A Wicked Way to Win an Earl Read online

  Then again . . . she’d never seen a real debauchery before. Since there was no longer any danger of this one coming to its final embarrassing conclusion, Delia found she was curious.

  What would he do now?

  She watched, rapt, but for a long time he didn’t do anything. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, inhaling deeply, the muscles of his back rippling with each breath. In. Out. In. Out. He tipped his head back and for several minutes he concentrated on the tree branches swaying above him.

  She was just about to conclude this was the dullest debauchery ever when he let out a frustrated groan, grabbed his coat from the branch, and turned to face her.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  Delia’s mouth dropped open and she stumbled backward a few steps, her curiosity evaporating. His tone was inexcusably rude, and he was even bigger and more intimidating from the front, but the real trouble here was that . . .

  He was naked.

  Well, not naked really, but more naked than any man she’d ever seen in the flesh, and he had a great deal of flesh. His loose white shirt was open at the neck, revealing a generous expanse of his muscular chest. Delia stared, her face flaming even as her eyes moved helplessly over the bounty of bare male flesh.

  He pinned her down with penetrating dark eyes that sported lashes long enough to satisfy even the vainest of women, and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Miss?” he barked. “I asked you a question.”

  Yes—he had, hadn’t he? Yes, of course—who the devil was she? “Delia Somerset?” She cringed when it emerged as a question.

  A glint of lazy humor flashed in the black eyes. “Well, are you or aren’t you? You don’t seem to be sure.”

  Delia didn’t trust that glint. Her married friends sometimes whispered about men like him. Men who became crazed with lust and were swept away by their animal passions. All manner of wicked behavior followed.

  This one looked more savage than most.

  “Let’s assume you are indeed Miss Somerset,” he drawled, when she still didn’t speak. “Now that I know who the devil you are, may I suggest you tell me what the devil you’re doing here?”

  Why, of all the offensive, bullying . . . All at once Delia’s embarrassment faded under a wave of indignation. Even an intriguingly bare chest didn’t excuse profanity.

  “And may I suggest, sir,” she snapped, “that you don your coat?”

  One dark eyebrow shot up in acknowledgment of this show of temper. “Forgive me, Miss Somerset.” He put on his waistcoat and began buttoning it with an air of complete unconcern, as if he spent every day half-naked on a public road. He shrugged into his coat. “I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

  Delia stared at him. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? My sensibilities were offended, sir, when you unfastened your breeches.”

  She’d meant to give him a firm set-down, but instead of looking ashamed or embarrassed as a proper gentleman would in such disgraceful circumstances, this awful man actually laughed.

  “I fastened them again before I turned around,” he pointed out, as if this were a perfectly reasonable argument.

  Delia pressed her lips together. “I see that. Are you expecting applause? A standing ovation, perhaps?”

  “No, just pointing out you should be grateful for it, as it was damned difficult to do under the circumstances.”

  Delia sniffed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  The man studied her face for a moment, noted her baffled expression, and all at once he seemed to grow bored with her. “Of course you don’t. Now that we’ve discussed my clothing in more detail than I do with my valet, you will answer my question.”

  Delia huffed out a breath. “My sister and I have come from Surrey to attend a house party at the home of the Earl of Carlisle. We’re friends with the earl’s sisters.”

  No reaction. Delia stopped and waited, but not even a flicker of recognition crossed his face. For pity’s sake. He must know who Lord Carlisle was?

  “The coach we were traveling in broke an axle about a mile down the road.” She pointed in the direction from which she’d just come. “My sister and the coachman—”

  “You should have stayed with the coach. What possessed you to go scampering around the countryside like a curious little rabbit?”

  Annoyed by his condescending tone, Delia decided to overlook the fact she’d been thinking the same thing only minutes ago. “Believe me, sir, I’ve come to regret that decision most bitterly. But I thought it best in this case because—”

  “Why didn’t you just send the coachman to the inn for a carriage?” he interrupted again, looking at her as though she were simple.

  “I couldn’t, because when the axle broke—”

  “The Prickly Thistle is in the opposite direction,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Didn’t you ask for directions?”

  “Would you kindly stop interrupting me?” Delia nearly shouted the words.

  There was a pause, then, “Why should I? You interrupted me.”

  For a moment she wasn’t sure what he meant, but then she felt her cheeks go hot and she knew they’d turned scarlet. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your”—she gestured with her hands—“your fornication, but that’s no reason to—”

  “Fornication?” He found this very funny indeed. “Did you just call it fornication?”

  “Well, yes. What of it?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just very, ah, biblical of you.”

  Delia crossed her arms stubbornly over her chest. There was no way she was going to ask. He was mad indeed if he believed she would. If she asked, he might just tell her, and she didn’t want to know the answer.

  “Well, what do you call it?”

  Drat.

  He smirked. “Something far more descriptive, but I’d rather not repeat it now. Tell me. Precisely how much of my fornication did you witness?”

  “Far more than one generally expects to see on a public road,” Delia snapped. “In short, a shocking amount.”

  “I see. That would explain why you stood there for so long, gaping. The shock.”

  Delia glowered at him. “I didn’t have much choice, did I? I heard a noise and so I followed it, and there you were, right in plain sight.” Pressing against each other, sighing, kissing, caressing . . .

  “You heard a noise. What kind of noise was it?” he asked, as if he were humoring her.

  “At first I thought it was a wild animal,” she said, then added in an undertone, “and I wasn’t entirely wrong.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Somerset?”

  Delia bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I said, can’t we move this along? My sister is waiting for me to return with a conveyance. She’s been ill, and I would rather not leave her in the cold any longer than necessary.”

  He waved his hand imperiously, as if he were the lord of the manor and she a lowly servant. “Very well. Go on.”

  She took a deep breath and recited the facts quickly, before he could interrupt again. “The axle broke, the coachman suffered an injury, they’re stranded on the road, and night is coming on. I need to find the inn, procure a conveyance, and fetch them both at once.”

  “The coachman is injured?” Now she had his full attention. “How badly injured?”

  “Badly enough. He fell from the box when the axle broke and twisted his ankle. It’s either sprained or broken. That’s why he couldn’t come for help. He did describe where I could find the Prickly Thistle Inn, but I must have missed a turn, for I didn’t see it.”

  “The turn is difficult to spot from the road.” He thought for a moment and came to some kind of decision. “Come.” He turned and started back down the road, splashing casually through the mud puddles, clearly expecting her
to follow without question, as if she were a dog or a sheep or some other kind of dense livestock.

  Delia hesitated. She was in no more danger alone with him here than she’d be a mile down the road, and she didn’t have much choice, but the idea of putting herself under this man’s sole protection seemed, well, unwise.

  When she didn’t immediately follow, he jerked around. He must have read her thoughts on her face because his arrogant gaze moved deliberately from the top of her bedraggled bonnet down over her muddy traveling dress, and came to rest at last on her ruined boots. “Believe me, Miss Somerset, you are perfectly safe with me.”

  Delia gasped in outrage. He was insulting her? She didn’t need him to remind her she looked a perfect fright. “Such a gallant thing to say.” She had to struggle to keep her temper. “But perhaps you’re not accustomed to the company of ladies who are fully dressed.”

  He shrugged, then turned again and started back down the road, leaving her no choice but to stagger behind him. “Let’s just say I prefer the company of ladies who are fully undressed.”

  Delia supposed he meant to shock her, but she was beyond shock at this point, and hardly turned a hair at this scandalous comment. She followed behind him, scrambling to keep pace with his long-legged stride. “I see. Well, that explains why you felt compelled to undress your friend on a public road. How terrible it must be, to be so at the mercy of your animal passions.”

  She was glaring at the back of his head when she noticed he’d begun shoving a hand through his thick dark hair. The crisp waves curled and caught a bit against his long fingers. Did that mean he was nettled, then? Oh, she hoped so. She’d be immensely gratified to have annoyed him.

  She had just begun to enjoy that idea when he whipped around to face her. She was so surprised she crashed right into him. Strong hands reached out to steady her, but when she was upright again, he didn’t release her. Instead he pulled her just a bit closer—not so close his body touched hers, but more than close enough to completely unnerve her.

  “I was carried away by my animal passions,” he murmured in a low, seductive voice. His velvety dark eyes caught and held hers. “I’m an impatient man, you see, Miss Somerset. Especially when it comes to”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“fornication.”

  For one moment Delia was mesmerized, staring at him as if he were a snake charmer and she were rising from her basket after languishing there for decades. But then she noticed a hint of a smirk on his lips and jerked free from his grasp.

  Goodness gracious. Her face heated yet again. “Perhaps it would be better if we didn’t speak.”

  Another careless shrug. “If you choose.”

  Awful, teasing man.

  They walked along the road for a while, the only sound now the soft, wet thud of boots against mud. After a half mile or so he turned off the road and pulled back some overgrown bushes. “The inn is on the other side.” He gestured for her to walk in front of him.

  As soon as Delia passed through the thick brush, she could see the path, and there at the end was the Prickly Thistle Inn. She’d walked right by it earlier without noticing, as it was impossible to see the squat stone building from the road. She glanced resentfully at her silent companion. She had cause to regret her inattention now, didn’t she?

  Delia breathed an immediate sigh of relief when they entered the inn. It was almost dark outside and growing colder, but there was a massive stone fireplace at one end of the main room that threw out considerable light and heat. A grizzled little man was running a damp cloth over the scarred wooden surface of the bar. “A pint fer ye, me lord?” he called, when he caught sight of Delia and her companion hovering in the doorway.

  “Not this time, thank you, George,” Delia’s companion replied, but he wasn’t looking at the gray-haired man. He was looking at her, a smug grin lifting the corners of his wide mouth.

  Delia stared back at him, aghast. Oh, no, no, no! But even as her brain worked frantically to deny it, she began to remember certain little details. His lack of reaction when she mentioned the earl’s name. His concern over the injured coachman, a coachman who had been sent by the Earl of Carlisle to convey them to Kent. The fine quality and fit of his clothes—that was, when they were fastened.

  And who else but an arrogant earl would dare . . .

  Delia wanted to stamp her foot with ire. It couldn’t be! Her mind struggled to think of anything that would prove her dreadful suspicion wrong.

  Yes! The woman. The one he’d been groping. The giggler. She’d called this man Alec. That wasn’t right, because Charlotte and Ellie’s brother was named . . .

  Delia closed her eyes in despair. Charlotte and Ellie’s brother was named Alexander. Alexander Sutherland.

  Alec.

  The fornicator. The debaucher. The lifter of women’s skirts and the unbuttoner of breeches.

  He was Lord Carlisle.

  Chapter Two

  “Miss Somerset.” Alec swept her a low, mocking bow. “As you may have deduced, I am Carlisle. You’ll be my guest at Bellwood for the next several weeks.”

  He watched with detached interest as a series of expressions flickered across her mud-streaked face. Doubt. Denial. Fury. Finally, resignation. It had been a nasty trick to play on her. Childish, too. Alec almost felt guilty. Almost. But a man was not responsible for his actions when his bollocks were aching.

  They weren’t likely to stop aching anytime soon, either, thanks to Delia Somerset. He wasn’t exactly proud to be caught with one hand in a village wench’s bodice and the other raising her skirts, but things had become a bit more heated than he’d intended. That did tend to happen with Maggie. He was a man, after all, and Maggie had a spectacular bosom.

  “My lord.” Alec jerked his attention back to Miss Somerset, who’d dipped into a very low, very deferential curtsy. He was impressed, despite himself. He’d never seen a young lady curtsy sarcastically before.

  He knew who she was, of course—had known before she said her name. Few things happened at Bellwood without Alec knowing about it. If his mother chose a new china pattern or one of his sisters broke a nail, he knew.

  He’d expected Delia Somerset.

  His sisters had revealed the information the previous evening. They’d been giggling over something for days, batting it between them like two kittens with a ball of yarn, repeating Robyn’s name and the phrase “yellow gown” so often Alec had at last grown curious.

  “Who is Robyn chasing now?” he’d asked idly.

  “Delia Somerset,” Eleanor replied. “You remember we told you we became intimately acquainted with two young ladies during our stay in Surrey, Alec? Robyn was quite struck with Delia, the elder sister. I think yellow is his new favorite color.”

  Somerset. Of course Alec knew the name. Millicent Somerset, formerly Millicent Chase, had been a legend during her London season. Trust Robyn to find a Somerset in the wilds of Surrey and deem her worthy of chasing.

  “He couldn’t take his eyes off her,” Charlotte added, breathless with the romance of it. “He teased and teased until we invited her to the house party.”

  Alec froze. Invited her to the house party?

  “Charlotte, Eleanor, I wish to speak with Robyn in my study. Please tell him.”

  The girls turned and stared at him, surprised by his grim tone. “Um, I think Robyn has gone out for the evening already . . .” Eleanor began.

  Alec raised one black eyebrow. “At once, Eleanor.”

  His sisters weren’t about to sacrifice themselves to the big bad wolf on Robyn’s account. They must have decided Alec looked decidedly wolfish, because both girls turned without another word and hurried out the door, before he could catch their little red hoods in his teeth.

  Alec walked into the study, moved behind his desk, and unstopped the decanter of whiskey. He had a feeling he was going to need a drink.

 
; “Alec.” A few minutes later Robyn breezed in and threw his long body into a full sprawl in front of the heavy mahogany desk. He nodded when Alec held up a second glass. Alec poured a measure and pushed it across to him.

  Mincing words seemed pointless, so he didn’t. “What will you do with the Somerset girl if you catch her, Robyn?”

  There was a pause. “Delphinium,” Robyn said with a faint smile.

  Alec gave his brother a blank look. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Her name is Delphinium.”

  Alec was speechless for a moment, then, “You’re joking.”

  “No. Charming, isn’t it? Her friends call her Delia.”

  “Is this really all about a damned yellow gown, Robyn?”

  “The color of the gown isn’t important, Alec. It had more to do with the cut. It fit her nicely. Very nicely indeed.”

  Alec didn’t leap across the polished surface of the desk and seize his brother by the throat, so he had cause to marvel at his own restraint. “Let me understand you, Robyn. You have invited Miss Somerset—Delphinium, if one can credit it—to Bellwood because she fills out her yellow gown?”

  Robyn crossed his legs. “No, of course not. I didn’t invite her here. That wouldn’t be proper, would it, Alec? Charlotte and Ellie invited Delia and her sister Lily.”

  “We wouldn’t want you to overlook propriety,” Alec muttered.

  He often played this game with Robyn these days. Alec pretended to be calm while his knuckles turned white from his grip on his whiskey glass. Robyn affected casual indifference, but he watched his brother with the wariness of a hare hiding in the shadows from a hound. If Alec lost his temper before Robyn could escape the study, Alec lost the game.

  “Tell me, Robyn—the Somerset girl. What level of scandal are you planning? Should I send word to London? Or will you confine yourself to the country this time?”

  An angry flush rose above Robyn’s collar and surged into his cheeks, but then he recalled his role in the game, and with a visible effort, he gave a careless shrug. “Who can tell?” There was a brief pause, then, “Perhaps I just enjoy her company, Alec. She’s clever and amusing, and . . . alive.”