The Cheer in Charming an Earl(28)

“Ask again? Do you know how difficult it was to ask this time?”

His grin was contagious. Or mayhap it was her euphoria shining through. She pushed his shoulder playfully and lowered her gaze, hoping he wouldn’t notice the fear in her eyes. “I desire a real proposal, my lord. A lady doesn’t like to be left guessing.”

He kissed her nose. “Demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

If only he weren’t so pleasant! Everything she’d ever wanted was right here, right now, and yet she felt as if it were all happening so fast, she couldn’t keep her bearings. She was elated and terrified all at once. He was asking her to marry him but he didn’t even know her. She barely knew herself.

Whatever faultless phantasm of a woman he had in his mind, it wasn’t her.

“My lord, about the carriage—”

“The bloody carriage again? Your brother will have a dozen new carriages, Elinor, if you but kiss me before I go mad.”

Turning away from his apology had been easy, when each attempt to beg her pardon was ludicrous. Holding his proposal at arm’s length while she found the strength to tell him the truth was more difficult. Shying away from his kiss, however, was impossible. She gave herself to it, melting into his arms like a crème brûlée—only sweeter. Seven times sweeter.

Insistently, his hands pressed her closer until she moaned. The sound of her ecstasy fanned the fire he’d started until its flames licked at her without remorse. Turn down his proposal? When she was desperate to allow him every liberty if it meant he would continue this saccharine, blistering torture forever?

“Ahem,” a pointed male voice announced behind them, breaking through their increasingly feverish lovemaking.

Elinor didn’t need a looking glass to know her hair was in disarray and her gown suffered wrinkles where Grantham had held her tight. Nor need she fear he would do anything but shield her from the unwanted interloper.

True enough, his broad shoulders blocked her from view as he spun and tucked her behind him. The scent of starch permeated his superfine coat like the smell of laundry laid out on a warm summer’s eve.

“Yes, Smithers?” Grantham’s voice reverberated through his chest so that she heard every syllable clearly.

“There is a man to see you, my lord.”

Something about the way he said “man,” rather than “gentleman,” and perhaps the fact that it was late in the evening after Christmas, when no one ought to be calling, caused Elinor to instantly dread the visitor.

Grantham’s hand found hers. He held it against the small of his back as if the two of them were united against this unwanted intruder. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

“Very good, sir. But I don’t think I can put Miss Conley’s brother off indefinitely. Will a quarter hour suffice?”

Elinor didn’t hear Grantham’s reply for the ringing in her ears. Gavin!

How?

Grantham spun to face her. “Your brother! But I thought he was in Gloucester!”

“As did I!” She set her hands on his chest only briefly, then hurried past him into the hall. Smithers set off behind her; the proper-sounding clip of footsteps echoing off of the walls couldn’t be Grantham’s.

“Gavin!” she cried as she rounded the hallway into the foyer. Her poor brother had been left standing in the cold entryway, his hat in hand, as if he truly were a servant.

“Elinor!” He took several steps toward her. Then his arms outstretched and he crushed her against him in one of his excellent hugs. “I thought you might be crippled.”

His coat reeked of smelting. No matter how many times she and Georgie tried to wash the scent of iron from the coarse fibers, it stayed. She inhaled deeply and squeezed her eyes against the sting of tears. She wasn’t going to cry! There was nothing to cry about.

But when she opened her mouth to reassure him, a great, wracking sob shook her frame. “I was so scared! It happened so fast. And then there were the h-h-horses, and Mr. J-James, and my head—”

He rubbed her back reassuringly and tucked his cheek against her hair. “It’s over now, sweet. Nothing to fear.”

She jumped when Grantham cleared his throat behind her, but her brother’s iron-banded arms didn’t ease. The scrape of his two-day beard across her hair alerted her to the fact that he was looking at the earl now. She tensed. Would he recognize Grantham? If he did, what would he do?

What would Grantham do?

The moment stretched on and on. Hiccupping breaths continued to escape her. Gavin soothed her shoulder with one hand, but she didn’t mistake his protective grip on the small of her back. “I know you,” he said to Grantham, curling his fingers into her spine. “You’re Lord Chelford. Your horse threw a shoe.”