This Earl Is on Fire (5 page)

He couldn't help it.
More
was the only word that came to mind.

Each spoonful she gave him had the same effect. It was as if he'd never eaten in his life. The contrary was true—he had a healthy appetite. In
all
things.

Usually, however, his fare was of a rich, succulent, decadent variety. He broke his fast with a stack of meats, topped off with poached eggs and a heavy sauce. But nothing had ever satisfied him like this.

After another mouthful, he noticed that the spoon trembled against his bottom lip. Immediately, he lifted his hand to her wrist to stay her. His fingers inadvertently curled around the delicate bones. “Are you overtired?”

Her pulse quickened beneath his touch. The tiny thing rose up to beat against his fingertips like an excited puppy eager for affection. Unable to help himself, he stroked the pad of his middle finger in a circle over that spot.

“No. I—” she began, then slowly pulled free of his grasp. “The bowl is nearly empty. I had not thought you would be so . . . so . . .”

“Ravenous?” Neither had he. And for porridge, no less. Though perhaps it wasn't only the food that had incited his hunger.

“Yes.” She breathed the word, making no other sound save for the clink of the spoon resting inside the bowl.

Strangely, his fingertips itched, causing the compulsion to locate her wrist once more. Feel her pulse react. Listen to her voice. Taste her breath . . .

Dangerous thoughts, all of them.

Neither of them moved, nor broke the silence that followed. Then, after a moment, he heard the rustle of fabric and felt the air stir, telling him that she'd left her place at his side. The rattle of dishes across the room confirmed it.

“My mother and I have planned an outing. I should find her and tell her that I'm ready.”

Before he could comment, he heard her shuffled step scurry out of the room.

T
he Season Standard—the Daily Chronicle of Consequence

Whispers of the illicit variety are still abounding over Lady F—'s infamous masquerade. While no single person claims to have attended, the names of supposed guests increase each day.

It should come as no surprise, however, that the wolfish Earl of W— did indeed attend. One report even claims that he left his mask and cloak behind . . . and in the center of a garden maze! Scandalous!

As the
ton
awaits the news of the Season's
Original
, our readers know one name that will, most assuredly,
not
be on that list.

Of course, no one can have greater anticipation than the Marquess of Th—and our resident goddess Lady G—. Their rivalry keeps us all spellbound and . . .

A
deline looked up from the newspaper, her heart racing. She had little doubt that the
Earl of W
was Wolford. After all, hadn't he confessed to knowing
a thing or two
about scandal? Perhaps he knew a great deal more.

This was just the news that would help Adeline be rid of him. And after this morning, she was growing desperate for his removal.

She still did not understand how feeding a man porridge could have made her feel things she'd never felt before.
But oh, sweet Lord in heaven,
Wolford had a magnificent mouth. Even though the swelling had diminished, his lips were still full and broad and—if truth be told—wicked. They were the lips of a man who, she imagined, had great experience in indulging in activities of the
illicit variety
.

The way it moved when he'd eaten the porridge earlier had left Adeline warm and tingly. Each time his lips had parted, his tongue undulated forward between the rows of his straight white teeth, welcoming the bowl of the spoon. Watching him, the muscles of his jaw flexing, his Adam's apple rising, caused her own mouth to salivate. And when she slipped the silverware from his mouth, the slight tug of his lips caused a corresponding tug in the pit of her stomach.

She wanted to know how his lips would feel against her own. What he tasted like . . .

The carriage jostled, yanking Adeline away from her wanton musings.
No more of those!
she thought in a sharp self-reprimand. This was precisely why she needed him gone.

“It is a pity we could not find sturdier hairpins at any of the shops we visited,” Mother said from across the carriage, absently skimming a list she withdrew from her reticule. “Though as you know, I've always preferred your hair down.”

Distracted, Adeline shifted in her seat, but her braid caught and tugged her head back. She'd used more pins than ever before, attempting a style with greater height, like those she'd seen in the ladies quarterly. Yet, they'd all come free before she'd made it to the second shop. So she'd ended up purchasing a length of lavender ribbon to tie the end.

Adeline knew she would need to come up with a permanent solution before she attended her first party. “I noticed that there wasn't a single other woman wearing her hair down in public.”

“Perhaps when Hester arrives with the other servants, she will make friends with other lady's maids who might know a trick or two,” Mother conceded after a moment of consideration. “Anything of note in the newspaper you were so determined to purchase?”

Thankfully, the question brought Adeline back to her main focus—the removal of a certain earl from beneath their roof. The moment Mother learned of the news, she would send him away, if only for the purpose of protecting her daughter. Even though Adeline did not want to be cosseted any longer, in this particular instance, it should work to her advantage. “There is a fair amount of gossip.”

Mother looked up from her list. Glancing at the
Standard
, she cleared her throat. “While your father and I frown upon the practice, I know it is the breadstuff of society.”

Adeline nodded sagely. “Actually, this article—”

“Though I must confess that I find it all rather”—Mother interrupted, sitting forward, her voice falling to a whisper—“
thrilling
. To a certain extent.”

Adeline's mouth dropped open. “Have
you
been reading society columns?”

Mother glanced upward to the roof as if worried that Gladwin might overhear. Then she nodded. “Mrs. Harvey has a niece who works in a bookshop here and sends a paper or two through the post. Sometimes we sit in the parlor and discuss the important events.”

Her mother and their housekeeper gossiping in the parlor? It was something she never expected. And more than that . . . “I wish you'd invited me to these chats.”

Then again, they were likely harboring the one man who could impart far more interesting gossip, and about himself.

What illicit tales might he tell? Surely, he could tell Adeline many things about which she had never experienced. Never even considered.

Of course,
illicit
was far from the word she would use to describe her own experiences with the opposite sex. Thus far, she had received only a single kiss—and a rather bland one at that—from Paul Wittingham, their parish curate.

A year ago, he'd professed a desire to marry her. Or more aptly—to care for her for the rest of her life.
“I would cherish you and never once overtax you or impose upon your limitations. Happily, I would shoulder the burden of the demands of a man in my position in order to keep you comfortable.”

The offer had left a sour taste on her tongue. Clearly, he saw her as helpless and unable to care for herself, let alone him or even their fellow parishioners. Needless to say, she'd refused him. Adeline didn't want to marry a man who pitied her. One who only saw her shortened limb instead of seeing
her
. She'd already endured a lifetime of well-intentioned coddling from her parents. And she never intended to spend her entire life in the same cocoon. Though clearly that was the only life she could expect.

“Speaking of society gossip . . . this activity is not something about which I am proud—
oh
and you must promise not to tell your father,” Mother said with an uncharacteristically sheepish expression. “I fear he would not understand. He might imagine that I have been discontented all these years in Boswickshire, when the contrary is true. I simply prefer a . . .
taste
of London from time to time.”

“I will keep your secret,” Adeline vowed. “However, I fear that our guest might very well be the prime focus of today's gossip.”

Mother lifted her brows and took the folded edge. “Truly?”

As she handed over the
Standard
, a lack of confidence washed over Adeline. Moments ago she'd been certain of her mother's reaction. Such wasn't the case any longer. Would Mother be scandalized by the column . . . or intrigued?

Adeline feared it might be the latter. She also feared that the main trait she'd inherited from her mother was a penchant for news of the illicit variety.

“In all honesty,” Mother said after skimming the page, “I had assumed as much about our guest. Especially considering how we'd found him. Obviously the man, or men, who'd abused Wolford so grievously was not his friend.”

“Does it bother you that what the column says might be true? That Wolford is”—Adeline swallowed down a wayward thrill—“a rake?”

In response, Bunny Pimm's indigo eyes lifted from the paper and trained on her like a falcon eyeing a field mouse. “Hmm . . . does it bother you?”

Truth be told, it intrigued her. The stories he could tell her would be like an adventure on its own, and one that would not ruin her reputation, just offer her things to ponder once she returned to Boswickshire as the different version of herself.

Though if he was hers . . . the news might have made her a trifle jealous. Thank goodness she needn't worry over that possibility. “I see no reason why it should.”

L
iam didn't need his eyesight in order to know how harried his steward was at the moment. Then again, an afternoon drizzle would rattle Rendell, with him feeling the need to count each and every drop. The reason Liam could tell was because—whenever something went wrong—Rendell used a copious number of
my lord
s. He'd surpassed a dozen already and he'd just arrived.

“Had I known, my lord, that you were injured, my lord, I would have searched each one of your residences, sent word to your hunting boxes, inquired at Arborcrest—”

Liam interrupted Rendell's obsequious servility. “And should I ever go missing again, I would appreciate your thoroughness. Although I will spare you one errand, as you are not likely to find me at Arborcrest for another thirty years.”

Arborcrest was Liam's boyhood home and ancestral estate. More than that, however, it was a pastoral, quiet place, full of fond memories. One day, he would take a wife and live with her there. Though not until he was sixty years old or so, as his father had been. Liam knew all too well that it was a fool's errand to entertain the notion of matrimony as a young man.

In the meantime, Liam was determined to live a full life before settling down and begetting an heir. He did everything he could to avoid Arborcrest and left Mr. Ipley in charge of the estate.

“Yes, my lord. I'll make a note of it, my lord.”

Liam's head was beginning to throb again, directly behind his eyes. He lifted a hand to his bandages where pale light seemed to illuminate the jagged veins beneath the flesh of his eyelids. He hoped it was a good sign—that he could see anything at all—but he could not be certain. “Rendell, I would appreciate it if you would spare me the additional
my lords
for the remainder of our meeting today.”

“Yes, of course, my l—” The steward cleared his throat. “My apologies, my l—”

“All I ask is that you do your best.” Liam breathed through his clenched teeth. “Now, what business have we to discuss?”

Again the steward cleared this throat, the rapid staccato
hemming
just as grating as the
my lords
, if not more. The rustle of papers followed. “I brought the invoices for your latest acquisitions from the Continent. Where would you like me to send them, my lord?”

“You're making excellent progress. Only one that time,” Liam said patiently, if a bit mockingly. “As for the pair of Oriental vases, I should like them delivered to Brook Street. The Elbe urn should go to Wolford House. Send the French sofa next door. I will require it soon.”

“There is one problem, my lord. Your housekeeper has threatened me with bodily harm should I send any more objects into what she calls her
domain.
According to Mrs. Brasher, there simply isn't any more room, my lord.”

Liam exhaled. He'd been adding to his collection exceedingly as of late. The increase had begun during a recent trip to the Continent, shortly following Vale's wedding. The problem was there were too many interesting items that required further study. So many that he'd needed to buy another house in order to fit them all. “Fine. Then send the urn next door as well. I have a house that I can fill.”

“Not entirely, my lord,” Rendell said with a nervous sniff. “You purchased the furnishings within each of the terraced houses as well.”

In other words, Liam's most recently acquired property might not hold enough of his collection either. “For our next meeting we'll talk about rearranging a few of the pieces in order to make the appropriate accommodations. There is also the possibility of filling the third property here instead of letting it.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but Lord Caulfield has offered quite a substantial sum for the Roman pottery.”

“And as I have explained before, I will not sell any part of it, regardless of the offer. After all, it isn't as if I require money.” Liam had inherited a fortune that could not be spent in five lifetimes. Therefore he chose to live the way he pleased. This included buying whatever bric-a-brac took his fancy.

He considered himself a lifelong scholar, reminiscent of his father's tutelage. The late Callum Cavanaugh used a collection of artifacts to teach Liam about history, the native peoples who created the work in question—their methods, tools, and indigenous resources—the philosophic teachings of the time, and even mathematics, among other things. And with such a vast collection of his own, Liam would require decades to study each piece in depth.

“Very good, my lord.” Rendell's words were accompanied by the scraping sound of a pencil scribbling over a page—likely indecipherable, as the man had abominable handwriting. “Once I received word of your situation, I took the liberty of having your valet pack a satchel of clothes for you while you remain here. Mr. Neville would have come himself, I'm sure, but he experienced a sudden bout of nausea when informed of your unfortunate accident. Also, for your convenience, I've begun interviewing candidates for the positions next door, to ready your rooms as soon as possible. If you prefer, I could send an order to your valet to assist you here.”

“That won't be necessary.” Liam wasn't going to have Neville here to look down his nose at Boswick's family. Besides, if they could survive without servants, then so could he. “I rather prefer no one fussing about. And if you are going to interview candidates for next door, begin with my current staff.”

“Yes, my lord. And one more thing, I took the liberty of retrieving the key to the adjoining door. If you'll recall, it is located across the hall from this chamber. I thought it would be easier for you to manage if you did not have so many stairs to navigate.” He scuffed his feet across the floor and placed something metal on the bedside table. “I'll just leave the key here, my lord.”

Before Liam had purchased this terraced house, he'd learned where the adjoining doors were, all of them hidden either by panels or large paintings. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to traverse the stairs when the time came for him to leave. Yet, thinking of the eventuality, his headache intensified, throbbing and threatening to crack open his cranium.