Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings) (8 page)

BOOK: Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings)
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“You’re hurting me,” she whispered. “Please.”

He released her. She slumped into the chair, but her heart kept a wild thump against her ribs. The earl’s chest rose and fell with rapid, deep breaths. He looked away from her and rubbed his scarred cheek.

“I’m not sure what to make of you, Miss Montgomery. I realize this has been a most unusual night.” Lord Greenwich’s gaze slid sideways back to her, as if adding up the sum of the evening’s parts. “On the one hand, you appear lovely and sometimes well spoken. On the other, you tend toward the com—” He stopped himself.

“Common.” She supplied the unfinished word, holding her head high.

“Yes.” He shrugged quick agreement.

“You don’t insult me with the truth. I am exactly what you see, my lord: an honest, barely educated, commoner of some past disrepute.” She dared a cheeky introduction of her own and tipped her head to him. “Miss Lydia Anne Montgomery of nowhere important.”

The scarred corner of his lordship’s mouth curved up, giving him a dangerous, if humored, brigand’s smile. That miniscule change shifted awareness; they were an arm’s length apart, and all of her sensed him, as if they touched. Both had been deceived this evening and were sorting through the confusion, but excitement ebbed, and a crashing wave of weariness claimed Lydia as she rose from the chair.

“You understand, then, I must leave in the morning. We can put this unusual arrangement behind us, and you’re free to search for a more suitable wife.”

She gave the quiet pronouncement and moved to go. Lord Greenwich’s hand stopped her. His long fingers slid over her velvet-clad arm, stopping at her elbow.

“Wait. Please. I’ve developed a bad habit of underestimating you. You are something of a riddle.”

Complexity, then, was not an unwelcome attribute for the Earl of Greenwich. They stood rather close, and in his room, the informality of their attire was not lost on her. Another flush prickled her skin, and one hand clutched the robe’s collar high under her chin.

“I’ve come to think the same about you, my lord, in our short acquaintance.” Her head canted to the side. She was unsure of what to make of this new turn.

He motioned to his chair. “Please.”

Lydia, her eyes hazed with sleepiness, expected Lord Greenwich to be glad to wash his hands of this mess—of her—but she took the proffered seat. She couldn’t refuse him. His lordship straddled the footstool facing her, bracing both hands on his knees.

He took a deep breath, and his chest expanded under the linen weave of his shirt. “I state the obvious when I point out we’re both tired and not in the best frame of mind. Nor were matters helped that we were caught off guard this evening.”

“A few surprises, to say the least.”

Sitting this close, she noticed his shirt stretched across his shoulders. Edges of deep scars showed through pale linen.

“But there is the matter of your family’s dubious circumstances, and I still need a wife. Soon, as a matter of fact.” He paused, as if he chose his words with care. “A woman of experience isn’t necessarily a bad thing in these circumstances, is it?”

Her back stiffened.

“We’ve already established what you think about—”

“Hear me out. Please.”

His last word, less commanding, put her on equal footing. The dangerous brigand turned into a reasonable barrister laying out his middle-of-the-night case with persuasive gentility.

“Go on.”

“At the inn, you asked for freedom to pursue what you will. Why not here? With the full weight of the Greenwich name to support you? And there is the matter of your mother’s best interests…how you can best aid her.” His hands opened in appeal. “I’m happy to offer her my protection, if that helps. Besides, our arrangement ought to work well. Almost all my time’s devoted to my work. You’d be left to your own pursuits.” He finished with a rueful smile. “Most marital unions follow a similar formula with great success.”

Fire haloed his shoulders and tawny hair from behind, casting a golden glow around Lord Greenwich. The dangerous brigand turned reasonable barrister was now an archangel with frightening appeal. Her head drooped as all of her fell prey to the lure he set.

When was the last time a man proposed something beneficial to her?

The offer was no longer a mad scheme, but began to sound logical, even congenial. With the Greenwich name, she’d be more likely to help her mother, too. Exhaustion pressed her from all sides, and Lydia nodded.

“I’ll stay.”

“Good. I’m glad we were able to have our discussion now.” He smiled, and faint lines creased the corners of his eyes.

Somewhere in her chest, warmth swelled into a faint connection with him. Under that pleasantness, her eyelids drooped. Lydia wanted to ask for a blanket and curl up in his large chair, such was her tiredness and ease at that moment. An ember snapped and crackled behind the earl, and the fire sent a spray of sparks. Lord Greenwich got up and took the poker from its iron stand, jabbing the cozy blaze.

“There is one thing,” he said, turning around to face her.

“What’s that?”

“We’ll wait one month, a necessary precaution, if you will. It will stress my timeline”—his full lips pressed into a flat line, looking like all the world pressed down on him—“but it must be.”

His shoulders bunched under his shirt as he leaned both hands on the iron poker.

“A month?” She shook her head, confused, until hot truth hit her.

He said nothing, but his pointed gaze spoke volumes. That warm swell toward the earl, a tiny but growing thing, dissolved into lukewarm puddles of hard wax.

“Of course. You mean to wait for some assurance that I’m not already pregnant.” The words came flat and lifeless.

The way his eyebrows furrowed into a straight line, Lord Greenwich’s face reflected a grim barrister bearing judgment on the convicted. Was he waiting for her to burst into dreaded histrionics? The earl acted as judge and jury: to him, she equaled some kind of blowsy wench. Hadn’t he already said as much? Neck-stretching pride stopped her from saying anything further. She wouldn’t stoop to defend herself. None was needed.

The province of a woman’s life was never truly her own. Men could drop their drawers as often as they pleased, but women always paid the price. Lydia’s smile stretched into a tight line.

“Of course. One month.”

She rose stiffly from the chair, chin tipped high to his stare that she was sure followed her. At the door, she mustered every last ounce of good manners for the final courtesy.

“Good night, milord.”

His lordship surprised her and set a hand on his chest and gave her a chivalrous bow.

“Good night, Miss Montgomery.”

Was there a flicker of regret in his eyes?

Lydia slipped into the other room and shut the door between them. Molded panels pressed her back. She stared at nothing in particular, disappointed that his lordship was no different than other men after all. Nor did he think well of her. The very notion stung deeply.

Six

Women are a necessary evil.

—Proverb

Excruciating need for a forbidden woman never made a good start to a man’s day. Edward climbed out of bed, and every inch of his body roused to the knowledge of Miss Montgomery’s proximity beyond the adjoining door. Some parts stirred more than others, but the worst of it? The lady in question was prohibited and by his own proclamation—a classic paradox.

All the more reason to lose himself in the blessed focus of work: science gave her siren’s call, and she tolerated no competition.

Scraping blade to skin in smooth strokes, Edward acknowledged harsh facts in tepid morning light; a woman invaded his well-ordered world last night, and he raised the gates, letting her in under the interest of familial duty. Yet his gaze wandered to that adjoining door through which she charged unwelcomed last eve. Was he too hasty with that month-long demand?

A nasty nick to his chin brought him back. A spot of blood swelled, and a thin line of red streaked the iron blade with sanguine warning:
proceed
with
caution
.

Edward moved through the quiet house and found his way to the center of his world, his greenhouse. With the rough wood of his workbench under his palms, rich soil perfumed the air, anchoring vast arrays of plants begging to be studied. Yet Miss Lydia Montgomery, wrapped in virginal white velvet, kept dancing before him.

Edward squeezed his eyes shut then spread them wide. He blinked and tried again to examine the white blossom under the magnification glass. Fimbriate petals morphed into a chocolate-haired woman with a proud walk and delectable form wrapped in white velvet.

A
chocolate-haired woman?

He rolled his eyes. “Next I’ll compose sonnets in her honor.”

Edward was certain his one-month requirement insulted her, but the rationale of simple biology won the day.

He tried once more to reassemble his thoughts. The open journal filled with tables of facts and measurements, his deplorable chicken-scratch notes, and messy diagrams failed to bring typical clarity. Palms flattened on the workbench, Edward’s chin hit his chest, and the placket of his breeches brushed the table’s edge. Yes, mindless, baser parts of him sung their own tune, praising the dark-haired invader.

“Hux, do we have any coffee?” His bellow bounced off the high glass ceiling.

“Coffee, is it yer’re needin’?” an ancient voice wheezed somewhere behind a mass of green fronds and exotic, unfurling buds.

“Yes. Black. Strong. Hot.” Edward opened his eyes.

Huxtable, a bantam-sized man of advanced years, ambled over and set a watering can amidst rows of loam-filled tins.

“I can check,” he said and disappeared into a smaller room in the corner of the greenhouse.

Edward hitched a hip on the worktable and rubbed his eyes. A curious thing, this fascination with a woman he hardly knew and of no particular significance to his life prior to last night. She went along with minimum dramatics, threats to her mother notwithstanding. However, he was sure he’d made an accurate assessment of her stepfather: a pettifogger to be sure.

He rubbed his scarred cheek. The month-long waiting period stressed his already tight timeline, but would resolve any doubts regarding Miss Montgomery’s condition and tease out possible deception. This morning’s torment proved an unexpected thorn in his flesh: the reality of a man long deprived of a woman’s charms. Huxtable’s approaching shuffle and the aroma of coffee gave him blessed relief.

“Aye, here ye go.” Huxtable passed a cracked mug to Edward and settled on the opposite table with a steaming cup. “Don’t mind me sayin’, but ye look a bit worse for wear.” He tapped a finger to his own whiskers. “Nicked the chin, too, I see.”

Edward put the welcome black liquid under his nose and breathed in the dark roast’s heady aroma.

Huxtable grinned, revealing chipped, tobacco-stained teeth. “Bad night, was it?”

He sipped the scalding brew. “I returned from London late.”

“And I hear with a certain pretty, dark-haired miss stowed away in yer carriage.” Huxtable waggled wiry brows over his mug. A few gray hairs corkscrewed longer in his bushy brows.

“Yes, she’s pretty and dark haired.” Edward nodded and took another sip as he stared past the glass wall. “News travels fast in the kitchens.”

“It does indeed,” Huxtable ruminated, sipping from his mug. “And I’d say she’s a rather determined one, too.”

“How’d you conjure up that information?”

“Easy. I can see it in her walk. She’s a comin’ this way.” The servant raised his cup toward the door, rasping self-satisfied laughter.

Edward twisted around to see a woman charging toward the greenhouse, her long hair whipping about in brisk morning wind. Arms swinging and long strides eating up the lawn, Miss Montgomery ignored the winding gravel path for a more direct line through damp grass toward the greenhouse. He groaned. His inner sanctum was about to be breached.

“First my room and now my laboratory. The only two places I crave solitude, and she violates them both.”

“A woman after me own heart.” Huxtable’s curt nod emphasized his long-voiced opinion that Greenwich’s lord and master needed to get out more.

Edward shrugged off that stale argument to see Miss Montgomery stop outside the door. She pressed her face against the smudged glass. Likely, she couldn’t see him through the dirty pane or past overflowing greenery inside, but that didn’t stop her. She pushed her way in with a whoosh of air and stood, leaving the door open wide. She cupped both sides of her mouth and called out to him.

“Lord Greenwich? Lord Greenwich, are you here?”

“Shut the door. You’re letting warm air escape.” He barked his irritation and added, “A greenhouse thrives on keeping heat in, cold out.”

When she spied him, Miss Montgomery smiled and waved.

“Sorry,” she yelled across the vast room before pushing the door closed. “Miss Lumley told me I’d find you here.”

“A logical conclusion, since this is where I do my work. Undisturbed. Usually,” he grumbled under his breath.

“Not this morning, I wager.” Huxtable wheezed and chuckled as he sipped his coffee.

Edward kept his casual seat on the high workbench, but his other boot pressed harder into the gravel. He tried to relax. This was his space after all, barred to most. Miss Montgomery would learn her place. The sooner she grasped this, the better. His mouth opened to issue that edict, but the lady in question strode toward them bright-eyed and looking remarkably well rested. In fact, she glowed: sparkling bottle-green eyes, pink cheeks, dazzling smile, wind-mussed hair, and all.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said in good cheer and clasped her hands at her waist.

“Good morning.” He took another sip from his cup.

She faced Huxtable, and the jaunty old man pulled his short frame upright, eyes twinkling.

“Huxtable at yer service. Part gardening genius, part servant and friend to hisself.” He snapped his heels and tipped forward in his version of a bow. “Welcome to Greenwich Park, miss. Can I get ye a coffee?”

BOOK: Meet the Earl at Midnight (Midnight Meetings)
2.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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