This Earl Is on Fire (7 page)

“Miss Pimm?” he asked, when his previous question went unanswered.

She blinked at him and licked her lips. “Pardon?”

Even that single word tunneled through him. That lush, brushed-velvet voice could set a man aflame. Liam should have guessed she would have a mouth to match it—ever so slightly plumped and with the barest of indentions in the center of her bottom lip. The perfect spot for a dab of honey and the tip of a tongue.
His
.

But
no
, he should not think those things. He reminded himself that he did not tamper with debutantes. No matter how tempting they were.

He repeated the question, asking her about the food she'd chosen.

“Quite honestly, the pantry was not as full as I'd hoped. I had thought to find a wheel of the sharp, veined cheese that one of our tenants makes. It pairs rather splendidly with our honey,” she said, busily slathering another slice of bread with creamy white cheese. “Unfortunately, the majority of our foodstuffs are packed and traveling with our cook and the rest of the servants. They should arrive on the morrow.”

After adding a drizzle of honey, she lifted the slice to him. He wondered what she would do if he asked her to feed it to him. Likely she would grow still, as she had earlier when she'd smoothed salve over his cut. It was puzzling to see her so at ease with him one moment and then as skittish as a sparrow the next. Then again, he was rarely in the company of debutantes and did not know if they were all like this—seeming to flirt and then afraid of the results.

He liked to tease her, though. “Then tomorrow I shall look forward to another taste of your Boswickshire honey.”

And yes, he intended the double entendre. He couldn't help it.

He took a greedy bite, paying more attention to the way she watched him rather than how hungry he was. Even so, he thoroughly enjoyed this coverlet picnic, the simple yet flavorful fare, and also the company.

When he swallowed, she swallowed too, a tantalizing undulation. And before he could stop his naughty mind, he thought of the soft, wet inner tissue of her throat, her tongue, her lips . . .

He shifted on the bed. While his main hunger was satisfied, another part of him . . . wasn't. It didn't help matters that she was sitting across from him wearing only her ruffled nightclothes and her unbound mass of fawn-colored hair. It was so long and thick that she was practically sitting on it. She was a veritable Rapunzel or Lady Godiva. He couldn't decide. Though the fact that she'd grabbed her wrapper before she'd returned with the tray forced him to stick with the former. In fact, he wished she were locked away in a tower, far from him.

Abruptly, the sharp hitch in his side returned, cinching like a vise around his lungs. With such pleasant distractions, he'd almost forgotten the reason he was here.

He closed his eyes and lowered the last bite of bread, exhaling through clenched teeth. “Miss Pimm, I require the sound of your voice.”

“Oh,” she said, the syllable too brief to offer much relief.

He felt the air stir beside him, and a shadow cross his closed lids. His eyes squinted open to see her standing beside him. “Don't go.”

“I'm not. I'm merely removing the tray so that you can lie back.” And she did, even slipping the half-eaten bread from his fingers. Then she returned from the sideboard in quick order, reclaiming her place on the chair. “Shall I recite poetry, do you think? But no, I do not take you for either the maudlin or romantic sort. Perhaps I should quote from
Fordyce's Sermons
? While they were written for the proper behavior of young women, I'm certain they would suit a man who finds himself in the gossip pages quite well.”

He made an effort not to cringe as he settled back against the pillows and headboard, still mostly sitting. “Ah. Then you have read the
Standard
.”

“The author spoke of a masquerade you had apparently attended. You are the only confirmed guest because they found your cloak and mask in the center of a maze. What was it that you were doing in the center of the maze?”

“Scandalous things, I'm sure. I've earned my place in the gossip pages,” he admitted.

“As I've been warned,” she responded, unmoved. “Though it sounds to me as if you do not remember.
Did
you attend the masquerade?”

“I believe so. I do recall a rather lively party and walking through the maze with a masked woman with an enticing
decolle
—” He stopped. “Well, that part doesn't matter. However, then my memory goes rather hazy. That must have been when I met up with a rather jealous protector or husband.”

“She was
married
?”

“I could not tell you for certain. However, I usually avoid married women—and their jealous husbands—for the obvious reasons.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand over his face and torso. “I am afraid to inform you, Miss Pimm, but we live in a world of debauchery.”

“You're mocking me. And not only that, but you're mocking the union of two souls who will forever be united.”

He marveled at her complexion. Her face was not the pale perfection of milk that so many women powdered themselves to oblivion in order to achieve. Instead, her skin had a faint but healthy pinkish glow that made her look sun-kissed, even in the light of a single taper. So innocent and pure.
Pity
.

“Hmm . . . I keep forgetting that this is your first experience with society. Your naivety is somewhat refreshing. It allows me to see this wicked society with fresh eyes, eager for corruption all over again.” And when she narrowed her eyes at him and huffed at his smirk, he continued. “Most men and women marry for status and property. There is no ‘union of two souls.' “

“I understand that many marriages take place for convenience, but is there never an exception in London?”

“Here? Absolutely not. Waiting for the banns to be read, signing contracts, and negotiating dowries—
that
is a London wedding. Never fear, however, as there are many foolish souls who rush off to Gretna Greene. In fact, a friend of mine was married only a week past in that manner. Not to mention, my cousin was married on his country estate over Christmastime. He even rode out in the dead of night to procure a special license.”

She smiled. “Quite romantic.”

“But not a London wedding,” he said pointedly, not comfortable with the wistful tilt of her lips. “See here, weren't you supposed to be talking to me as part of my recuperation?”

She settled back against the chair and hid a yawn in the cup of her hand. “I think I'm more interested in hearing about the reason you don't seem to care that your name will be in the
Standard
for the rest of your life.”

“I'm certain they'll tire of me eventually. Besides, in twenty years or so, I'll begin mending my ways by becoming completely boring to atone for my misguided escapades so that I can marry when I am sixty and in need of an heir.”

At his last word, her brows lifted. “A marriage for
status and property
? I would not have guessed that for such as you.”

He frowned. “And why ever not?”

“Because you were so afraid that I was trying to trap you into marriage. Yet that is precisely what you intend for your future—put your foot in the snare as bait to lure a bride young enough to produce an heir in exchange for your title.” She gave him a grin that was sleepy near the corners of her eyes and soft on her lips. “It is rather comical, is it not?”

“I would not need to
lure
any bride. Once the word is out, they'll flock to my doorstep,” he grumbled in his own defense. Though, while her mocking tone and sharp wit cut him to the core, he was not cross. Instead, he found himself oddly contented and wanted to continue this joust for hours to come.

“You'll be old. Not only that, but the woman you plan on marrying hasn't even been born yet.” She feigned a shudder. “I suppose in ten years you'll be eyeing the sleeping inhabitants of perambulators and making a list.”

A small giggle escaped. Then she closed her eyes, shifting in the chair as if trying to make herself comfortable.

Liam knew it would only be a minute before she left him to his solitude, so he tried to find a reason for her to linger awhile. “Tell me about your outing today. Did you drive through the park, visit shops, find adventure?”

She shook her head and slowly opened her eyes. “No park. Mother worried that after the shops, I would be too tired. In fact, the most adventurous thing that happened was losing my hairpins. It has a mind of its own.”

“Your hair is magnificent,” he said, distracted by the tuft she absently twirled around her finger.

“Thank you, Wolford.” She released a soft sigh. “I know it is wrong to be prideful, but I rather like my hair too. Oh, certainly it is a bother when it will not stay put, yet I consider it my one remarkable feature that has nothing to do with my—” She broke off with a glance down to her foot. “Well, never mind. I do have a question for you that I've wondered since my outing. Perhaps you could tell me what a Season's
Original
is.”

He could tell her that it was a bunch of foolishness, but it would be better for her to decide for herself. “An
Original
is a man or a woman who has earned the
ton
's approval, so much so that he or she can do no wrong. The way they dress becomes en vogue. The debutante
Originals
are sought after by the upper echelon of the peerage. They can marry whomever they please. Whereas their male counterparts are cast upon the rocks as waves of manipulative, marriage-minded misses seek to drown them.”

“It seems a far better reward for the debutantes.” She battled another yawn and glanced over her shoulder to the door.

“Come here,” he said on impulse. “That chair looks so uncomfortable that it's causing me pain.” Drawing in a breath, he braced himself for another sharp twinge as he moved away from the edge of the bed. When he made a suitable space, he patted the coverlet.

She blinked, struggling to open her eyes as if her lids were filled with heavy sand. “I cannot lie beside you. Think of your reputation.”

He chuckled. She should be thinking of hers. Yet even Liam could hear her father snoring down the hall. “I am in no condition to ravish you.” Not properly, at any rate. And he was feeling rather selfish at the moment. He wanted the company. Unfortunately, he'd slept all day and was fully alert, his inner clock set to society's late hours. “Besides, it will be just for a minute. I want to hear all about the London adventure you have planned for tomorrow.”

“Only for a minute,” she said, eyeing the pillow with longing. She settled beside him. “We are attending the opera in the evening, and I need to be well rested.”

“You must use my box.”

She shook her head. “Father already has tickets. It matters not where we sit. I'm simply happy to go to the performance, instead of the performance coming to me.”

Even though her answer puzzled him, he did not ask her to clarify. Instead, he continued to insist. “Then accept, as a favor or form of repayment for all you've done.”

“Pimms do not require repayment for doing only what was right. Besides, I was ready to send you away—for your own people to care for you—almost immediately.”

This made him laugh. “Why? Afraid of the sight of me?”

“No. Just afraid of my own”—her voice faded, garbled on a yawn—“I wasn't prepared. Still not. Need you to . . . leave.” She snuggled in beside him.

“Afraid of your own
what
?” he prodded.

But she did not answer. Instead, she drifted off to sleep, her head on his shoulder.

The unfortunate thing of it all was that this had been his own bright idea. Now, with Adeline in his bed, his curiosity wasn't the only thing aroused. And here he was, finally awake, and lying next to a soft, warm woman whom he dare not touch.

A
deline's pillow was much firmer than usual. Much warmer too.

Normally, she would simply flip it over to feel the cool side against her cheek, but this side smelled too nice to abandon. Pressing her nose against it, she drew in a deep breath. A familiar mélange of scents filled her nostrils, something oaky with hints of leather, vanillin, and musk. She exhaled contentedly.

Curling her hand over the coverlet, her fingers delved into soft, springy fur. Mmm . . . quite decadent. If given the opportunity, she would stay right here forev—

Wait a minute . . .
fur
? The last she knew, there were no furs on her bed.

Then perhaps this is a dream
, she thought and summarily agreed with herself.

Inhaling again, she stroked her fingers against the fur. Coincidentally, she felt a similar movement against the small of her back.
Odd
. Her sleepy self, however, accepted this occurrence as logical. Each time she rubbed her fingers against the fur, the corresponding sensation brushed her back. And in the center of her palm, her pulse beat hard and steady.

She snuggled deeper into this dream, sliding her leg over the coverlet that—
apparently
—had bunched up against her. Strange, but even the coverlet was firm, thick, and far warmer than she remembered.

“Mind your knee, Miss Pimm.”

Hmm . . .
that was unexpected. She'd heard Liam's voice in a dream prior to this one, but he hadn't sounded so hoarse. Then perhaps in this dream, he had a head cold. It seemed possible.

She burrowed closer.

Liam chuckled. “I do not have a cold. Besides, if either of us were plagued with fever, you would likely be the victim. You are a veritable ember when you sleep.”

Dream-Liam professed to know a great deal about her. Even for a dream, he was rather presumptuous, considering they'd only just met.

The sound of his amusement was so real it vibrated against her cheek. She rubbed against the pillow. When she discovered a spot of drool, she shifted further inward until she could hear the steady beat of her own pulse inside her ear. She liked that sound.

“Darling, as much as I enjoy hearing your sleep ramblings, it is time for you to rise and return to your own bed.”

Darling
. . . she liked that too. It was much pleasanter than the formality of
Miss Pimm.
After all,
Miss Pimm
was a stone wall between neighbors.
Darling
, on the other hand, was a lovely carved path through the thicket.

“That was almost naughty. There will be no path carving for us, however. No matter how tempted I might be.” His voice came out in a low, rumbled breath as something warm pressed against the top of her head. A kiss, perhaps?

Even dreaming, she felt her cheeks grow warm. It was no use. She would have to flip over her pillow for the cool side. Drawing in one more breath, she lifted her head and—

Her hair caught, yanking her to a stop. Eyes closed, she reached her arm over her head to pull it free. Yet even then, it wouldn't come.
Drat this heavy pillow
.

“Careful,” Liam said as the pillow shifted beside her.

Now she was just awake enough to realize that the pillow couldn't shift without her. Not only that, but why was she hearing Liam's voice so clearly when she wasn't fully asleep?

Adeline opened her eyes. Green irises glinted at her with mischief as a pair of dark eyebrows rose. Within a bed of whiskers, his mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin. A decidedly wicked grin.

She blinked, trying to make sense of what she saw. Her eyes drifted lower to her hand where it lay against a mat of soft, springy curls. Not fur. And the steady throb beneath her palm was not her own pulse but his heartbeat. Moreover, her leg was not draped over a bunched-up coverlet. It was draped over
him
—her knee, lower leg, and foot all nestled between his legs.

She reared back only to be halted by her trapped hair again.

“You said it would only be a minute,” she accused, as if her falling asleep was his fault.

“And I believe it took even less time for you to fall asleep. You are a decidedly sound sleeper. It must run in your family. I have been listening to your breathing as well as your father's snores for hours.”

“Hours?” She struggled to free herself, lifting up on her side to free her hair. Liam issued a grunt. That was when she realized that her maneuvering had brought her half atop him. “I apologize. Have I hurt you?”

“As long as you do not lift . . . your knee another inch . . . then nothing vital.” He turned slightly toward her, trapping her leg between his. This entire episode contained more intimacy than she'd ever shared with another person. And certainly not a man.

When his hand moved to her nape, she thought he would kiss her. Her lips tingled in response. Apparently, spending hours—
hours?
—locked in his embrace had still left her skin greedy for more. “What time is it?”

“I heard the clock chime five times a short while ago.” His breath caressed her lips, and his sleepy gaze dropped to her mouth. He went still, lingering, neither moving closer nor retreating.

During this moment, she felt as if some sort of clock began to chime inside of her. Every strike of the bell said, “Now. Please. Kiss. Me. Now.”

Instead of kissing her, however, he freed her hair and summarily rolled onto his back, breathing hard, as if winded. “Well beyond the time for you to go and for me to sleep.”

She swallowed down her disappointment. “You haven't slept?”

“Not a wink. Your father might have been understanding before, but I'm not certain he would feel the same if he found you in your nightclothes and in my bed.”

“There is a coverlet between us,” she pointed out, blushing. “Besides, you are in pain. I'm sure my father would know that nothing transpired.”

Liam issued a low, derisive chuckle. “And as a man, your father would also know that men are capable of enduring pain in order to reap certain pleasures. In fact, a man would walk through fire in order to—”

“Say no more. I understand what you are saying without elaboration,” she interrupted, scurrying off the bed so quickly she nearly tripped on the hem of her night rail. “While I may be new to London, I am not a rusticated simpleton.”

“No?”

She crossed her arms. “I know what happens after men and women marry, or—in your case—when men behave as if they are married to every woman they meet.”

“Well, not
every
woman,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand to her.

Her mouth opened, but she was too stunned to gasp. The insult took her off guard. Over the years, she'd learned that men looked at her in two ways. They either saw her as something frail and wounded. Or they saw her as wholly undesirable.

She told herself that it did not bother her that Liam Cavanaugh felt the latter. Obviously last night, Wolford's ready manners had prevented him from betraying his true feelings. This morning, however, the truth was evident.

Averting her face, she prepared to leave him and lifted her lamp from the table. That was when she noticed that the taper that had burned down to the wick. Only the amber light of the glowing embers lit the chamber. There was a chill in the room as well. While she was tempted to walk out without another word, she knew that he needed a few logs on the grate.

She moved over to the basket near the hearth. As she kneeled down to see to her task, she wondered—if he'd been disgusted by her lameness, then why had he encouraged her to stay so long in his company? It made no sense to her.

The question began to needle her. He truly hadn't seemed bothered last night. In fact, he'd said everything to encourage her to stay. He could have easily dismissed her at any point. But instead, he'd invited her to close her eyes for a moment. He'd been rather insistent that she not leave him. And she'd stayed, because she understood what it was like to be . . . lonely.

Suspicion filled her. Perhaps this wasn't about her limb at all. If he'd been repulsed, then he wouldn't have made a space for her, wouldn't have held her all night. More likely, he would have nudged her rudely until she awoke.

“I know what you are doing,” Adeline said when it dawned on her. Holding onto the mantel, she stood and turned away from the low fire. “You're trying to make sure that I believe you were doing me a favor by letting me fall asleep here.”

“It
was
a favor. Nothing more,” he said, his lips pressed together in a grim line.

She continued as if she hadn't heard him, went to the sideboard to refill his water glass. “When I was a child, I spent many a day tethered to my bed, enduring leg treatments—various braces, hot baths, cold baths—one after another. Other than the occasional performances from play actors or traveling acrobats, I had nothing to do but while away the hours. Sometimes my greatest entertainment was in seeing how many dolls I could knock off the foot of my bed with the lash of ribbon-stick. By the time I was ten years old, I became rather good at it too.”

Without offering him the glass, she merely set it down on his bedside table and collected the items left over from his midnight supper as she continued. “Of course, my parents invited village children to come up to my chamber to play with me, but I grew tired of their pity and became surly, pushing them away so they wouldn't accept another invitation. And much to my disappointment, my efforts succeeded. I'd managed to erect a barrier between us, which left me all the lonelier in the end.”

At the door, she paused long enough for him to interject. After all, she'd given him plenty of ammunition to fire a blow at her.

Meeting his cool, scrutinizing gaze, she found that his expression was impossible to read. And silence was his only reply.

“For you, however,” she went on, “you'll soon be fit enough to leave this bed and return to your own life. And when you are in the bosom of your dear friends and family, who have been worrying over your absence, then you'll be free to forget all about your moment of weakness when
you
asked
me
to stay for ‘just a minute.' ”

Adeline closed the door, feeling somewhat vindicated. But more than that, she would always remember—for a short while—that the eighth Earl of Wolford had craved her company.

L
iam did not sleep at all, not in the hour after she left his room or during the time when he heard her parents awaken. He told himself that it was because he was on a different schedule. That he was used to coming home at dawn. That he would sleep soon enough.

But then a sliver of light bled in through the part in the curtain. Blindingly bright. So much so, that his head throbbed, spinning with dizziness even as he lay in bed. The sounds were deafening too. He heard his host and hostess rise and move about in their usual early-morning manner. Yet each footfall echoed inside his skull like the bang of a drum.

When Boswick came into his room, he offered a good-natured greeting, as well as gladness over Liam's reduced swelling, healthy bruising, and apparent unimpeded vision. Though, with his sensitivity to light, along with the dizziness, Boswick recommended that Liam remain abed. According to a missive from Uncle Peirce, Liam could easily fall into a worse state if he pushed recovery too quickly.

“However,” Boswick added, “speaking as a man who abhors a sickbed, I've found that a hot bath seems to help many an illness make a hasty retreat. If you care to give it a go, I'm certain we could arrange it.”

Ever grateful, Liam nodded. “I would, indeed.”

Shortly after Boswick's departure, the cheerful Lady Boswick arrived with a bowl of porridge and pot of warm tea. Graciously, he thanked her as she propped the tray over his lap before bustling out when she heard the servants' arrival, at long last.

Within the hour, the butler and a footman introduced themselves. Finmore and Jones, respectively, offered their services should Liam require anything. Without deliberating, Liam sent a missive to his aunt.

Even the Pimms' housekeeper, Mrs. Harvey, dropped in to collect his tray and offered a friendly greeting.

But while he waited for the portable wooden tub to be lined with oil-slicked canvas and filled with steaming water, it did not escape his notice that there was one person who did not stop by to wish him a good day or even to wish him to hell.

At first, he'd been angry, ready to shout a command for her to return to his chamber at once. At that time, he would have told her that he had plenty of friends and family who were, no doubt, missing him. Therefore, she could take her pity elsewhere. He neither deserved nor desired it.

Yet during his long soak, he'd had ample time to ruminate over her parting words. Gradually, his temper cooled with the water, and he thought of her as a little girl sequestered in her bedchamber while physicians poked and prodded her for days on end. Not only that, but he knew from his own experiences that children tended to be cruel and imagined that the ones who visited her had not always been kind.

After his father's death, Mr. Ipley had
hired
suitable friends for Liam, paying them in sweets and trinkets. Even though Liam and his cousin, North, were close in age, they'd barely known each other in those early years. The reason was mainly due to their elders trying to prove which one of them had the right to inherit their uncle's dukedom. Having been born a month prior to Liam, North had become the Duke of Vale. Liam had taken his father's title, and all was as it should be. There were still those, however, who had frowned upon North's half-commoner blood and strove to keep the cousins apart.

Once Liam had been sent to Eton, however, he'd made his own friends—Vale, of course; Jack Marlowe, recently named Viscount Locke; and Max Harwick, the Marquess of Thayne. Though if truth be told, Liam wasn't certain he trusted Thayne at the moment.