My Brown-Eyed Earl Page 14

  “No. As I said, he dressed and spoke like a gentleman, but he had a ruthlessness about him. Something in his tone and demeanor made me shiver.”

  “You should not go out alone for the time being. Tell your beau you require an escort everywhere you go.”

  “I will have a care for my safety,” she said vaguely. “And if he should approach me again, I shall send word.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry that you’re involved in this at all. I don’t know why anyone would be curious about my relationship to the girls. They’re simply my—”

  “No.” Marina stopped him, holding up a hand. “I would prefer not to know. That way, if I’m interrogated, it will be impossible for me to reveal anything that I shouldn’t—even if I have partaken of the punch.”

  “Anyone who dares to interrogate you shall deal with me,” Will said. “But you need not worry about revealing too much. I have no secrets.”

  “No?” Ever the coquette, the hint of a smile played about her lips. “According to the rumors, there is also a governess—one of Wiltmore’s Wallflowers. Perhaps she is not destined to be a wallflower for long?”

  Damn, but this town loved gossip. “I’ve a feeling you’ll know the answer before I do.” He threw back the rest of his ale and clunked the glass on the table. “I must go. Allow me to see you safely home.”

  Marina smiled and gracefully draped the black lace over her face. “It warms me to know that chivalry is not entirely dead.”

  * * *

  Meg sat on the edge of her bed, hands trembling as she unfolded Charlotte’s letter. She hadn’t expected a reply tonight—it was already quite late. But the footman who’d delivered Meg’s note was friendly with one of Lord Torrington’s kitchen maids, and they’d enjoyed a brief visit while he waited to see if Charlotte wished to respond.

  And she had.

  Dearest Meg,

  I do not know anyone by the name of Marina but have made discreet inquiries. It seems that until quite recently, she was Lord Castleton’s mistress. I’m sorry to relate such shocking news, but the urgency of your note suggested you’d want to know. My source informs me that they are no longer seeing one another. I do hope you find this information to be more helpful than distressing. Please write me again when you are able.

  Fondly,

  Charlotte

  Mistress. Meg pressed a hand to her roiling belly. How could he arrange a meeting with his mistress just one day after the evening they’d spent in the garden where he’d … and she’d … Dear God, what had she done?

  She’d been foolish to trust him so quickly. A master of manipulation, he’d seduced her with pretty words and wicked caresses. She’d willingly—nay, eagerly—surrendered to desire.

  A mistake she would not make again.

  After locking the door to her bedchamber, she hauled her hideous gown over her head and threw it on the floor. She wrestled with the laces of her wretched corset, wiggled out of it, and tossed it on top of her dress. In no mood to fold or hang her clothes, she simply went to her washstand, scrubbed and dried her face, and crawled beneath the covers of her bed, still seething with anger.

  An hour later, after she’d thought of half a dozen methods of revenge, most involving highly creative forms of torture, a soft knock sounded at her door.

  Heart pounding, she bolted upright. Assuring herself that the door was locked, she went perfectly still, listening for sounds from the hallway.

  It had to be Will. The twins always slept soundly through the night, and no one else had cause to disturb her.

  The knock sounded again, slightly louder. She pressed her lips firmly together.

  “Meg?” he whispered through the door. “Can you hear me?”

  She didn’t make a sound.

  Another knock. “Meg, are you awake? I need to speak with you.”

  She doubted very much that what he wanted to do was speak, for conversation could surely wait for the light of day.

  After a moment, the door handle clicked, as though he were testing to see if it was locked. She clutched the sheets to her chest, her blood boiling.

  When she heard the doorknob rattle, followed by his muttered curse, she smiled to herself.

  What kind of a cad spent the evening with his mistress—or ex-mistress, if one cared to split hairs—and then had the audacity to seek out another lady in her bedchamber?

  He did not deserve the courtesy of a reply. Let him wonder and wait, for her silence would sting more than an outright rejection. Besides, if she went to the door and told him to go away, her voice might crack. Or her resolve might waver.

  And though she had very little, she did have her pride.

  Before long, she heard him stride down the hall, away from her room.

  So … he’d given up rather easily, which was certainly for the best. She ignored the slight disappointment in her chest and slipped back beneath the covers.

  It had been a long day, and finally, it was over. Tomorrow, she would figure out how to deal with the earl. Once, she would have hurled a string of insults at him, walked out of Castleton House, and never looked back. But now her salary was keeping food in her sisters’ bellies. And even if money weren’t an issue, she’d become attached to the twins.

  Diana had even confided in her this afternoon, and now … well, everything had changed.

  Outside her window, moonlight silhouetted leafy boughs shivering from a strong, sudden gust. She listened to the halting patter of rain beginning to hit the panes, wondering if Beth and Julie heard it as they lay in their beds, too. Her sisters had always gathered in Meg’s bed during a storm, not because any of them were frightened, but because they wanted to savor the raw power of it together—every lightning flash, thunder boom, and wind burst. Though Meg was several blocks away from them now, it seemed to her that the sound of the driving rain brought them together in a way … and calmed her. Her eyelids grew heavy; sleep beckoned.

  Crack.

  Dear Jesus. Meg sprang out of her bed and ran to the window. It sounded as though a large branch had splintered off of a tree, and now there was another sound above the din—a voice shouting. Pulse racing, she pressed her forehead to the pane and searched the dark night. The tree outside her window still stood, its leaves twisting in the torrent.

  A dream, perhaps. The kind that happens in the twilight just before sleep that can seem quite real. It must have been a dream.

  Except then, she heard her name. “Meg!” Muffled but unmistakable, a man called out to her. And she was fairly certain he did so from the garden.

  “Blast it all,” she muttered, hauling up the window sash. Madness to do such a thing in the middle of a storm, but she’d detected an urgency in the voice. Rain pelted her face and drenched her chemise as she leaned out the window to peer at the garden below.

  And then she saw the hands. Male hands, white-knuckled, gripping the sill outside her window.

  Chapter NINETEEN

  Meg nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of a man dangling from her sill, but she managed to choke back the scream in her throat.

  “Meg, it’s me, Will.” He sounded winded. “Back away from the window. I’m going to hoist myself up.”

  “Please tell me you’re standing on a ladder,” she begged.

  “No.” He grunted. “Stand back.”

  She gripped his wrists, slick with rain. “I can’t. I’m afraid you’ll fall.”

  “Stand. Back.”

  Her belly in knots, she stepped aside, watching him inch his hands to one end of the brick sill. “I’m going for help,” she said.

  “No. Time.”

  Blast it all, she had to do something. Frantic, she ran to her bed, yanked off the blanket, and grabbed the sheet beneath. She hastily knotted one end around her waist and prepared to throw the other out the window. “Hold on, I’m coming.”

  But just then, a large boot landed on the windowsill with a thud.

  The rest of his large body soon followed, and he tumbled onto
the floor of her room, soaking wet and gasping for air.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” she cried. Tears burned her eyes and her throat constricted. “You almost … you could have … Damn you, William Ryder.” Crumpling to the floor, she began to sob.

  “Meg, I’m fine. Everything is fine.” He scooped the blanket off the floor, draped it over her shoulders, and pulled her against his side. “I’m going to close the window. Just sit here for a moment and try to calm yourself.”

  Hackles rising, she blinked slowly. “Calm myself? Don’t you dare tell me to calm myself,” she warned, “unless you wish for me to push you back out that window.”

  “Very well,” he chuckled, infuriating her even more. “If you prefer to remain enraged, that is entirely your prerogative.”

  In two strides, he reached the window, then lowered the sash. Without the wind and driving rain assaulting them, the room suddenly seemed smaller, cozier, more intimate—alarmingly so.

  He lit the lamp beside her bed before returning to her side, on the floor. “The branch I was on broke,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

  “Only an idiot would climb a tree in the middle of a storm.” She was still crying, damn it all, and she had no idea why.

  “I cannot disagree. Although, in my defense, the storm began after I was halfway up the trunk.” He slicked his rain-soaked hair back from his face and looked down at his palms, which were scraped raw. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

  “Why?” She cradled one of his open hands in hers. “Why would you do it?”

  “You wouldn’t answer the door.”

  “No,” she said, throwing his hand back in his lap. “You may not blame your little brush with death on me. You had other options available to you. Such as waiting until morning—which, incidentally, is what a proper gentleman would have done.”

  “Morning,” he repeated to himself. “And would you have agreed to speak to me then?”

  She deflated a little. “Probably not.”

  “I was worried about you. I had to make sure you were all right.” He brushed a wet strand of hair away from her face. “Are you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. You could have broken your neck.”

  “I didn’t. Besides, there were shrubs below me. Even if I fell, I would have escaped with a few scratches.”

  “Your confidence might well be impressive if it weren’t so bloody foolish,” she said sharply.

  His laugh, low and rich, vibrated through her limbs. “That’s one of the things I adore about you, Meg. You don’t mince words. You don’t believe in false flattery or blind agreement. On the contrary, you challenge me at every turn.”

  “Someone has to,” she said sullenly.

  “Yes. And if you want to know the truth of it”—he cupped her cheek in his palm—“I’m inordinately glad that person is you.”

  She couldn’t help it—she warmed at the compliment. Most men thought her prickly personality was a liability—something to be hidden or apologized for. But Will liked her tendency to speak her mind. More than that, he seemed to genuinely like her.

  He leaned in and touched his forehead to hers, looking very much like he wanted to kiss her. Her traitorous heart leaped and her lips parted.

  He was but a breath away when she remembered and drew back. She had to ask, even though she knew the answer.

  Especially since she knew the answer.

  “Who is Marina?”

  * * *

  Good God. Will winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How do you know about Marina?”

  “I hear things,” she said vaguely. “But I know very little. That’s why I’m asking you who she is.”

  No. He couldn’t talk about his ex-mistress with Meg—especially not now, when she was already upset. He pushed himself to his feet and offered her his hand. “You’ve had a trying day. Let me bring a chair over and make you comfortable.”

  Refusing his assistance, she untangled herself from a web of blankets and sheets, and stood, facing him. Her hair was a glorious mass of dark, wet curls, and her damp chemise clung to her like a second skin.

  “I don’t require a chair,” she said slowly. “I require the truth.”

  Damn. Will wished to God he was back on the windowsill, hanging by his fingertips. The truth was going to hurt Meg, and hurting her was the last thing he wanted to do. “Why would you ask about Marina? She has nothing to do with us.”

  “There is no us, Will. Especially if you cannot answer this simple question for me. Who is Marina?”

  He could respond that she was a friend—nothing more—and it would be the truth. But Meg wanted the whole truth, and he had no choice but to respect that.

  “Fine. I will tell you. But fair warning—you may not like the answer.” He clasped her hand and guided her to the edge of the bed, where they both sat.

  As he looked into her beautiful, wary eyes, his stomach clenched. He’d sooner have this uncomfortable conversation with his mother than with her, but there was no avoiding it now. No way to spare her the pain.

  He drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and let the words spill out. “Until recently, Marina and I were … lovers.” She flinched at the word but did not look away. “She is a widow, and wealthy in her own right. Our arrangement was purely physical—that is, neither of us had any expectation of courtship or marriage.” Until Marina changed her mind, prompting him to end things. In retrospect, she’d done him a favor.

  “What happened?” The lamp’s light flickered over her pale face.

  “The relationship ran its course, as we both knew it eventually would. She’s now seeing someone new.”

  Meg stared at him, long and hard, as though she doubted the veracity of his words. “When did you last see her?”

  He hesitated a beat. She must already know. “Earlier tonight.”

  Her chin trembled and her eyes welled again. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know it sounds bad. There was a matter we needed to discuss.” He wanted to reassure her, and yet, he did not think it wise to mention the masked man who’d questioned Marina about the twins. The less Meg was involved, the better.

  “I see,” she said, but he could tell that she wished to know more.

  “I promise you,” he said, taking her hand, “that there is no romantic involvement between Marina and me. She has moved on, as have I.”

  “Will you see her again?”

  “Possibly. But only if it’s absolutely necessary. She’s trying to help me with … something. I know it all sounds very vague, but I’m asking you to trust me.”

  “I want to. But I confess I can’t begin to understand a relationship that is based on nothing but…”

  “Pleasure?”

  “Yes. And how it could end so … abruptly.”

  “You are right to question such things.” God, he wished he had some brandy. “The truth is that such relationships are often shallow and ultimately unfulfilling.” Only it had never bothered him before.

  “That is rather … sad.” She crossed her arms, stood, and paced beside the bed. “I suppose it was naïve of me to think that our tryst in the garden was anything more than a pleasurable encounter.” Her cheeks flushed bright pink.

  “No.” He shook his head adamantly. “You are not naïve. It meant something to me, too.”

  She stood very still before him, silhouetted by the lamplight. “What did it mean to you?” She asked as though his answer had the power to change everything.

  Though his jacket and trousers were still damp, a sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. “I’m not skilled at putting these things into words.”

  “Try.” It was both a demand and a plea.

  “Very well.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts, such as they were. “When I’m with you—it doesn’t matter if we’re kissing or arguing or just talking—I feel alive. Like I’m not just gliding through life, doing what little is expected of me, playing the self
-indulgent rake. You make me feel like I’m … more.” He speared his fingers through his hair. “Christ. That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

  She swallowed and slowly shook her head. “No.”

  “It’s the same reason I sought you out as a teenager, that day at the lake, I think. You’ve always had a strength and confidence about you—a tendency to question things and to defy tradition. I like that.”

  “That tendency lands me in trouble on a regular basis,” she admitted. “But I can’t help it.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to change.” He grinned. “Well, sometimes I might wish you would follow simple requests—like backing away from the window—without an argument.”

  She arched a brow. “Sometimes I might wish that you would avoid dangling from my sill.”

  “You see,” he said, pointing at her. “You take me to task when I deserve it—and I usually do. You won’t permit me to skate by without examining myself or my actions.”

  “I am not certain that’s a compliment,” she said frowning, “but I shall take it as one anyway.”

  “It is indeed a compliment, Meg.” He pulled her down beside him, wrapped an arm around her narrow shoulders, and rested his chin on her head. Her damp hair smelled like soap, citrus, and summer. “You demand more of me. Even better, you make me want to give more. Be more.” He sighed. “Does any part of these ramblings make sense?”

  “Not really,” she murmured, snuggling against his chest. “Little has made sense since the day you interviewed me for the governess position. I detest you one minute and admire you the next. You mock me one minute and praise me the next. I know that we are not well-suited for one another. But I like being with you.”

  His heartbeat sped from trot to gallop. “You do?”

  “Against my better judgment, yes.”

  He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes, willing her to believe him. “Things between us are complicated, but I do know this—I want to make it work. Tell me you do, too.”

  “You know,” she breathed, “I think I do.” Tenderly, she lifted his hand, uncurled his fingers, and kissed his abraded palm. Innocent enough, and yet, his trousers grew uncomfortably tight.