Earl Crush (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #2)

Chapter 20

This is what I ought to have said: You stagger me. Your wit, your courage, your wide and tender heart.

—from the papers of Arthur Baird, rejected draft

Naturally, things seemed worse in the morning.

After Arthur and Lydia had haphazardly restored themselves in the woods the previous evening, they’d made their way to a coaching inn—which, she’d informed him, she’d seen from the road whilst chasing the Thibodeaux.

He’d clutched her to him reflexively at her words. The fear of the day still clung to his bones, imprinted somewhere along his spine. When they’d arrived at the inn, he’d requested a single bedroom, a hot bath, and supper on a tray before recalling that he’d left his meager funds in the trunk that had remained with Huw and Georgiana.

Lydia’s grin had been some recompense for the mortified heat in his face. “I have some coins sewn into my hem,” she’d confided, “but we may have to sell the mare to afford the rest of the journey to London.”

God, he was mad for her, for her clever, practical brain and that impossible bravery. He’d kissed her, helpless to stop himself, right there on the stairs.

Over dinner, he’d told her what he’d been able to make out of the Thibodeaux’s conversation—fragments only, as they’d spoken in French and he’d been on the other side of a carriage wall. “They spoke of Davis, to be sure. They mentioned London, and a duke, and a spy. And four or five times I made out the name Joseph Eagermont.”

She’d paused and sat back in her scarlet brocade chair, her wineglass arrested halfway to her mouth. “Jasper?”

“Aye,” he’d said. “I think we must find him now more than ever. And Lydia…” He’d hesitated, torn briefly between his need to protect her and his desire to tell her the truth. But she was strong, this woman—strong enough to hear it all. He’d swallowed hard and gone on. “They had weapons, several pistols on them. And they spoke of us. Of you and me, Lord and Lady Strathrannoch. I cannot help but fear that they’ve discovered our connections to Davis and Jasper both.”

He was afraid—Christ, he was so afraid that he’d put her in danger.

She’d set the wine down untasted, her busy fingers sliding along the rim. “I wish we knew what they were after. We must find Jasper. And I begin to wonder…” She’d trailed off, her index finger tapping out a staccato rhythm on the glass.

“Yes?”

“I begin to wonder if there is not some connection to Belvoir’s Library in all of this.” She’d looked up at him then, chin set and midnight-blue eyes determined. “That is the only way I can conceive that Jasper might have known about my correspondence with Davis. And you said they mentioned a spy ?”

“Aye.” Espion. He knew the word—from espionnage .

The notion of espionage and the presence of the French couple in Edinburgh cast a troubling light over the situation. Could the Thibodeaux be French agents of some kind? And if so, what were they after?

If it had to do with Davis and the rifle scope, he did not think it could be good.

Lydia’s expression had turned inward, a studied reverie that he knew well. She was thinking through the evidence, resolving the pattern in her mind.

“Belvoir’s,” she’d murmured. “And Jasper—and a spy.” Her gaze, when she looked up, had been keen as a blade. “What better place for the Home Office to pass information than a library built upon the privacy of its members?”

“You think your brother works for the Home Office?”

“It’s possible. I’d certainly like to go home and ask him about it.”

He’d leaned forward and caught her fingers in his, then brought them to his lips. “Rest tonight. We’ll go tomorrow on the mail coach.”

From there the hot bath he’d ordered had come. The strings of her pelisse had dried into tight, tangled knots, and he’d worked them open for her. He’d slipped loose the buttons of her gown and taken down her stockings. He’d helped her wash her hair, and then—

Well. The floor had not stayed dry, nor had the scarlet brocade chair. He’d carried her to it, knelt between her heat-flushed thighs and watched her as he’d pleasured her. Her back had arched. Her feet had flexed and pointed, restless with demand, until he’d locked them around his neck. Her nails had pressed crescents into the upholstered arms of the chair, tiny imprints that had remained long after her deft fingers had brought him to culmination as well.

He loved that godforsaken chair. He wanted to take it home with him. He wanted to put it in a museum.

But now—in the morning—Lydia lay prone on the bed, her knees bent and her bare feet waving behind her, crossed at the ankles. She was propped up on her elbows, examining the handwritten bill that had come on the tea tray and counting the coins she’d removed from where they’d been sewn into her hem.

She wore only her chemise and stays. Her hem was unpicked and her dress was irremediably stained after their encounter in the forest from where he—from where he had—

Jesus. He had spilled himself on her breasts. He had never —had scarcely even imagined —

He was not sure what was more mortifying: the fact that he had done it in the first place, or the fact that right now, faced with the bounty of her half-bared bosom, he could not think about anything else.

Surely he could have planned this in some more strategic fashion. Did he really mean to declare himself to her—Lydia Hope-Wallace, the cleverest and most arousing woman in the world—less than twenty-four hours after he had despoiled her only frock?

What a way to convince her of his abiding respect and affection! I worship the ground you walk upon, my darling, in case that was not apparent from the way I came on your tits. Would you like to be my wife?

Good God.

From her place on the bed, she began to stack the coins. “These prices are absurd,” she muttered. “They must have known you for a lord.”

“Lydia,” he managed. His voice was hoarse.

She peered up at him and grinned. “You shall have to be the one to sell the horse. I fear I cannot manage haggling, even in extremity. It’s most unfortunate. I quite liked that horse.”

Her cheeks had gone pink. Her hair was in sweet flyaway tangles all around her face, and her smile curved right round his heart.

His stomach pitched. He had forgotten how to form words.

“Marry me,” he choked out.

One gold sovereign rolled off the bed and landed on the floor. Her lips parted, and not a single sound emerged.

Oh Christ. Oh hell . “Marry me,” he said again. “After London. After all of this is over. Come back to Strathrannoch with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” she croaked.

He felt a desperate, rising panic at her apparent stupefaction. He had gone about this wrong, he knew he had. He ought to have found a more opportune moment, more persuasive words. He should have asked her over candlelight.

His hands seemed clumsy, his tongue thick. He felt—as ever—like the wrong Baird brother.

“You could still write your pamphlets,” he got out, a haphazard stab at persuasion. “I would have my vote in the Lords. You could still do your political work. ’Twould be well—the two of us together.”

But she did not seem to acknowledge his words. Her eyes were dark, dark blue, and when she spoke, her voice was shaking. “Is this—because of last night? Because we spent the night together? We did not do anything irrevocable, Arthur. You are not bound by guilt or honor to make such an offer. You are under no obligation.”

“Bound by—” He could not bring her words into a sensible arrangement, could not imagine what she meant. Of everything in his heart as he looked down at her worried face, guilt was a pale whisper beside the chorus of admiration and yearning and—yes.

And love.

The deep bow of her lower lip trembled. He had touched her there, had put his mouth to that fragile curve. “I would not want a marriage that was not entered into freely,” she murmured. “I should not want…”

Her voice trailed off, and he looked at her mouth, that sweet expressive arc, taut now with anxiety and hesitation. He had seen that look on her face before—had seen it over breakfast at Kilbride House and in drawing rooms when she was surrounded by strangers.

He knew she doubted herself. He could recall with painful clarity her words in the carriage. I shall embarrass you—pretending to be your wife.

Was it possible her hesitation was not about him, but about herself?

How could it be that she did not see herself the way that he saw her? The most desirable woman in the world—as glorious as a sunset—as brilliant—as impossible to look away from.

He took her hands and drew her up to sitting, then wrapped one arm about her waist. “You are not an obligation,” he murmured. “I want you, Lydia Hope-Wallace. I want to bring you home with me. I want you to be my wife.”

She searched his face. He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist, felt his own pulse throb with hers.

The pattern of his heart was longing, was please and mine . “Marry me,” he said again. “Say you will.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

If there was uneasiness inside him at the soft rasp of her voice, at the trembling in her fingers, it was drowned out by the force of his relief. He bent his head and kissed her, and she kissed him back: in answer, in reciprocation, in promise.

She would be his, he thought as his arms came tighter around her body, as her cold fingers brushed the back of his neck. She was his. Nothing else mattered beyond that.

By the time they arrived at her home in London, Lydia was fairly certain she had never been so bedraggled in her life, including when she’d nearly been run over by a herd of zebras. They’d slept on the mail coach in order to make their way to London faster, and they’d scarcely stopped to eat. She was in desperate need of a bath. She had not seen a mirror or the state of her own hair in nearly a week.

Arthur, for his part, only looked more handsome and appealing with his shirt open at the collar and his beard thick again with curls. Her body tipped toward his in sleep, and every time she jolted awake, it was with his arms around her and a distinct desire to put her mouth to his bare skin.

It was impossible on the mail coach—there were half a dozen other passengers and everyone was pressed nearly knee to knee. They’d had a few rushed private moments when the coach had stopped for food and drink, and every time she’d felt—

Wild and carnal desires. Irrational fears.

She wanted to peel his clothes off, the way she had in the forest. She wanted to slide her hands up his muscular chest and press every inch of her skin to his. She wanted to feel him over her again, his weight, his irresistible gravity.

She wanted to make things indelible between them. She did not want him to take it back.

Oh God, she was so tangled up inside she could not think clearly.

She’d been entirely caught off guard by his sudden proposal. She had scarcely dared hope that what had passed between them was something he might want to hold fast to. Her body’s first reaction had been a familiar surge of anxiety—fear that his conscience had seized him, that his words were motivated by obligation, not by desire.

But he said it was not so. He had told her that he wanted her to be his wife, and she was trying to believe him.

She trusted him, knew him for a good and careful man. It was only her own lack of confidence, her tendency to fret and chafe, that had her in such a snarl. She did not doubt him. She would not let herself.

She forced her mind to the project of their return to London. She needed to send a note to Georgiana’s house to ensure her friend had arrived safely; she suspected Georgiana was in a fever of worry over the precise mechanism by which Sir Francis Bacon would be returned to her from Scotland.

And she needed to go home. She wanted to find Jasper as quickly as she could. She would look for him first at the Hope-Wallace residence, and then—if he was not there—she intended to go to Selina at Belvoir’s.

By the time they arrived at her own street, she’d almost managed to set aside her anxieties. Almost.

Just outside the residence, Arthur cleared his throat. His face had gone a delicate shade of pink. “Can I help you with your, ah—” He made an abortive gesture at her figure and then shoved his hand into his pocket.

Lydia glanced down. She’d bought a dress off one of the barmaids in the inn’s public room, and though she’d tried to select a barmaid with a similar figure to her own, she’d not quite managed it. The frock dragged on the ground and did not in the slightest fashion contain her bosom.

Her hair hung in lank clumps over her shoulders. There was a smear of red currant jelly on her wrist. The handkerchief she’d tucked into her bodice in a vague attempt at decency had slid to the side, and if she took too deep a breath, she suspected her left breast might literally burst free.

Her mother would have an apoplexy.

“Ah,” she said. “Hmm. Perhaps I can smuggle you into my bedchamber. I can, er, dress. And then we can sneak out again and pretend we’ve only just arrived.”

She peered at Arthur doubtfully. He was scowling at the buff-colored brick facade of the house in a way that suggested it had done him some personal injury. He seemed unlikely to fit in her wardrobe.

“This way,” she said, and led him in the direction of the servants’ entrance at the rear of the residence. He followed her, wordlessly, all the way up the stairs. They encountered a handful of servants, all of whom were familiar with Lydia’s propensity for sneaking about. If they had questions about her rather remarkable appearance and the bearded giant at her side, they did not ask them aloud.

When they reached the third floor, she pushed open the door and led Arthur out into the hallway, in the direction of her chamber. Halfway there, she paused and looked up at him.

She could not make him out. He looked distressed, his face almost a glower. He put one hand to the papered wall beside her head.

“Is everything all right?” she whispered.

He caught her about the waist with his other hand. “Aye. No. I don’t—ah God, Lydia—”

His head dropped, his mouth nearly brushing hers, and desire for him outweighed caution. She went up on her toes, bringing her mouth to his. He groaned softly, helplessly, against her lips and kissed her hard.

One of the chamber doors flew open and crashed into the wall.

They broke hastily apart. Lydia peered underneath Arthur’s arm and found herself staring directly into the stupefied face of her brother Ned.

“Ah,” she said, “Ned. Good afternoon.”

Was it afternoon? The days had started to run together.

Ned’s mouth was open, working soundlessly as he tried to say something. His gaze took in her disheveled state, her slowly surrendering handkerchief, and then moved to Arthur beside her.

“Strathrannoch?” Ned said hoarsely.

Well. It appeared Jasper had been home long enough to inform the family of her supposed marriage.

“Aye,” Arthur said. “I’m—”

He did not have time to finish his statement. To Lydia’s astonishment, Ned sprang forward like an outraged jungle cat, launched himself at Arthur, and toppled both of them to the ground.