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Have you contemplated bribery? It is not so outrageous a suggestion. Bribery is a time-honored method of securing a match, particularly when seduction fails, as it appears to have done with you.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Charles, upon learning of a certain widow’s avoidance of moonlit gardens and attempted kisses.

Cringing inside as her third finger plucked her fifth mistimed note, Viola nevertheless maintained a placid expression. She was, after all, playing the harp—dreadfully—before all of Lady Wallingham’s guests. Penelope accompanied her on the pianoforte, keeping perfect time and striking every note correctly, if not elegantly. The music room was as cavernous as all the other rooms at Grimsgate, so Viola’s errors echoed against white painted paneling and rich oak floors, a resounding reminder of her poor musicianship.

She tried to focus upon her breathing and posture, the demands of the harp’s pedals, and the positioning of her fingers, but her mind stubbornly wandered back to him, to their grand moment of connection in the grand hall. She’d been so certain that it signified a turning point in her Tannenbrook Hunt that she had brazenly commandeered one of Lady Wallingham’s gigs to follow him on a visit to Charlotte’s new home, Chatwick Hall, which neighbored Grimsgate. There, she had hoped not only to discover how her dearest friend was faring in her marriage to Rutherford, but perhaps to spend more time with James alone—or, at least, more alone than they were permitted at the castle. Instead, he had reverted to the Tannenbrook she’d encountered often during the season—brusque, abrupt, and desperate to escape her company.

When she had stood in Charlotte’s kitchen garden and pretended surprise by claiming not to have noticed him standing ten feet away, he had replied in a low rumble, “Of course you didn’t. Nor did you follow me. Nor are you the veriest thorn in my side.” Then, fury blazing, he had stalked past her to leave, pausing only long enough to growl, “Perhaps the next thing you should
not
do is grant me five minutes of blasted peace.”

His words had struck her like being shoved into frigid water, coming as they did a day after he had gazed upon her with near reverence, laying her wayward glove in her hand like a supplicant’s offering. Charlotte had advised that Viola give him room to breathe. But she could not. And she could not bear explaining to Charlotte that she was running out of time.

Now, her fingers rushed to catch up with Penelope’s pace, but her eyes drifted to where he stood at the back of the room near a window. He kept his arms folded across his chest, leaned those massive shoulders against the paneled wall.

And he watched her.

For him alone, she wished to play well. But she had never quite mastered the art.

Her papa was beaming, of course, seated next to Mrs. Cumberland, who naturally was gowned in gray silk. Viola returned his smile, her own feeling a bit wobbly. Next, she noted Lady Wallingham’s glowering wince. And the calm forbearance of her solemn-eyed son, Lord Wallingham. And the rapt expressions of four young gentlemen in the front row who appeared to be rather preoccupied with her gown. She supposed the lilac hue was rather fetching, but she suspected the bodice in particular held their interest. The neckline scooped quite low.

At last, the final chords of the tune they played approached. She strummed them with a flourish and listened as the odd smattering of polite applause contrasted with the bravos of the bodice admirers.

“It was supposed to be three-four,” her cousin hissed as they stood for a curtsy. “What tune were you playing?”

Viola sighed. “I was distracted.”

“Obviously. You sounded even worse than usual.”

As they moved toward the now milling crowd, Viola rose up on her toes to glimpse Tannenbrook, but she was soon surrounded by gentlemen vying to describe her performance as “splendiferous” and “transcendent” and “heavenly” and “angelic.” She wanted to roll her eyes, but that would be rude, so instead she smiled and thanked them for their kindness.

A rather odiferous Sir Barnabus Malby sought to lay a kiss upon her bare hand, but she managed to evade him by turning away to don her silk gloves and ask Lord Underwood’s younger brother about his favorite composer.

All the while, beneath her skin, she bubbled and burned, ached and yearned. For James.

Earlier that day, she had asked Charlotte about her relationship with Rutherford. She’d asked whether the man had kissed her yet, for, in her correspondence, Charlotte had only described their marriage as a business partnership. And yet, Viola had sensed in her letters a budding admiration—even affection—for the devilish lord.

That morning, Charlotte had confirmed Viola’s suspicions with a blushing description of her husband’s kiss and an admission that she had lost her heart. A short while later, Viola had understood why—Benedict Chatham was much changed from the man he had been. Physically, he was bigger about the shoulders and neck, his leanness now that of muscularity rather than deterioration, his color that of a man who had taken up
farming,
of all things. One quality that hadn’t changed was the look in his extraordinary turquoise eyes—that of a hungry wolf. Only now, he gazed at Charlotte as though he intended to devour his wife freckle by freckle.

It had given Viola a notion. Perhaps it was foolish, but she was growing desperate.

She must persuade Tannenbrook to kiss her.

Even now, the thought made her heart pound like a great drum in her ears, drowning out the voices of the gentlemen arguing over whose music room would better suit Viola’s musical “talents.”

She went in search of him, making her excuses and stopping briefly to accept Papa’s kiss upon her cheek, before crossing the room to where James had stood.

But he was gone.

“I recommend a stroll about the gardens.”

She spun to see the dowager behind her, a blue feather bobbing as the lady fanned herself with matching blue lace.

“The fountain in particular is lovely in the moonlight.”

“Oh! I—that is, I was only wondering—”

“The gardens, dear girl,” Lady Wallingham said, turning away to speak with Lady Gattingford.

Quickly looking about to ensure no one watched her, Viola slid along the edge of the room, then escaped through the doors into a dark hall lit with tapers. She gathered the silk of her skirts and walked as swiftly as she could toward the rear gallery where the doors opened onto the terrace.

This night, the moon was high and full, the light lending the winding hedges and profuse plantings a silvery magic. Here, away from the coal smoke of London, thousands of stars twinkled like diamond dust on a velvety blue sky. She closed her eyes briefly and breathed the air, soft as a Kashmiri shawl against her skin, smelling faintly of new roses and the nearby sea. She took the terrace steps quickly, hoping Lady Wallingham had not misled her.

She found him sitting on the fountain’s edge, his hands to either side of his thighs gripping the stone, his head hung forward as though in pain. Her slippers crunched lightly on the gravel. Her heart thrummed in her ears. Her skin tingled with strange heat.

“James,” she murmured, drawn helplessly forward.

His head came up. Silver light and black shadows played over the crags of his brow and nose and jaw. But all she could see were his eyes, tormented and lost.

She reached him in seconds, her hands sliding over his jaw. She wished she’d thought to remove her gloves, but she hadn’t time. She stroked his lips with her thumb, his flexing jaw with her fingers. It was not enough. She bent to kiss him.

But he grasped her wrists and pushed her away before her mouth touched skin.

“James,” she breathed again. “I …”

His chest worked like a bellows. Suddenly he stood, his overwhelming intrusion forcing her backward, but he still gripped her wrists, holding her fast.

“Why must you do this?” He ground out the words in a harsh rumble. “I cannot marry you, Viola. Tempting me will only invite scandal.”

“Kiss me,” she pleaded, uncaring that she sounded desperate. She
was
desperate. “Give me this one small thing.”

“You do not belong with me.” He shook her wrists, moving one of them in front of her eyes so she could not avoid seeing where his huge hand encircled her arm. “Look.” His face came closer to hers. “Do you see? I could snap your bones in two with one careless move, you are so fine.”

“Oh, James. I have never feared your strength.”

“Bluidy hell, lass,” he muttered, an unexpected brogue emerging. His swallow was visible in his throat. He let their hands fall together, but he did not let her go. “You don’t want me. I am no better than the stones beneath your feet.”

“How can you believe that? I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.” She laughed in disbelief. “Before that, even. Charlotte described how you defended her, and I fell madly—”

“No, lass.”

“—in love with you.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“It is true. You may choose not to believe me, but it is the truest thing I know. And if only you will kiss me—”

“I cannot kiss you.”

“Yes.” She nodded and tried to move closer to him, but their hands were in the way. “Please, James. I’ve laid everything at your feet. My pride?” She laughed. “It is nothing. It was the first thing to go.”

“I cannot. Marry. You.” The words were rusted and hoarse.

She swallowed, blinking up at him, her bones squeezing her heart until it felt strangled. “I have only until the end of this party.” Something warm and wet slid down her cheek. “Then, I must choose. Please. I cannot wait any longer for you to come to your senses.”

A ferocious glower took that heavy brow. Eyes already burning with intensity flashed an ominous white and black. “Choose?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “A—a husband. My father has no funds for another season. And he has already waited too long to find happiness with Mrs. Cumberland. I must accept an offer before autumn. For his sake.”

His breathing roughened. His thumbs stroked the insides of her wrists.

She inched into him. “This is why I have pushed you so. You are …” She swallowed again. “It is not just that you are the one I want. You are the
only
one I want.”

“Certain of that, are you?” His voice had worn down to a thread, his eyes all but burning her flesh. “Have you any idea who I really am, lass?”

“You are the man I love.”

“No.”

“Then prove me wrong. Kiss me.”

He was panting now, his eyes upon her lips. “You’ve been kissed many times, no doubt.”

She shook her head. “Never by you.”

He groaned and closed his eyes, loosening his grip upon her wrists.

She took the opportunity to step into him, to draw his huge, wondrous hands to her waist, to raise her mouth toward his. “Kiss me,” she whispered again.

His eyes opened above hers. “I am not the man for you.”

She said nothing, unable to speak for the beauty of this night, of feeling his heat against her, albeit through layers of silk and linen.

“This means nothing.”

Again, she simply waited, loving the way bright silver played with his thick hair, savoring the scent of his skin. Like pines around a lake.

“Let this be the end of it, lass.” It sounded like a plea.

Then, his head was lowering. His eyes loved her lips first, stroking over them as though he would commit her to memory.

But that was nothing compared to the first touch of his mouth. The heat of his skin against hers. The soft caress of his lips. The tingle of his bristled chin sliding against her. His nose angled beside hers.

She gasped as the sensations spun and coalesced. She pulled his breath into her. Pine and summer and heat and James. Sliding her hands up his arms to his shoulders, then to his muscled neck, then to his precious jaw, she pulled him closer. Kissed him harder. Wanted inside.

“Mvolah.” His incomprehensible word vibrated deliciously against her lips. His hands gripped her waist harder. His head tugged away, creating intolerable distance between their mouths.

“Again,” she moaned. “Please.”

There was little warning. Only an explosion of heat in his eyes and a low, rumbling groan in his chest. Then his arm was behind her back. And she was leaving the graveled ground. And her breasts were flattened deliciously against his chest. And her face was nearly level with his. And his other hand was gripping her nape, his fingers shaping her jaw from behind.

And his mouth was grinding against hers. And his tongue—his
tongue
—was sliding hot and slick and a little salty inside her mouth. Oh, Charlotte had mentioned that kisses involved tongues, but it still made her squeak in surprise.

His mouth was open against her, his tongue stroking in the most intriguing way, pulsing in and out, exploring her teeth and lips. She experimented by mimicking his motions, and his grip tightened all around her. She squeaked again, but she clawed his hair in both her hands, her knees rising along his hips, frustrated by her skirts.