Page 3 of One Night with an Earl

Oliver Bedford, the Earl of Drake, was not in a good mood. The last establishment he wished to attend tonight was this bordello. When he woke that morning, he anticipated an undisturbed evening going over the many ledgers of his estates in order to meet with his stewards later that week.

Instead, he had been dragged from his home by a group of dandies whose company he scorned. The men of fashion were his brother’s friends, not his.

Oliver could use a good bout in the boxing ring. He’d learned the best way to ease his frustration and grief was in a roped-off ring with gloves, skill, and a worthy opponent. Then he could return to Drake House and focus on his duties.

Instead, he had to take his brother’s place. Not only had he inherited his earldom, but somehow, he’d inherited his friends.

Damn you, Henry, for dying.

The news had upended his world. Overnight he’d had to leave the country where he’d been spending extended time meeting with stewards at each of his family’s estates to return to town.

“Would you prefer a different drink? If not whisky, we have anything else you desire.” The blonde courtesan had approached. She was beautiful, with honey-colored curls, a heart-shaped face, and lush breasts. Her painted lips were curved in a seductive smile, and he knew she offered much more than simply fine spirits.

How had she managed to extricate herself from Moore’s clutches?

He politely declined her offer of liquor and more. Oliver wasn’t interested in what she offered. He was only here to celebrate the Marquess of Elton’s last night of freedom before he was shackled in matrimony to the daughter of a duke. Elton had been Henry’s best friend, and Oliver now would take his brother’s place at the wedding, as well as all the celebrations—which was why he was at the Silver Chalice.

In Oliver’s opinion, it was another excuse to drink to excess and indulge in self-satiation. Nor would Elton change his ways when vows were exchanged. More likely, he’d bed his virgin wife, then join with his cavorting friends the same night.

Oliver’s father had been no different. His brother, Henry, had taken after his sire.

And they both were dead.

Oliver did his best not only to avoid his brother’s friends, but their haunts—the clubs, gaming hells, theaters, private parties which lasted until dawn, and bordellos with an endless stream of smooth-speaking courtesans.

He didn’t hold it against his brother’s friends. They could have their fun tonight. He just wanted nothing to do with the Silver Chalice.

But if he couldn’t avoid tonight, he at least could drink himself into a stupor, then stumble to his home and forget the evening.

A flash of red in the doorway caught his eye. A woman in a red silk dress with a half mask entered the salon. He nearly dropped the fine whisky.

She was quite simply stunning. Dark curls were artfully piled upon her head, and a fat lock curled around her chin to frame a stunningly lovely face. Her complexion was dusky, a shade darker than that of most English ladies. The tight dress was designed to display her curves to perfection. A pearl clasp between her breasts drew a man’s eye to the abundance of creamy skin rounded enticingly above her bodice. A slit in the skirt revealed one shapely, silk-clad leg as she walked.

She had the type of mouth that made a man think of carnal thoughts and a desire to suck those plump, pink lips. She was tall for a woman and would just reach his chin and fit nicely against him. Something about her was different from the other women in the room, delectably different. She appeared hesitant, yet confident, a fascinating contradiction of virginal innocence wrapped in a temptress’s body.

His reaction was swift. The thudding of his heart drowned out the coarse conversation in the room. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from her.

Across the room, their eyes met and held, and his cock took notice.

“Good evening, my lords.” Her graceful curtsy revealed the tops of her breasts.

Her voice was not overly honey-sweet and false like the other women, but smooth and smoky, like fine mulled wine. It made him want to hear that voice low and husky as he unbuttoned the red silk to expose more of her skin. She’d be warm, welcoming, and bewitching, just what he needed to forget his burdens.

God, what was he thinking? He didn’t need a distraction, no matter how lovely.

Then she took a step forward in his direction, then another. All rational thought fled.

Hell, yes.

Others noticed her, too.

“What do we have here?” the Viscount Sutherland asked.

The Earl of Moore sneered. “Sod off. I saw her first.” Of the group, Oliver liked Moore the least. Selfish and crude, he was often the group’s ringleader.

“You have the blonde,” Sutherland protested.

“Why fight? There’s plenty to go around,” the Marquess of Elton said. Well into his cups, with one of the women sprawled across his lap, his bride was clearly not on his mind.