Dreams of Desire Page 3

  Edward’s profligacy was an exhausting source of familial discord, and as John peered around the cheery room, filled with neighbors who were chatting, drinking, and playing cards, he was overcome by the worst wave of melancholy.

  What he wouldn’t give to walk away, to shuck off his responsibilities and leave the entire mess behind. But he never would. His strict, unyielding father, Charles Middleton, had trained him too well.

  “Edward will make a fine marriage,” he insisted.

  “Not on the pittance he inherited from Charles.”

  “He was bequeathed plenty, Esther.”

  “Easy for you to say—when you have it all.”

  He sighed. It was an argument he couldn’t win with her.

  “Edward gambles it away, which you know to be true, and I won’t debate his conduct in the middle of a party.”

  “If you would—”

  “Esther!” he sharply but quietly seethed. “You forget yourself. Stop nagging me.”

  He hated scenes and wouldn’t tolerate hysterics. It was another lesson drilled into him by his father, who’d loathed gossip and scandal. John’s disgraced mother, Barbara, had reveled in ignominy, had loved to frolic and offend and draw attention to herself.

  As a result, John never did anything out of the ordinary, being determined to act appropriately in all circumstances so he would never be compared to her. Quarreling with his stepmother, while others watched, was beyond the pale.

  Esther was aware that she’d overstepped her bounds, and she pursed her lips and stomped off. He was relieved to see her go. His day had been sufficiently awful—due to Miss Lambert and her interfering ways—and he didn’t need Esther adding to his aggravation.

  Barbara, his mother, was living in Italy, having run off with a paramour when John was two. He’d never seen her again, and his father had promptly divorced her and wed Esther, instead. She’d assumed Barbara’s role, both as parent and countess, but it had been cold comfort.

  Esther was dour and unpleasant, forever whining over the smallest detail. John was respectful to her because she’d been his father’s wife, because she was Dowager Countess of Penworth, because she’d tried to be a mother to him. She’d failed miserably, but still, she’d tried, and he owed her his esteem.

  He just wished she didn’t make it so difficult to like her.

  Edward was over by the hearth with the twins and various other girls. He was telling one of his pointless stories, and they were all laughing. He could be charming—when he wanted to be—and John couldn’t bear to observe as he flirted. Not when John was cognizant of Edward’s other, less flattering traits.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Miss Lambert furtively sneaking out onto the terrace, and he whipped around, like a falcon spotting a rabbit. Since she’d stumbled onto his aborted tryst with Lauretta Bainbridge, he hadn’t had a chance to discuss the situation with her.

  What might she say about the imbroglio she’d witnessed? To whom might she tattle? If rumors spread, the damage to his reputation would be incalculable.

  Why, oh, why had he allowed Lauretta in the house? Her prior protector, Lord Redvers, was an old friend who’d kept her as his mistress, and John had always been partial to her sexual habits.

  When the butler had announced her, John should have refused to see her, but sometimes he grew weary of behaving. His world was all drudgery and restraint. Wasn’t he entitled to a bit of fun? He had bodily cravings like everyone else, but how was he to explain such a thing to a spinsterish scold like Miss Lambert?

  Would he have to buy her silence? She’d learned his deepest, darkest secret—he had hidden vices—and he was terrified that she might use her knowledge to his detriment.

  Feigning nonchalance, he slipped outside, prepared to chase after her like an idiot. It took a moment to locate her; she was far down a pathway, slinking in the servant’s entrance.

  He followed, positive she was bound for her bedchamber, so she’d be alone and away from curious eavesdroppers. They’d be able to have a private conversation. He had to make her view the assignation from his perspective. As he hurried after her, he dithered over how to portray the event so it sounded less despicable.

  He halted at her door, but before he could knock, she yanked it open from the inside. She was wrapped in a dowdy traveling cloak, and on seeing him, she appeared startled and guilty.

  “Hello Miss Lambert,” he said.

  “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “This is a bad time for me,” she had the temerity to protest. “I’ll have to catch up with you later.”

  He ignored her and continued on. “About this afternoon, when I was . . . was ...”

  “Dabbling with a whore in your library?”

  “. . . chatting with an acquaintance—”

  “Ha! There’s nothing wrong with my ears. I heard every word you uttered.”

  Damn it! “She merely stopped by on her way to London.”

  “Is that how you’ve decided to play it? It seems to me that you were a staircase away from romping with her on your bed.”

  A muscle ticked in his cheek. “I can see that I’ve left you with a completely erroneous impression, and I must counter any misconception.”

  She shook her head with disgust. “You’re a fraud, Penworth. You’re quick with your lectures, but when it comes right down to it, you’re no better than you have to be.”

  She was correct, so how was he to reply? Still, he couldn’t have her blathering the story hither and yon.

  “It’s clear,” he stated, “that we disagree on what transpired, so I must demand that you not mention the episode to others.”

  “Trust me, milord, I don’t intend to talk about you ever again. Your name will never cross my lips.”

  “Well . . . good. I’m glad we understand one another.”

  “Now then, if you’ll excuse me? I’m busy.”

  Busy? It was ten o’clock on a Wednesday night at a country estate. What could possibly be occupying her?

  She started to shut the door, and he frowned as he realized that she was clutching a portmanteau in her hand.

  Was she running away? The prospect was so unbelievable that he couldn’t accept it, but what else was he to presume?

  Sanity returned, and he snapped, “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Hadn’t he asked her the exact same question earlier in the day? Would it become a constant query with her? What type of troublemaker had he hired? Would there be no end to the chaos she would bring to his staid, dull life?

  “Nothing,” she said, giving the answer she’d previously supplied.

  “It certainly doesn’t look like nothing. If I didn’t know better, I’d suppose you were quitting your job before it had begun.”

  “Ah . . . no, I wasn’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  She was peering up at him with those big blue eyes—and lying to his face!

  If it hadn’t been so indescribably bizarre, he’d have laughed aloud.

  “Are you claiming,” he probed, “that you’re eager to commence your duties?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re elated that I picked you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You can’t wait to serve me.”

  “I couldn’t find a boss more considerate or generous.”

  The little minx kept her gaze locked on his as the falsehoods rolled off her tongue. If there had been a chair directly behind him, he’d have sunk down into it in a stunned heap.

  No one defied him. No one deceived him. In light of his superior status, no one would dare. Especially not a lowly, common lady’s companion. He told people to jump, and they asked, how high? Every person in the kingdom was aware of this fact. It was like an implicit rule of nature. He spoke, and he was obeyed.

  Yet Miss Lambert felt it perfectly permissible to pack her bag and leave without so much as a good-bye. She
either had an enormous amount of gall, or she was insane.

  “Would you like to know what has occurred to me, Miss Lambert?”

  “No, but I imagine you’re about to tell me.”

  “It has occurred to me that you’re running away.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She chuckled halfheartedly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  He took a step into the room, and she took one back. He took another, and she retreated until he was fully inside. He kicked the door closed with his heel.

  In an instant, they were sequestered in a fashion that was totally improper, but thrilling to him in ways he didn’t comprehend. He was famous for his cool aplomb, but he was so furious at her snubbing his offer of employment that red circles had formed on the edge of his vision.

  He wanted to shout at her, to shake her, to bend her over his knee and paddle her shapely bottom until she couldn’t sit down for a week. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so alive.

  “Miss Lambert?”

  “Yes?”

  “Insubordination enrages me.”

  She looked indignant. “Who said I was being insubordinate?”

  “I did, and what I say is the law.”

  He reached out and—quick as a snake—grabbed her satchel and tossed it away. Feeling omnipotent and invincible, he loomed in, as she squealed with alarm and lurched back.

  Suddenly, and without warning, he had her trapped against the bedpost. His torso was pressed to hers so that he was touching her all the way down. The sensation was so stirring that he was surprised his knees didn’t buckle.

  With a body made for sinning, she was a delectable combination of mounds and curves and valleys. He was reminded of a painting of a nude that hung in his gentlemen’s club in London, and he couldn’t help but wonder how she’d appear undressed.

  There was a flow of energy passing from him to her, the air energized as if a huge magnet held them together. Had he wanted to move away—which he didn’t—he couldn’t have.

  If he didn’t escape at once, he just might kiss her. All he had to do was lean down, and the deed would be done. An invisible force was drawing him closer and closer . . .

  “Are you going to ravish me?” she asked.

  “You should be so lucky.” Her anxious question jolted him out of his stupor. He stumbled away, breaking the link between them as powerfully as if he’d cut it with a knife.

  They stood, glaring, breathing hard, as if they’d been quarreling, and he supposed they were.

  “I hired you this morning, Miss Lambert, to aid me in a very important capacity, yet I come upon you this evening sneaking out like a thief.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Don’t lie to me!” he roared, surprised anew by how she’d disconcerted him. “Isn’t that exactly what’s happening? Should I check your bag to see if it contains silver-ware or candlesticks?”

  “How dare you accuse me of larceny!”

  “With what I’ve just witnessed, what should I think?”

  “Not that, you oaf.”

  “Oaf! Is that how you address your betters?”

  “Yes, if they’re acting crazy. I can’t have you leveling such a dangerous charge. What are you trying to do? Get me hanged?”

  She’d stunned him again. She had a barbed tongue, and she wasn’t afraid to stab him with it. Her audacity was annoying and oddly refreshing. He was surrounded by sycophants and flatterers who told him precisely what he wanted to hear, while she felt free to share her opinions—despite how they might aggravate or offend.

  “Tell me what you’re doing,” he commanded in his most haughty earl’s tone, “and don’t waste my time with more of your nonsense.”

  She studied him, taking his measure. Devious thoughts careened through her head as she decided on the best yarn to spin.

  “I might have been leaving,” she ultimately admitted.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Are you always this smug?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “As I’ve previously mentioned, I don’t care.”

  “You are the most vain man I’ve ever met.”

  “And you are the most infuriating woman. What misbegotten notion has convinced you to flee the safety of my home in the middle of the night?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “You’re not going to believe me, either.”

  “Miss Lambert, I am giving you a chance to explain yourself. Please take it!”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She dithered and debated, then blurted out, “I hate your wards.”

  “You hate Melanie and Miranda? How could you have generated an abhorrence so rapidly?”

  “After you and I concluded our interview, they accosted me in the hall.”

  “And?”

  “They threatened me with bodily harm if I took the job.”

  “They did not.”

  “They did!”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “See? I told you you wouldn’t believe me.”

  At her umbrage, he snorted. “Pardon my skepticism, but why would they terrorize you? It’s not as if you’ll have any great authority over them.”

  “They don’t want a chaperone. Their father let them do whatever they liked, and they’re irritated by your coddling.”

  He scowled, irked that—after a purportedly brief encounter in a deserted corridor—she knew more about the twins than he did after over a year of acquaintance.

  Their father had been a school chum with whom John had occasionally gamboled. They’d been cordial, but hardly close, and he’d only met the twins twice and that was when they were children.

  Their father had died—in a messy, hushed suicide—and John had been shocked to learn that he’d been named as their guardian. There had been no way to refuse the obligation.

  He’d offered to find them husbands, but they’d claimed they weren’t ready to wed, so he’d brought them to reside with the family. He’d done what he could to accommodate them, but they were an onerous burden, and he didn’t wish to be further encumbered.

  He simply wanted them to have a chaperone so that he didn’t have to fuss with them. Was that too much to ask?

  “They’re eighteen,” he said, “but to me, they’re still girls. They require watching.”

  “They’re girls, all right. Cruel, vicious ones.”

  “They are not.”

  “They are!”

  “They need a companion, and it will be you.”

  “Don’t tell me. Tell them.”

  “I have.”

  “It doesn’t appear that they listened.”

  Could it be true? How was it that he—a man who was heeded, no matter how grand or insignificant his remarks—was suddenly being vexed by females who ignored everything he said?

  First Miss Lambert, now Melanie and Miranda. If he wasn’t careful, he’d have a full-blown feminine rebellion on his hands.

  “Don’t make me do it,” she pleaded. “Don’t make me stay.”

  “I don’t have time to search for anyone else.”

  “They informed me that they’ll involve me in all sorts of mischief. They plan to trick and deceive you until you fire me.”

  Could she be correct? Had the twins harassed the others whom he’d terminated? The possibility was too outrageous, and he couldn’t credit it.

  He scoffed at her. “You have the most vivid imagination.”

  “I’m not imagining it.”

  She looked so forlorn, and her melancholy was exasperating.

  Women loved him. They begged for opportunities to enjoy his company—even though he shared it sparingly. Yet she couldn’t wait to be shed of him and the security he would provide.

  She was still leaned against the bedpost, and he stepped in again, tickled by how the area around them was instantly enlivened. A thrilling intimacy was growing, an
d there was the most marvelous sense of expectation, as if any wonderful thing might happen.

  “I want you to remain,” he insisted. “I want you in my home.”

  “It will be a nightmare for me.”

  “No, it won’t. I’ll protect you.”

  The words sounded strange, as if they’d been spoken by another man, one who was considerate and sympathetic to the needs of others as he never was.

  “Promise me you won’t leave,” he said.

  She sighed. “I won’t.”

  “If you sneak off in the dark, I’ll be very worried. Promise me you’ll be here in the morning. Swear it to me.”

  “I swear I’ll be here.”

  There were a dozen other, more personal comments he wanted to utter, but he didn’t dare, and he was alarmed by the odd sentiments that kept flaring when she was near.

  He seemed to . . . to . . . like her more than he should, but it would be entirely inappropriate for any relationship to develop.

  “You’ll be fine,” he vowed. “I’ll see to it.”

  Though he knew it was wrong, he couldn’t resist reaching out and tracing a finger across her lips. Then he turned and ran as if the hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels.

  Chapter 4

  “I’M beggared.”

  “After your shenanigans in Town last month, I’m not surprised.”

  “I could use an infusion of cash.”

  “I bet you could.”

  Edward Middleton glared at John, and he struggled to keep his fury in check. He’d provided John with a dozen openings to cough up some money, but John was being maddeningly tight-fisted. As usual.

  With John being thirty and Edward twenty-seven, Edward had dealt with John’s temperament for nearly three decades. It was pointless to quarrel with him. He was stoic and unflappable and couldn’t be swayed by emotional argument. Any request had to be posed with levity, as if the matter was unimportant.

  They were sequestered in John’s library, with John seated behind his desk and wallowing in the pomp of his position like a blasted king. He looked cool and composed, while Edward had been up all night, drinking and carousing at the village tavern.