Page 16 of 10 Things I Hate About the Earl

Marcus groped under the pull-down leaf, and his fingers brushed the metal handle of a wide drawer. With an exasperated grunt, he tugged the drawer open and fumbled among the sheets, grasping several and withdrawing them. He slipped them onto the desk and shut the drawer before sliding a piece of paper toward him. After grabbing a quill, Marcus glanced down at the sheet before him and stopped, the pen hovering above the inkpot.

“Ten Things I Hate about the Earl of Haversham.” Marcus read the words aloud, slowly lowering the pen to the polished walnut surface. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who had written that title. He clenched his jaw as he skimmed the list. Miss Locke seemed to have outdone herself, although the document was incomplete. Still, the vitriol on the page was enough to make him swallow hard. Even when they’d bantered at their worst, Marcus hadn’t realized Miss Locke had harbored such loathing for him as this.

His eyes returned to the first characteristic on the list. “Arrogance. Huh.” Hardly original, but perhaps the first thing that had come to her mind. Ladies always accused gentlemen of being arrogant. He perused the description and shook his head. “Miss Locke, you flatter yourself. I am toward you as I am toward everyone. Aloof sometimes, perhaps, but not arrogant. But that will lead quite naturally to Hypocrite.” Well, that was understandable. She’d accused him of that to his face last night. And on its heels Unkind.

“The little wretch!” Marcus gripped the piece of foolscap until it was close to tearing. “I am not unkind. I am the kindest person I know.” Fuming, he read on, but soon his grip slackened, and a smile crept over his lips. Who would’ve thought Miss Locke to be such a champion for Letitia? That might be the woman’s most endearing quality. He continued perusing the list and a chuckle escaped him. He’d thought the overfull glass of lemonade an excellent jape to devil Miss Locke, although he’d not thought about the possible consequences to her wardrobe.

More interested now in the lady’s rationales for her dislikes, Marcus read on. The rudeness he shrugged off as part and parcel of their sparring, as was its neighbor Superior. The sixth characteristic, however, gave Marcus pause again. While Lazy did not actually describe his attitude toward the earldom’s financial difficulties, his inattention and inexperience certainly had been factors. And Miss Locke was correct, the ton did have this perception of him. He’d heard this whispered about himself. At least he might begin to combat the rumors if he could get in on the venture with Lord Finley.

Or marry Miss Locke. He believed he could speak for the lady when he said that a successful venture would be the more pleasing of the two choices to them both.

His gaze came to rest on the final word, Frog. Marcus’s lips puckered into a smile in spite of himself. So his frog-like traits were not pleasing to the lady either? Miss Locke was a most demanding woman. Imagine what would’ve happened in The Frog Prince had the princess not kissed the frog in the end?

A sudden image of him kissing Miss Locke rose to mind so vividly he could feel her soft mouth, smell the lavender in her hair, taste the sweetness of her lips. Staring straight ahead, as if in the grip of a waking dream, Marcus clenched his fists as his cock sprang to life forcefully enough it hit his small clothes with an almost audible thump. He grunted, shook his head to dispel the disturbing image, and swiftly rose from the chair. Quickly, he stuffed all the writing accoutrements back into their cubbies, slid Miss Locke’s list back into the drawer with the other papers, banged the desk closed, and hurried out of the reception room.

He’d have to call at home to tell Letitia and his aunt about the invitation as he couldn’t remain in this room long enough to scribble the necessary lines. He didn’t trust himself not to continue these bizarre thoughts about Miss Locke—and if he didn’t stop, he’d need to return home at any rate to change his soiled clothing.

Chapter 8

Lady Carrolton’s London abode had the dubious distinction of being the smallest townhome in Mayfair. No matter what she did to disguise it—including a wall of mirrors on one side of the ballroom—it was still a tight squeeze when accommodating more than six couples. Marcus would’ve chosen a bigger establishment, in a somewhat less fashionable neighborhood, rather than suffocate his guests. To some people, however, address was everything.

This evening, it appeared the entire ton had turned out. People crowded the sides of the dance floor, which looked to be the size of a good parlor rug. Throngs of people milled through the house, so closely packed he could barely fight his way through, blazing a path for Letitia and Aunt Alexandra.

They settled at last in a corner under a sconce, the room hot as blazes without the addition of the flame’s heat, but his sister felt more comfortable in an out-of-the-way spot. So he mopped his brow with an already sodden handkerchief and kept an eye out for Miss Locke.

He’d made his peace, such as it was, with the situation. The introduction to Finley had been arranged at his club earlier this evening, necessitating his refusal of Ainsley’s invitation. Which had been a blessing in several ways. He’d arrived home to find his sister and aunt already engaged for dinner and to have had to try to dine with Miss Locke with those rather erotic notions still buzzing around his head would’ve been torture of a kind he’d never experienced before.

The introduction had gone well, although Finley and Hamilton had regretfully informed him the investment deal had already taken place. That, unfortunately, had left Marcus with no time to find another viable venture and no other options save one. Now he stood determined to woo Miss Locke and win her favor. A daunting task, perhaps, considering the list he’d found, but forewarned was forearmed. Knowing the things that displeased her most, he would be on his best behavior and try to keep control of his tongue and temper. He feared he’d be a candidate for sainthood before it was all over, most saints being martyred in gruesome ways before their deaths.

The crowd by the door stirred as people made way for Viscount Ainsley, followed immediately by his sister.

Marcus held his breath.

The woman looked stunning tonight, he’d give her that. If they did end up married, she would make a brilliant countess. Her gown of blue muslin shimmered in the dancing candlelight, the cloth shot through with metallic silver, giving Miss Locke a luster he’d not noticed before. Her neck had a regal arch to it, her auburn hair coiled high on her head, adorned with a circlet of silver flowers, like a crown. And her face—wreathed in smiles as she spoke to acquaintances—made his heart stutter. Lord, if only her temper matched her exquisite exterior, he’d be brought to his knees here and now.

That being far from the case, Marcus breathed deeply, affected what he hoped was a pleasing smile, and plunged across the dance floor toward her. He kept his gaze on her brother, hoping Ainsley would suggest they dance, as every word he’d practiced for this moment had dropped out of his head like ninepins falling.

“Ah, Haversham.” Ainsley bowed, looking smug, the dirty devil. “Good to see you this evening. Did you have a productive day? Those investments you spoke of looking into went well?” He managed to keep a straight face, but his eyebrows rose to new heights.

“Good evening, Ainsley.” The scathing glare he shot at the viscount would’ve killed him on the spot had it been an arrow. He turned and bowed to the ravishing woman he could scarcely take his eyes off. “Miss Locke, delighted to see you.”

“And you as well, my lord.”

Her silken tone brought Marcus up short. Instead of answering his friend, he trained all his attention on the lovely woman at his side.

“The room is very warm, wouldn’t you say?” Miss Locke fluttered her fan very prettily. “I hope it will not be too warm, for I had so set my heart on dancing each dance tonight.” She continued to ply her fan back and forth languorously, staring into the corner from which the random squeaks of the tuning orchestra arose.

Ainsley’s face was carefully blank. He shrugged and turned to speak to an acquaintance, giving Marcus no help at all.

Might as well take the fight to the enemy, then. “Miss Locke, I may not have acquitted myself very well as your dance partner last evening, but I beg you to give me one more chance to prove myself able.” He clenched his jaw, determined not to flinch, no matter her outrageous reply.

“Thank you for that kind offer, Lord Haversham.” She raised the fan to cover her face, revealing nothing. “I am not engaged at the moment, so yes, I will be happy to accept you.” She smiled and curtsied, for all the world as though she meant it.

Words failed him. He managed a bow and grabbed his friend’s arm, hauling him away from Miss Locke’s disturbing presence. “What did you say to her?” he demanded as soon as they were out of earshot.

“Not a word. Why? Has she trampled your efforts before they are even born?” Ainsley’s frown—without a hint of mirth around the eyes—convinced Marcus his friend spoke the truth.

“She accepted me.”