This Earl Is on Fire Read online

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Adeline’s pillow was much firmer than usual. Much warmer too.

  Normally, she would simply flip it over to feel the cool side against her cheek, but this side smelled too nice to abandon. Pressing her nose against it, she drew in a deep breath. A familiar mélange of scents filled her nostrils, something oaky with hints of leather, vanillin, and musk. She exhaled contentedly.

  Curling her hand over the coverlet, her fingers delved into soft, springy fur. Mmm . . . quite decadent. If given the opportunity, she would stay right here forev—

  Wait a minute . . . fur? The last she knew, there were no furs on her bed.

  Then perhaps this is a dream, she thought and summarily agreed with herself.

  Inhaling again, she stroked her fingers against the fur. Coincidentally, she felt a similar movement against the small of her back. Odd. Her sleepy self, however, accepted this occurrence as logical. Each time she rubbed her fingers against the fur, the corresponding sensation brushed her back. And in the center of her palm, her pulse beat hard and steady.

  She snuggled deeper into this dream, sliding her leg over the coverlet that—apparently—had bunched up against her. Strange, but even the coverlet was firm, thick, and far warmer than she remembered.

  “Mind your knee, Miss Pimm.”

  Hmm . . . that was unexpected. She’d heard Liam’s voice in a dream prior to this one, but he hadn’t sounded so hoarse. Then perhaps in this dream, he had a head cold. It seemed possible.

  She burrowed closer.

  Liam chuckled. “I do not have a cold. Besides, if either of us were plagued with fever, you would likely be the victim. You are a veritable ember when you sleep.”

  Dream-Liam professed to know a great deal about her. Even for a dream, he was rather presumptuous, considering they’d only just met.

  The sound of his amusement was so real it vibrated against her cheek. She rubbed against the pillow. When she discovered a spot of drool, she shifted further inward until she could hear the steady beat of her own pulse inside her ear. She liked that sound.

  “Darling, as much as I enjoy hearing your sleep ramblings, it is time for you to rise and return to your own bed.”

  Darling . . . she liked that too. It was much pleasanter than the formality of Miss Pimm. After all, Miss Pimm was a stone wall between neighbors. Darling, on the other hand, was a lovely carved path through the thicket.

  “That was almost naughty. There will be no path carving for us, however. No matter how tempted I might be.” His voice came out in a low, rumbled breath as something warm pressed against the top of her head. A kiss, perhaps?

  Even dreaming, she felt her cheeks grow warm. It was no use. She would have to flip over her pillow for the cool side. Drawing in one more breath, she lifted her head and—

  Her hair caught, yanking her to a stop. Eyes closed, she reached her arm over her head to pull it free. Yet even then, it wouldn’t come. Drat this heavy pillow.

  “Careful,” Liam said as the pillow shifted beside her.

  Now she was just awake enough to realize that the pillow couldn’t shift without her. Not only that, but why was she hearing Liam’s voice so clearly when she wasn’t fully asleep?

  Adeline opened her eyes. Green irises glinted at her with mischief as a pair of dark eyebrows rose. Within a bed of whiskers, his mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin. A decidedly wicked grin.

  She blinked, trying to make sense of what she saw. Her eyes drifted lower to her hand where it lay against a mat of soft, springy curls. Not fur. And the steady throb beneath her palm was not her own pulse but his heartbeat. Moreover, her leg was not draped over a bunched-up coverlet. It was draped over him—her knee, lower leg, and foot all nestled between his legs.

  She reared back only to be halted by her trapped hair again.

  “You said it would only be a minute,” she accused, as if her falling asleep was his fault.

  “And I believe it took even less time for you to fall asleep. You are a decidedly sound sleeper. It must run in your family. I have been listening to your breathing as well as your father’s snores for hours.”

  “Hours?” She struggled to free herself, lifting up on her side to free her hair. Liam issued a grunt. That was when she realized that her maneuvering had brought her half atop him. “I apologize. Have I hurt you?”

  “As long as you do not lift . . . your knee another inch . . . then nothing vital.” He turned slightly toward her, trapping her leg between his. This entire episode contained more intimacy than she’d ever shared with another person. And certainly not a man.

  When his hand moved to her nape, she thought he would kiss her. Her lips tingled in response. Apparently, spending hours—hours?—locked in his embrace had still left her skin greedy for more. “What time is it?”

  “I heard the clock chime five times a short while ago.” His breath caressed her lips, and his sleepy gaze dropped to her mouth. He went still, lingering, neither moving closer nor retreating.

  During this moment, she felt as if some sort of clock began to chime inside of her. Every strike of the bell said, “Now. Please. Kiss. Me. Now.”

  Instead of kissing her, however, he freed her hair and summarily rolled onto his back, breathing hard, as if winded. “Well beyond the time for you to go and for me to sleep.”

  She swallowed down her disappointment. “You haven’t slept?”

  “Not a wink. Your father might have been understanding before, but I’m not certain he would feel the same if he found you in your nightclothes and in my bed.”

  “There is a coverlet between us,” she pointed out, blushing. “Besides, you are in pain. I’m sure my father would know that nothing transpired.”

  Liam issued a low, derisive chuckle. “And as a man, your father would also know that men are capable of enduring pain in order to reap certain pleasures. In fact, a man would walk through fire in order to—”

  “Say no more. I understand what you are saying without elaboration,” she interrupted, scurrying off the bed so quickly she nearly tripped on the hem of her night rail. “While I may be new to London, I am not a rusticated simpleton.”

  “No?”

  She crossed her arms. “I know what happens after men and women marry, or—in your case—when men behave as if they are married to every woman they meet.”

  “Well, not every woman,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand to her.

  Her mouth opened, but she was too stunned to gasp. The insult took her off guard. Over the years, she’d learned that men looked at her in two ways. They either saw her as something frail and wounded. Or they saw her as wholly undesirable.

  She told herself that it did not bother her that Liam Cavanaugh felt the latter. Obviously last night, Wolford’s ready manners had prevented him from betraying his true feelings. This morning, however, the truth was evident.

  Averting her face, she prepared to leave him and lifted her lamp from the table. That was when she noticed that the taper that had burned down to the wick. Only the amber light of the glowing embers lit the chamber. There was a chill in the room as well. While she was tempted to walk out without another word, she knew that he needed a few logs on the grate.

  She moved over to the basket near the hearth. As she kneeled down to see to her task, she wondered—if he’d been disgusted by her lameness, then why had he encouraged her to stay so long in his company? It made no sense to her.

  The question began to needle her. He truly hadn’t seemed bothered last night. In fact, he’d said everything to encourage her to stay. He could have easily dismissed her at any point. But instead, he’d invited her to close her eyes for a moment. He’d been rather insistent that she not leave him. And she’d stayed, because she understood what it was like to be . . . lonely.

  Suspicion filled her. Perhaps this wasn’t about her limb at all. If he’d been repulsed, then he wouldn’t have made a space for her, wouldn’t have held her all night. More likely, he would have n
udged her rudely until she awoke.

  “I know what you are doing,” Adeline said when it dawned on her. Holding onto the mantel, she stood and turned away from the low fire. “You’re trying to make sure that I believe you were doing me a favor by letting me fall asleep here.”

  “It was a favor. Nothing more,” he said, his lips pressed together in a grim line.

  She continued as if she hadn’t heard him, went to the sideboard to refill his water glass. “When I was a child, I spent many a day tethered to my bed, enduring leg treatments—various braces, hot baths, cold baths—one after another. Other than the occasional performances from play actors or traveling acrobats, I had nothing to do but while away the hours. Sometimes my greatest entertainment was in seeing how many dolls I could knock off the foot of my bed with the lash of ribbon-stick. By the time I was ten years old, I became rather good at it too.”

  Without offering him the glass, she merely set it down on his bedside table and collected the items left over from his midnight supper as she continued. “Of course, my parents invited village children to come up to my chamber to play with me, but I grew tired of their pity and became surly, pushing them away so they wouldn’t accept another invitation. And much to my disappointment, my efforts succeeded. I’d managed to erect a barrier between us, which left me all the lonelier in the end.”

  At the door, she paused long enough for him to interject. After all, she’d given him plenty of ammunition to fire a blow at her.

  Meeting his cool, scrutinizing gaze, she found that his expression was impossible to read. And silence was his only reply.

  “For you, however,” she went on, “you’ll soon be fit enough to leave this bed and return to your own life. And when you are in the bosom of your dear friends and family, who have been worrying over your absence, then you’ll be free to forget all about your moment of weakness when you asked me to stay for ‘just a minute.’ ”

  Adeline closed the door, feeling somewhat vindicated. But more than that, she would always remember—for a short while—that the eighth Earl of Wolford had craved her company.

  Liam did not sleep at all, not in the hour after she left his room or during the time when he heard her parents awaken. He told himself that it was because he was on a different schedule. That he was used to coming home at dawn. That he would sleep soon enough.

  But then a sliver of light bled in through the part in the curtain. Blindingly bright. So much so, that his head throbbed, spinning with dizziness even as he lay in bed. The sounds were deafening too. He heard his host and hostess rise and move about in their usual early-morning manner. Yet each footfall echoed inside his skull like the bang of a drum.

  When Boswick came into his room, he offered a good-natured greeting, as well as gladness over Liam’s reduced swelling, healthy bruising, and apparent unimpeded vision. Though, with his sensitivity to light, along with the dizziness, Boswick recommended that Liam remain abed. According to a missive from Uncle Peirce, Liam could easily fall into a worse state if he pushed recovery too quickly.

  “However,” Boswick added, “speaking as a man who abhors a sickbed, I’ve found that a hot bath seems to help many an illness make a hasty retreat. If you care to give it a go, I’m certain we could arrange it.”

  Ever grateful, Liam nodded. “I would, indeed.”

  Shortly after Boswick’s departure, the cheerful Lady Boswick arrived with a bowl of porridge and pot of warm tea. Graciously, he thanked her as she propped the tray over his lap before bustling out when she heard the servants’ arrival, at long last.

  Within the hour, the butler and a footman introduced themselves. Finmore and Jones, respectively, offered their services should Liam require anything. Without deliberating, Liam sent a missive to his aunt.

  Even the Pimms’ housekeeper, Mrs. Harvey, dropped in to collect his tray and offered a friendly greeting.

  But while he waited for the portable wooden tub to be lined with oil-slicked canvas and filled with steaming water, it did not escape his notice that there was one person who did not stop by to wish him a good day or even to wish him to hell.

  At first, he’d been angry, ready to shout a command for her to return to his chamber at once. At that time, he would have told her that he had plenty of friends and family who were, no doubt, missing him. Therefore, she could take her pity elsewhere. He neither deserved nor desired it.

  Yet during his long soak, he’d had ample time to ruminate over her parting words. Gradually, his temper cooled with the water, and he thought of her as a little girl sequestered in her bedchamber while physicians poked and prodded her for days on end. Not only that, but he knew from his own experiences that children tended to be cruel and imagined that the ones who visited her had not always been kind.

  After his father’s death, Mr. Ipley had hired suitable friends for Liam, paying them in sweets and trinkets. Even though Liam and his cousin, North, were close in age, they’d barely known each other in those early years. The reason was mainly due to their elders trying to prove which one of them had the right to inherit their uncle’s dukedom. Having been born a month prior to Liam, North had become the Duke of Vale. Liam had taken his father’s title, and all was as it should be. There were still those, however, who had frowned upon North’s half-commoner blood and strove to keep the cousins apart.

  Once Liam had been sent to Eton, however, he’d made his own friends—Vale, of course; Jack Marlowe, recently named Viscount Locke; and Max Harwick, the Marquess of Thayne. Though if truth be told, Liam wasn’t certain he trusted Thayne at the moment.

  That thought aside, however, Liam had mulled over Adeline’s words at length, and he’d come to one conclusion. He’d been an arse.

  At first, he hadn’t understood why he’d become cross with her. All he knew was that one minute her body had been next to his, warm and sleepy, and eliciting the strongest desire for a good, thorough tupping that he’d ever felt in his life. And in the next, she was gone.

  Instantly, that had felt wrong. His arms were too empty. The bed too cold. He’d wanted her back. His body ached for her. Then she’d just had to mention marriage and ruin a perfectly pleasant morning.

  “I know what happens after men and women marry.”

  Those words had caused an icy deluge to wash through him, reminding him of the carefully crafted deception he’d once fallen for. He’d felt like that foolish seventeen-year-old all over again. He didn’t like it—or his peculiarly intense reaction to her.

  Summarily, he’d concluded that this entire episode—the coverlet picnic, her pretense of exhaustion—had been a scheme. After all, what kind of young woman would willingly accept an invitation to lie beside a man with his reputation? A naïve one, to be sure. Perhaps even one fresh from the country . . .

  Now the reason for his surliness sounded like an excuse. He knew he’d been a despicable cad, and he intended to make amends. As soon as Aunt Edith arrived, he would.

  Knowing that she would come soon, he knew he should shave, but the truth of the matter was he was exhausted. It had taken every ounce of strength he possessed to get in and out of the tub and then to dress. Thankfully though, Jones filled in for Boswick’s valet from time to time and assisted Liam. Jones tied a fine cravat as well. He even trimmed the stray thread from the button of Liam’s gray waistcoat and helped him into the blue paisley banyan that Neville had packed.

  Liam would have liked nothing more than to doze off for eight hours or so, but he knew he needed to build his strength in order to leave. After last night and this morning, it was clear to him that he should not have stayed this long. Living amongst the Pimm family was beginning to affect his sense of reason. There was no other way to explain his lapse in judgment.

  Of course, Adeline would be quick to call him a lonely soul. Why, she intimated that he would miss their company—and hers in particular—when he left. All the more reason to prove her wrong.

  Therefore, he forced himself to sit up with a brace of pillows behind
him, no matter how dizzy or nauseous it made him. He was thankful that he hadn’t eaten more than one mouthful of porridge this morning, for he feared he might cast up his accounts all over the burgundy and blue rug on the floor beside him.

  Trying to catch his breath, he closed his eyes as another wave of pain and sickness swept through him. All he could do was listen for Miss Pimm’s familiar tone. Before Jones left, Liam should have told him to send her. But what reason would he have given? He couldn’t very well confess that the sound of her voice was the remedy he required. No doubt, the footman would have wondered if the blows to his head had scrambled his brain. Liam knew this because he wondered the same thing.

  He caught the faintest trace somewhere far off, as if she was not one but two floors separated from him. Hearing her, Liam was quick to forgive her incorrect assumptions. He wasn’t lonely. Far from it.

  He must have dozed off, because the next thing he heard was a gasp at the door. Looking past the foot of the bed, he saw the Dowager Duchess of Vale. Beneath her elegantly coiffed silver hair, her penciled brows furrowed in concern and her faded blue eyes turned luminous.

  Then with a sniff, she stormed into the room and began scolding him. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Three days,” she chided, plucking her gloves from each finger before she settled her hand over his forehead. “Three days and the only mention of you is from the Standard, and all this time, you’ve been hurt and in a stranger’s home.”

  He didn’t bother to correct her on who owned the property since the results were the same. He was beneath Boswick’s roof when he should have been beneath his own next door. If he had managed to stumble over his own threshold, he was sure Rendell would have found him . . . eventually.

  “I am well.” Though, he supposed, the only reason he was on the mend was due to the Pimms.

  “Liam, don’t you dare. I have eyes, young man. You are bruised, your complexion has a greenish cast to it, and heaven knows what else is hiding beneath that ghastly display of whiskers. But the fact that you did not rise to greet me tells me that you cannot.” She turned to Lady Boswick, who was just now coming into view. “I hope he has been a good guest.”