March 1807
Manchester, England
If
ever a woman deserved to be shot,
it was Miss Crenshaw. But dawn appointments weren’t meant for the weaker sex. Weaker sex. The lady was anything but
weak, which is why Erroll intended to throttle her.
Erroll laid a shilling in the innkeeper’s palm.
“You understand the need for discretion.”
“Indeed, I do, my lord,” the man replied. “Your
betrothed’s reputation is safe with me.”
Erroll managed to maintain a bland expression as
the innkeeper handed him the key to the lady’s room. So news of his impending
nuptials had sped from Coventry to Manchester even quicker than he had—which
meant London society would hear the news by morning light and the story would
cross the border to Edinburgh just as quickly.
Which of the gossipmongers had he to thank for that?
He was grateful to the heavenly powers that his mother had remained in Scotland
and not accompanied his father to England this month. God help him if she got
wind of this entanglement before he had a chance to extricate himself from the
tenacious claw of the husband-hunting wench.
“A beautiful woman is hard
to resist,” the innkeeper said.
“Indeed,” Erroll murmured,
glad the man had interrupted the mental picture of his mother outfitting the
deceitful huntress in her wedding dress. No bachelor’s mother was more
determined to see her son wed than Erroll’s own dear mamma, and since his return from the navy his
father had put, his considerable weight behind her efforts.
He whirled toward the
stairs, climbed to the second floor and made a left down the hall. At the third
door on the left, he stopped. Erroll had endured his father’s hour-long
diatribe that ended with the command to marry the woman who had accused him of
compromising her—a woman he’d never laid eyes on—before he finally broke away
to discover his accuser had fled Coventry. The hard five hour ride to catch her
before she reached her father’s estate would have been in vain if not for the
fact a wheel on her carriage broke forty miles distance from Manchester.
This experience would teach him to dally with the
women outside of London. Had he satisfied himself with the eligible ladies in Town—if those females could be called
ladies—he wouldn’t have gone to Coventry and attended the damn house party that
had gotten him into trouble. The fact he’d spent a pleasurable hour with a lady
in the hostess’ gardens had only served to put him in the very place his
accuser said he’d been. Erroll felt sure the cunning creature was well aware
he’d been in the gardens, and therefore claimed to be the object of his
attentions.
Erroll quietly unlocked the door, slipped into the
darkened room, then eased the door shut and slipped the key into his pocket.
Faint moonlight filtered in through thin curtains and outlined the sleeping
figure in the bed. Erroll crept forward until he reached the bed. He braced a
knee against the side of the mattress, then placed a hand on each side of the
woman and brought his face to within an inch of hers.
She shifted in her sleep and lush breasts grazed
his chest. He wondered how long it would be before she became aware a man was
in her bed, then concluded that since she hadn’t awoken with a shriek she must
be accustomed to having a man in her bed. He should ravish her as she’d said he
had just for good measure. The thought froze at the pressure of a pistol jammed
against his abdomen.
“I am a crack shot.” The feminine voice was
steady—as was the hand holding the gun. “But even the worst shot in Great
Britain couldn’t miss.” The gun dug deeper into his belly. “Move away.”
Erroll considered. Her calm response to his
presence almost made him think she’d expected him. “If I’m to be shot, I should
at least commit the crime for which I’m accused.” The click of the pistol’s
hammer being pulled back was his answer. “I see you do not agree.” He straightened
off the bed.
“Step back,” she ordered.
He retreated two paces.
“More.”
He moved back another two paces.
“I promise you, sir, my aim is as true at such
short a distance as it was when you were an inch from my face. Back against the
door.”
Erroll complied. A light click indicated she had
released the hammer back into place. She rose, a small figure in the shadows,
and picked up something from the night table. The clink of glass was followed
by the scrape of a match on wood, then light flared and he got his first look
at the woman who claimed he had ravished away her innocence. Dark brown eyes
pinned him with a hard stare. Honey-brown hair tumbled down her shoulders. The
top of her head was no higher than his chest.
The muff pistol remained pointed at him as her
attention shifted to the lamp on the nightstand. She bent slightly and her full
breasts strained against the nightgown as she lit the wick. His cock jerked and
he couldn’t deny his good fortune in not having met her at Lady Baldwin’s
party. He very well might have fallen prey to her charms and been guilty of her
accusations.
She blew out the match and tossed it onto a metal
tray, then took a step toward him. The lamplight illuminated the outline of her
body through the nightgown. The curves he discerned were fuller than were
fashionable and the kind he’d sought without success. His cock began to lift.
He might end up shot after all.
“You are no common housebreaker,” she said. “Who
are you?”
Erroll’s mind snapped to attention. The wench
didn’t recognize him. Fury doused his lust. He gave a mocking smile and bowed.
“Lord Erroll Rushton, at your service.”
Shock registered on her face, then an answering
fire appeared in her eyes. “I see we shall have to break you of the habit of
entering a lady’s room uninvited.”
“You use the term lady too loosely.”
“That is the pot calling the kettle black.”
He nearly laughed.
“One would think a prospective groom could keep
his cock in his pants with his wedding but two days hence,” she said.
“Three days,” Erroll corrected. That was how long
it would take him to get the special license his father ordered him to procure.
“Pray tell, what sort of lady carries a gun?” He didn’t ask what lady used the word ‘cock’ as easily as
the word ‘groom?’ That was perhaps too obvious.
“The sort who knows what to expect of a man,” she
replied.
“The very sort who understands a man might object
to being forced into marriage?” he said.
She gave a derisive laugh. “You are a rakehell,
sir.”
“I never denied being a rake, madam, but I am no liar.”
She wasn't what he’d expected. He’d been told this
was to be her second season, but this woman was no debutante and, given the way
she unabashedly stood before him in her nightclothes, he would wager she was no
virgin.
“Surely, you’re a little old for this game?” he
drawled.
Her brow knit, but he detected no shame. She was
too collected. But a level head—along with a liberal dose of nerve—is exactly
what it took to accuse a complete stranger of compromising her.
“Did you really think you could get away with it?”
she asked.
The question startled him.
“Now who is the pot calling the kettle black?” he
said. She shifted and Erroll could have sworn he discerned a dark patch between
her legs. “A shame we met under these circumstances.” He flicked a glance at
her breasts. “We could have been friends.”
Her mouth thinned. “By God, I really should shoot
you.”
“Tut tut, love, not until the vows are said and I
claim what is left of your virtue.”
She drew in a sharp breath.
“Your righteous anger is completely undone by the
fact that you’re nearly naked.”
Her mouth twisted in a derisive smile. “Forgive
me, my lord. Had I known you were coming, I would have dressed for the
occasion.”
“You are impeccably dressed for the occasion.”
Did she have any idea how visible the contours of
her body were with the lamplight behind her…or how her nipples pressed against
her nightgown? She shifted, widening her stance slightly and his cock jerked
harder. Oh yes, the witch knew.
“I should send you to hell this instant,” she
said.
He lifted a brow. “The marriage vows will take
care of that—had I any intentions of marrying.”
“My father will ensure that you do not escape this
time.”
“That sounds as though you think I am getting what
I deserve.”
“You do not deserve such a good and innocent
wife.”
Erroll laughed. “Innocent? A woman who puts
herself in such a position is no innocent.”
“How dare you?” she hissed.
“How dare I? I understand there were several
suitors for the honorable Miss Crenshaw’s attentions at Lady Baldwin’s party. I
wager none of them were as good a prospect as I, which is why you gambled that
no one would notice if I was included on that list.”
He didn’t miss the way her fingers flexed on the
gun.
“Everything I’ve heard about you is true,” she
said. “You have no conscience.”
“In that we are alike. Should my father succeed in
coercing me into marriage, I will make the worst sort of husband you can
imagine. I will not settle down and sire an heir as he expects. Instead, I will
send my wife to the family estate in Scotland while I go about my pleasures in
London.”
“So the choice is desertion or ruination?”
“Be honest, the ruination was done long before you
concocted this plan.”
“Plan?” she repeated. “I feel certain I can
convince the magistrate of self-defense. After all, you broke into my room.”
“Think again.” Erroll reached into his pocket.
“Beware,” she said.
He slowly withdrew the key from his pocket and
held it up. “The innkeeper was very obliging. He feels nothing should stand in
the way of true love.”
She frowned, then comprehension cleared her
expression. “I should have guessed. You think you can browbeat me into helping
you avoid the marriage vows. You, sir, are the worst sort of knave.”
“So we do understand one another.”
“You are a fool,” she muttered.
He’d had enough. “You are the fool if you believe
I will marry you.”
“Marry me? What—”
Erroll started toward her.
She took a faltering step backwards and he lunged.
She gave a startled cry. He seized the hand holding the gun and shoved it
upward in their tumble backwards. They landed on the bed, him on top of her.
Her lush body yielded beneath his hard planes—his stiffening cock in
particular. To his surprise, she didn’t struggle, but released the pistol. The
weapon bounced off the mattress and struck the carpet with a thud.
“Is this how you described my having ravished
you?” he demanded.
Shock registered on her face. He blew out a
frustrated breath. He’d come ready to battle the vixen and she was already
crumbling. Moisture appeared in her eyes. Ah, there it was. She was simply
moving onto another tactic.
“Lies, pistols, tears, and…” He moved suggestively
against her breasts and felt the rigid nipples beneath his shirt. “Your arsenal
of weapons is impressive, madam.”
“I tell you, mamma, I heard a scream.”
A woman’s voice penetrated the door on the right
wall. Erroll jerked his gaze in that direction as the door swung open. Two
women stood in the doorway staring, one young—in her second season, he would
guess—the other, the mamma the girl had addressed.
Erroll looked at the woman lying beneath him. “I
thought that was a closet.”
***
Panic streaked through Eve and she struggled to push Lord Rushton off her, but he continued to stare in
shock as her mother fainted dead away.
Her sister’s wail split the deadly silence. “He’s
mine!”
The earl looked at Eve, a strange sense of
understanding in his eyes. “She’s Miss Crenshaw?”
Eve wasn’t sure if his confusion was due to the
fact he’d accosted the wrong woman, or that the woman he was supposed to have
compromised was beautiful enough to rival Aphrodite. He wouldn’t be the first
man struck dumb at first sight of Grace.
“He’s mine!” This time Grace’s wail became a
banshee cry.
She hurled herself at them and landed on the
earl’s back with a force that seemed impossible given her small stature. Eve
winced when his hardened shaft dug into her pelvis. He grunted and she
fleetingly wondered if it was Grace’s weight landing on top of him or the fact
that even a steel rod could be crushed by the force of such an assault. It
would serve him right if he never sired an heir.
Eve caught sight of his jaw tightening and
realized he’d broken from the spell. Grace seized his head and shoved. His face
mashed into Eve’s breasts. Her breath caught and she clutched at his shoulders.
Muscle bunched beneath her fingers as he tried to push upward in unison with
her shove, but Grace was like a rogue elephant pounding them with all her
weight and might. The hall door flew open and Eve glimpsed their father in the
doorway.
Lord Rushton jerked his head in an obvious attempt
to look up, but Grace shoved harder, slamming his head deeper into Eve’s soft
flesh.
“What the bloody hell?” their father roared.
An instant later, the weight lifted. Eve vaguely
understood her father had pulled Grace off them, then she suddenly felt light
as a feather and realized the earl had shoved off of her. He whirled, swinging
a large fist that cracked against her father’s jaw. Eve jumped from the bed and
tripped. She hit the floor shoulder first. Pain radiated up her arm. Her father
rammed a fist into the earl’s stomach. Lord Rushton stumbled back a step, but
jerked straight and sent a hard jab to her father’s ribs.
“Stop!” she shouted, but the earl struck again.
Her father blocked the blow, but the younger man
was too fast and pounded a fist into his stomach. Eve spotted the pistol lying
on the carpet and grabbed it. She aimed and pulled the trigger.
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