My Kind of Earl Page 5

  She wasn’t entirely certain it would work to remove the profuse pink staining from his skin. But she didn’t particularly care either. She just wanted to end this unsatisfactory night once and for all.

  “What else do you have in that bag of yours?” Raven asked, peering across the distance with speculation.

  She speared him with a glare, then reached for the pitcher. Empty, of course. She gave him another hard look for the inconvenience.

  Turning to her cousin, she said, “Duncan, would you be so kind as to find the kitchen belowstairs and fill this with clean water, tout suite? Oh, and take this rat de cave with you and be mindful of the stairs.”

  “A’ course,” he said with eagerness, dusting his hands together after he added a log to the crackling kindling and tinder bundle in the grate.

  Taking the ewer and spiral chamberstick, Duncan set off immediately with loud, lumbering footsteps and headed out the door.

  Left alone with the instigator of her foul mood, she set her hands on her slender hips and faced Raven. “Come here, if you please, and make haste. I’ve wasted enough time dealing with the likes of you.”

  “You look like an angry pixie with your arms flared and your foot tapping away like that,” he said, arching a supercilious dark brow as he pushed away from the post and ambled toward her, taking his time. “Now, why do I get the sense that the little professor is mad at me? It should be the other way around, don’t you think?”

  “Do I think? Why, yes, I do. All the time, in fact. Would you like to know what I’m thinking right now?”

  “Something tells me I don’t.”

  “I’m thinking about how disappointing it is to realize that there are men in the world like you,” she said, her eyes narrowing into slits. “Ones who will sell their meager possessions just to visit an exclusive brothel. Ones with no higher aspirations than a night’s fornication.”

  “That isn’t exactly—”

  “I’m thinking that the book my friends and I are writing will be less of a primer and more of a tragedy, warning all women away from your sex. And I’m thinking”—she paused to swipe a loose hank of hair from her forehead—“that I should let you remain pink.”

  “You’re awfully full of spite for someone so small,” he said, smirking down at her. “And don’t forget, it’s your fault that I can’t return to Moll’s.”

  “I’m certain you won’t have trouble finding a woman to bring here. Although you may lose sight of her on this vulgar expansive land you refer to as a bed. I shouldn’t be surprised if you’d purchased it by the acre.”

  “I plan to add tenant farms in the south quadrant.”

  On a tiny growl, she seized his wrist in a strong grip and hauled him over to the washstand. Before he could utter another word, she scooped up some of her gray concoction and slapped it against his hand.

  Scrubbing the grit over his skin, she heard him issue a gruff grunt, deep in his throat. She took it as a sign of his displeasure. Imagining his utter torment only encouraged her efforts. So, she continued to unleash her anger in a rough massage over his palms, down the lengths of his fingers, and in between.

  “Is this supposed to be a reprimand for my roguish ways?” he asked in a teasingly low timbre. “I hate to disappoint, but it feels like heaven. Your little hands are as soft and warm as a kitten’s underbelly.”

  “And your provocative comments are falling on deaf ears,” she claimed, working him into a pink lather.

  But she lied.

  Her entire body was now tingling from his words and she was suddenly quite aware of the feel of her skin on his. Every nerve ending was heat-stung with pleasure. The dichotomy of grit and smooth flesh was a decadent treat for her gluttonous senses. He was warm, too, his hands so much larger than hers, with broad palms and long fingers that likely knew all sorts of wicked ways to touch a woman.

  “Are they, really?” he asked with a dubious curl to his voice, his hot breath stirring a wayward tendril by her temple and sending a delightful shiver tumbling through her.

  It seemed to go on and on, swirling inside her, especially around her middle, coiling tightly. And she would like to explore this at length . . . if she didn’t know precisely what he was doing.

  He was feigning a flirtation in order to unsettle her because she’d prevented his evening’s licentious festivities.

  Her vigorous scrubbing continued. His declaration was nothing more than a pretense of seduction. She’d been laughed at before for being odd. Normally, she politely pretended she didn’t understand or didn’t hear the insult.

  Tonight, however, she wore a mask. Anonymity made her feel a bit braver and freer to speak her mind. He knew her name, but not her face. And should she ever see him in the light of day—highly doubtful considering his nocturnal escapades—she would be spared any residual embarrassment.

  Although, at the moment, all she felt was annoyance.

  “I can see right through you, I hope you know,” she said with a sniff. “Then again, you’re not terribly opaque. After all, your only furnished room is a bedchamber. Clearly, bedsport is your sole priority. And I am ashamed to recall my fleeting thought of dedicating a full chapter to you. From your mildly chivalrous actions at the brothel, I thought you lived by your own philosophy of scruples. Instead, I’ve discovered cunningly disguised moral turpitude.”

  A disapproving growl rumbled somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. “I’ve had about enough of your boundless accusations. For your information, I have money and aspirations.”

  She scoffed. “I doubt you even own a single book, unless it contains nude etchings.”

  * * *

  Raven went still, his entire body rigid. The last accusation stung like lemon on an open gash.

  Having only been educated to a rudimentary level in the foundling home, he’d taken great pains throughout his life to become a self-taught man. In fact, whenever he’d earned enough money to spend, he’d always bought a book.

  Always wanted to better himself.

  Always wanted to thumb his nose at everyone who thought he was rubbish.

  “I don’t see that it should matter to you”—he jerked his chin toward his bedside table—“but take a look in there. Go on.”

  “Fine. I will, but only to further my understanding of the debauched life of a scoundrel. I’m certain nothing can surprise me now.”

  Clenching her jaw mulishly, she wiped smears of mauve-colored grit on a scrap of flannel then turned the tasseled key. And when she slid open the drawer to reveal his collection of books, she gasped.

  He grinned self-righteously and turned his attention back to his ablutions. “There. Now you can stop grousing at me.”

  Glancing down, he noted the pink stain on the cuffs of his shirt and the powdery film on his waistcoat. Likely his entire suit was ruined and would need to be replaced. He didn’t relish the idea of being fitted and measured by a tailor again. The last one had treated him like a flea-infested mongrel, saying directly to him that such a suit for a plebian man was nothing more than a waste of fine wool.

  “Why are these not displayed properly on a shelf?” she asked with sharp disdain.

  Raven rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “And still the harping continues.”

  “And look at this!” She tsked. “You’ve dripped candle wax on two, and doubtless because you couldn’t read the titles within the dark recesses of the drawer.”

  Jane ran the pad of her index finger over the worn spines, her lips murmuring the titles soundlessly. He watched her, transfixed by her mouth and the fond caress of her fingertips over the books. Her nails were manicured into softly rounded crescents that carefully scraped away the wax. At the quiet rasping sound, his skin prickled warmly beneath the fine lawn of his shirtsleeves, along the broad muscles of his back and down the length of his spine. The errant sensations pooled low in his gut, distracting him.

  “I keep what’s mine locked up,” he said, his voice taking on a husky edge that d
rew her inquisitive attention.

  Her head tilted to the side, wispy brows lifting ever so slightly, like a brown-and-gold butterfly testing the air before flight. “Even in your own bedchamber?”

  “Aye. When you wake up in the foundling home to find that the other boys have stolen the stockings off your feet, you learn to keep—”

  He broke off abruptly. Bollocks! He hadn’t meant to let that slip.

  Turning back to the basin, he made a swift attempt at diverting her attention by adding, “Have you read any of them?”

  “Yes,” she answered simply, softly now.

  He could feel her probing stare on his profile, hear every hesitant breath she took. But he refused to turn to see pity in her expression.

  “I didn’t realize you were an orphan. That must have been dreadfully lonely.”

  “Crowded, is what it was. Never a moment alone, or a moment’s peace. Much like now.”

  Carefully, she closed the drawer and turned the key. When she reached inside the basin once more, his first impulse was to pull away and tell her that he could manage on his own. But he had a greater desire to let her know that he wasn’t bothered by his admission. So he pretended indifference.

  He had nothing to be ashamed of, after all. He was an orphan. There was no changing that fact.

  The instant her hands settled over his, Raven sensed an alteration in her demeanor. Her scrubbing was gentler, the smooth edges of her nails tracing along the curve of his cuticles. Her thumb worked circles into his palm, soothing places he never knew were tense in the first place. And it had the dangerous effect of relaxing his guard.

  His lids grew heavier. Dimly, he watched her retrieve another flacon from the night table.

  Wariness would usually have him withdrawing, but a glut of languor and pleasure had overtaken him. He simply let her drip that unknown, clear liquid into the cup of his palm without question.

  At once, his nostrils were assailed by the same fragrance that scented her skin. Was this . . . lavender water? He drew in a deeper breath, his lungs filling with the heady elixir, his flesh tingling with every press and rub.

  Jane Pickerington wasn’t what he expected. The society debs he’d encountered on the pavement or in the park had their noses up in the air. He’d heard tales of fainting spells when they met with a shock or anything that disturbed their prudish sensibilities.

  So, naturally, he’d thought they were all uptight and high-strung.

  This one had her moments, but she was more apt to surprise him. Like she was doing now.

  Looking down at their warm, entangled hands, he noticed his own skin color gradually emerging. Mystified, he asked, “What’s in this paste you made?”

  “Oh . . . crushed eggshells, salt, potash—which may sting, by the way—and your own shaving soap,” she said absently as she added a few more drops from the flacon, filling his bedchamber with her powdery, pure scent.

  Raven wanted to lie down and let the round pads of her kitten hands work their magic all over him. Perhaps even pull her down with him. Start off by giving that opinionated, full mouth a good-night kiss . . .

  “How old were you when your parents died?” she asked, shattering the cozy image he’d conjured.

  Tiny knots of agitation returned to the tendons stretched like baggage straps across his shoulders. He straightened and dragged in another deep lungful of air, only to find that the scent’s relaxing properties had faded.

  “For all I know, they could still be alive,” he said, keeping his tone impassive as he slipped out of her clasp and reached for the flannel to wipe off the gritty residue. There was still a pinkish hue to his flesh, but it was far better than what it had been before. With another scrubbing, he’d be back to rights. “I was found on the doorstep of the foundling home and there’s nothing more to tell.”

  “But surely there must have been a note of some kind . . .”

  He arched a brow. “A heart-torn scrap of paper pinned to my swaddling with a fervent plea from my mother to take care of her poor helpless child?”

  Jane nodded. Those wide, inquisitive eyes looked up at him, filled with reflections of firelight and so much naive hope that a humorless laugh escaped him.

  “So, you’re a bluestocking and a romantic? Well, little professor, it may surprise you to learn that some children are simply left to make it on their own.”

  Her gaze slid from him in a downward arc like a falling star brought to earth as nothing more than a rock.

  A pang of irritation abraded him like a pebble in a boot. “Don’t give me any of your pity.”

  “I’m not offering any. It’s just . . .” She trailed off as she made a slow procession over to the bottle of whisky he’d left on the far side of the mantel. “I’m startled to learn that we have something in common.”

  He doubted it. From where he stood, there were no similarities between his life and hers.

  “But more than that,” she continued, facing him as she returned with the bottle, “I haven’t been very fair in my judgments of you this evening. My apologies, Mr. Raven.”

  “It’s just Raven. There’s nothing else.”

  She inclined her head in a nod of understanding, then struggled to work the cork free.

  He reached out and twisted the stopper loose. “Care for a glass? Or do you prefer to swig directly from the bottle?”

  She slid him a sardonic glance as she reached into her sleeve and withdrew a frilly handkerchief. Remembering that she’d already given one to the wounded footman earlier, he wondered if she kept one up each sleeve. For all he knew they were tucked into her corset, too. But he didn’t bother to ask. He didn’t want to be curious about her.

  Upending the bottle, she dampened a corner of lace, then lifted it up to the cut on his cheek. Pausing halfway, she said, “Bend down a little. You’re too tall for me to clean it properly.”

  “I don’t need to be coddled,” he said, but found himself moving around her to sit on the edge of the bed, regardless.

  “You’re being ridiculous. I’m only making certain that your jaw doesn’t develop some horrible festering pustules like the ones I’ve seen sketched in medical journals. I find that it’s always best to be prepared for the worst.”

  “How reassuring.” His droll reply ended in a sharp hiss the instant the liquor-soaked cloth touched his open wound. “And where did this philosophy of yours come from?”

  “The correct wording would be from where did your philosophy come? Tilt your head a bit, if you would. Thank you.” She paused to make a gentle pass, biting down into the cushion of her bottom lip. “I do not suspect you have cause to worry. This laceration on your jaw should heal quite nicely. At least, as long as you refrain from picking at the scab that will form. Before I go, I’ll leave you a salve to aid in your recovery and keep you from scarring.”

  He noticed that she sidestepped his question, but let it pass. “I won’t need it. I’ve always been a quick healer.”

  “As you will.” She shrugged and continued her ministrations. “My little sister, Theodora, is terrible about scratching open her wounds and I fear her four-year-old knees will bear the scars for years to come. I will be grateful when our brothers return from university for their winter holiday. She will be less likely to fall since she practically lives on Theodore’s back. She pretends that he’s her pet rhinoceros.”

  “Wait a minute.” He felt his brows inch higher. “You have both a brother and a sister with nearly identical names? Is that after an ancestor or something?”

  Jane quickly averted her face to fuss and fold the handkerchief. “Not exactly. Theodora was born in autumn, and with the three older boys away at school, Mother and Father had simply forgotten about them. I’ve heard that happens in larger families, on occasion.”

  Raven knew what it was like to be considered just one face among dozens of orphans in the foundling home. They’d been treated as shells of children, like those Russian nesting dolls. No single individual mattered or earned
attention, unless they’d misbehaved. Otherwise, he and the others had simply been stacked up and shipped off to the workhouses, leaving the orphanage ready to take on another set.

  But he never expected it would be the same in a family.

  Her account made her life seem somewhat lonely. He knew all about that. A sudden sense of recognition prickled over his scalp, as if one hollowed-out spirit had inexplicably found another.

  An instant later, he balked inwardly. What a crackbrained notion! He brushed it off like lint on a sleeve. The two of them were as different as two people could be.

  “How many siblings do you have?” he asked for the sake of conversation, not because he was interested in the answer. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t interested in anything regarding Jane Pickerington.

  Well, except for that mask.

  He stared fixedly at that scrap of fabric and realized that he’d grown tired of seeing it. The appeal of mystery was long past and he was itching to take it off.

  “There are eleven of us in all,” she answered simply, leaning in to study his wound.

  Eleven, he thought with amazement, imagining a world with nearly a dozen Jane Pickeringtons in it. No brothel would ever be safe again.

  His fingertips idly brushed the soft violet skirts bunched between his parted thighs. He was getting agitated, his blood stirring. Her nearness was getting under his skin, the heat of the fire intensifying the fragrance of lavender.

  Didn’t she realize her vulnerable position? No, because she felt safe behind that blasted mask. Too safe in the company of a scoundrel, even one who had no interest in her. Not really.

  “How did you come to be named Raven?” she asked, drawing him out of his vexed musings.

  “From a birthmark on my arm that looks like a bird.”

  His dismissive comment earned her full, abrupt attention. And her eyes were so fixed on his that he could see the individual striations of dark indigo and sparkling sapphire.

  An ominous shiver stole down his spine, but he shook it off. After all, how could he know that such a simple statement was about to take the life he’d built from nothing and turn it on its ear?