Read Online I Love the Earl by Caroline Linden - Free Book Online
Authors: Caroline Linden
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went up, but she would swear he was pleased. “Miss de Lacey,” he said softly. “How forward you are.”
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised to discover it now.”
He smiled at her dry tone. “I never said I was surprised. In fact . . .” He shifted in his chair, maneuvering closer so he could stroke one fingertip over the back of her hand, lying folded in her lap. “It is one of the many things I like about you.”
“You would, impertinent rogue.” But she couldn’t help smiling.
“Shh,” he murmured. “Miss Cuthbert will send me away if you appear to enjoy my impertinent ways.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Miss Cuthbert had slowly warmed to him; now her warnings that Lord Dowling was ineligible sounded rote and dutiful instead of worried or even sincere, and she had stopped fretting and frowning every time he spoke to her. Dowling had the knack of charming women with simple decency, Margaret thought. Clarissa, whom he danced with regularly, was fully converted. So far from whispering in horrified fascination about his Welsh wildness, now she rhapsodized about his grace, his thoughtfulness, and his dark good looks, which were, in her opinion, too appealing by half, especially when coupled with that faint Welsh accent. Margaret had given up trying to disagree.
“I think you are avoiding my question, sir.”
He looked at her a moment. Francis had abandoned them as soon as he showed their silver admission token at the gates, Miss Cuthbert had excused herself a few moments earlier, and Clarissa had pulled Mr. Eccleston into the opposite corner, where they sat very close together in deep conversation. She and Lord Dowling might almost have been alone, as long as they kept their voices low. “Would you like me to court you?” the earl finally asked.
Yes . She smoothed her hands over her skirts to keep from confessing it aloud. “I would like to know if you are,” she replied. “Or what your intentions are, if you aren’t.”
“My intentions . . .” His slow smile acted like a torch held to her skin. She felt prickly with heat and yet transfixed by the glowing allure of it. “I intend to have you, Maggie, in every way a man can have a woman. I want your hand in mine while we dance. I want you laughing beside me in the theater. I want you lying naked in my arms at night. And I want you standing beside me in church, saying ‘I will.’ ” His gaze scorched her. “What are your intentions?”
Margaret’s mouth was bone dry. She couldn’t have answered if she’d known what to say. She wanted all that, too—she even wanted it from him—and if he wanted her dowry, too, well, why shouldn’t Francis’s money be appreciated? It wasn’t as though her other suitors didn’t want it.
She wet her lips and forced her throat to work. “Come with me.” She got to her feet and moved toward the door, shooting a look at Clarissa when her friend glanced up in surprise. Clarissa’s eyes darted to Dowling, on his feet and following close behind her, and she gave Margaret a tiny smile brimming with glee.
Outside the box, Lord Dowling offered his arm, and she laid her hand on it very properly. They strolled along the gravel walk, well lit by a profusion of oil lamps hung among the branches of the trees. Behind them the orchestra played, and the murmurs of conversation from other supper boxes didn’t quite drown out the singer. Margaret took a deep breath and sighed with pleasure at the sight. She had always liked Vauxhall, even though Miss Cuthbert sniffed at its lack of exclusivity. Her parents had brought her to Vauxhall during her long-ago debut, and those trips figured among her happiest memories of that time. Ranelagh was more fashionable, but there was something a bit easier and less restrained about Vauxhall, where the lowest maid in London could walk out with her beau and make as merry as any heiress.
The path grew dimmer, the lamps less numerous as they moved
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised to discover it now.”
He smiled at her dry tone. “I never said I was surprised. In fact . . .” He shifted in his chair, maneuvering closer so he could stroke one fingertip over the back of her hand, lying folded in her lap. “It is one of the many things I like about you.”
“You would, impertinent rogue.” But she couldn’t help smiling.
“Shh,” he murmured. “Miss Cuthbert will send me away if you appear to enjoy my impertinent ways.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Miss Cuthbert had slowly warmed to him; now her warnings that Lord Dowling was ineligible sounded rote and dutiful instead of worried or even sincere, and she had stopped fretting and frowning every time he spoke to her. Dowling had the knack of charming women with simple decency, Margaret thought. Clarissa, whom he danced with regularly, was fully converted. So far from whispering in horrified fascination about his Welsh wildness, now she rhapsodized about his grace, his thoughtfulness, and his dark good looks, which were, in her opinion, too appealing by half, especially when coupled with that faint Welsh accent. Margaret had given up trying to disagree.
“I think you are avoiding my question, sir.”
He looked at her a moment. Francis had abandoned them as soon as he showed their silver admission token at the gates, Miss Cuthbert had excused herself a few moments earlier, and Clarissa had pulled Mr. Eccleston into the opposite corner, where they sat very close together in deep conversation. She and Lord Dowling might almost have been alone, as long as they kept their voices low. “Would you like me to court you?” the earl finally asked.
Yes . She smoothed her hands over her skirts to keep from confessing it aloud. “I would like to know if you are,” she replied. “Or what your intentions are, if you aren’t.”
“My intentions . . .” His slow smile acted like a torch held to her skin. She felt prickly with heat and yet transfixed by the glowing allure of it. “I intend to have you, Maggie, in every way a man can have a woman. I want your hand in mine while we dance. I want you laughing beside me in the theater. I want you lying naked in my arms at night. And I want you standing beside me in church, saying ‘I will.’ ” His gaze scorched her. “What are your intentions?”
Margaret’s mouth was bone dry. She couldn’t have answered if she’d known what to say. She wanted all that, too—she even wanted it from him—and if he wanted her dowry, too, well, why shouldn’t Francis’s money be appreciated? It wasn’t as though her other suitors didn’t want it.
She wet her lips and forced her throat to work. “Come with me.” She got to her feet and moved toward the door, shooting a look at Clarissa when her friend glanced up in surprise. Clarissa’s eyes darted to Dowling, on his feet and following close behind her, and she gave Margaret a tiny smile brimming with glee.
Outside the box, Lord Dowling offered his arm, and she laid her hand on it very properly. They strolled along the gravel walk, well lit by a profusion of oil lamps hung among the branches of the trees. Behind them the orchestra played, and the murmurs of conversation from other supper boxes didn’t quite drown out the singer. Margaret took a deep breath and sighed with pleasure at the sight. She had always liked Vauxhall, even though Miss Cuthbert sniffed at its lack of exclusivity. Her parents had brought her to Vauxhall during her long-ago debut, and those trips figured among her happiest memories of that time. Ranelagh was more fashionable, but there was something a bit easier and less restrained about Vauxhall, where the lowest maid in London could walk out with her beau and make as merry as any heiress.
The path grew dimmer, the lamps less numerous as they moved
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