Page 9 of My Wicked Earl
Colin groaned, wanting her. Lusting for her.
Her fingers ran up the back of his neck to the base of his skull, shifting through his hair. It was a delicious feeling.
He suckled her tongue while his hand moved up the front of her gown, lingering just below the curve of her breast. Leaving her lips, he ignored her protest to place his mouth against the satin of her neck.
Her pulse raced beneath his lips. Trailing a lingering kiss up the length of her neck, he paused to nuzzle against the lobe of her ear before drawing the bit of flesh between his teeth.
She struggled to pull him closer, clinging to him as if she were drowning. Her silk clad breasts slid across his chest, the tiny peridots decorating the bodice catching on the buttons of his coat.
Colin pushed her gently, but purposefully, against the wall, covering her smaller form with the hard length of his body. This was madness, for if it continued he would take her in this alcove, the Duke’s ball be damned. He’d forgotten everything, even his reason for being at the Dunbar ball. The only thing that existed was the feel of this woman in his arms. The absoluterightnessof her.
She broke off the kiss, “Colin.”
The familiarity with which she used his given name surprised him even as the way she spoke, with a languid sensual sigh, sent another bolt of longing through him. His fingers moved to tickle the lace at the edge of her bodice, then stopped abruptly.
“Dear God.”
Lips swollen from his kiss, her lovely green eyes regarded him with desire and some emotion he didn’t recognize.Green eyes.The same as every other member of her family.
Her fingers ran down the side of his face until he caught her hand in his.
“Don’t be angry,” she murmured.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d been shoving a frog into a tart that the cook at Gray Covington was making for supper. He should have accepted her proposal of marriage years ago, but she’d been only eight at the time.
“Well,” Nick’s amused voice sounded behind him, “I see Miranda’s found you.”
2
LONDON 1836
Colin Hartley, the eighth Earl of Kilmaire, climbed the steps until he stood before the enameled black door gracing the home of the Marquess of Cambourne. He didn’t wish to be there. His gloved hand hovered over the snarling lion that served as the knocker.
The bloody thing looked as if it would bite off a finger.
He’d only wished a bit of help from the Dowager,guidanceof sorts, to help him find a wealthy heiress to wed. It would have been so much easier if her ladyship had simply sent a list of suitable young ladies to his rented residence which he could peruse at his leisure.Alone.
Unfortunately, the Dowager had other plans.
She had insisted, ratherfirmlyin a note sent to him that morning, that he call on her at his earliest convenience. Meaningimmediately.
One did not ignore the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne if one wished her assistance in making a match. One in which the bride was possessed of a large dowry and whose family would overlook the scandal that was attached to the Earl of Kilmaire like a fattened leech. A bride who didn’t mind the tragedy of the Kilmaire family, of which Colin was the sole remaining member.
Knocking twice in rapid succession, he lifted his chin to the rapidly darkening sky above him. Tiny drops of rain started to fall, peppering his cloak like gunshot.
“Bloody wonderful.” He couldn’t wait to greet the Dowager looking like a drowned rat. A more perfect day he could not have imagined.
He wouldn’t be here at all, if it weren’t for the crumbling heap of stone that was the home of the Earl of Kilmaire. The responsibility of the estate, as well as the title, fell squarely on his shoulders, at the death of his brother Thomas almost two years ago. Even though Colin gave not a fig for either. His business venture, if one could call it that, was no longer enough to support Runshaw Park according to his solicitor. Only a large infusion of money would set things to rights.
Ignored for years by Colin’s parents, Runshaw Park had been allowed to rot. Decay oozed between the bricks instead of mortar. The vast woods surrounding the house were rapidly reclaiming the land on which the structure sat because there was no groundskeeper. Last summer’s rainstorm battered the dilapidated roof, scattering the shingles and ruining a portion of the west wing. The gardens, once the envy of the neighboring estates, had become so overgrown with weeds and tangled wisteria that one could no longer see the steps leading to Runshaw Park’s front door. A front door covered with peeling paint.
The tenants who farmed the land did so without modern tools and implements, their meager harvest barely enough to feed their own families. A new well needed to be dug. An illness had recently swept through the pigs decimating their numbers. The list continued to grow with no end in sight. Had the bloody place not been entailed, Colin would have sold it immediately. Not that there would have been any bidders on Runshaw Park. Not after what transpired there.
“Probably couldn’t give it away if I tried. Damn you Ian and Thomas.” He cursed his deceased brothers, both of whom had loved Runshaw Park far more than Colin himself did.
Rain fell harder, the dampness sliding underneath Colin’s cloak to send a chill up his spine.
He knocked again and shifted his booted feet.
