Page 9 of Ruined by the Wrong Earl

‘Your freedom? What did you think would happen?’

She swallowed and his gaze was drawn to the smooth column of her throat. He recalled her soft mewling moans as he trailed his lips from her mouth to the shell of her ear. With only her thin cotton nightgown between them, he’d been as aroused as if she’d been naked. And when his palm had slipped beneath the hem to caress her shapely leg, he’d been lost. What would have happened if her maid hadn’t opened his bedchamber door with her mother in tow?

His heartbeat pounded like a drum in his chest. The attraction was perilous. He prized himself on his self-control. He took his responsibilities seriously and rarely showed or displayed emotion. Base lust had never controlled him. Yet, a few shivery kisses with the brazen Nora had made him as hard and volatile as a youth with his first lover. She could never know how strongly she affected him. She was dangerous.

She shook her head. ‘I wanted to ruin my reputation to get out of an unwanted match. I accidentally slipped into the wrong bedchamber. It wasn’t supposed to be you.’

His gaze snapped back to her face. Her complexion had paled a shade. She’d called him another man’s name and it had disturbed him more than he would let on. He’d been completely engrossed in the moment with her and couldn’t recall whose name she’d uttered. ‘I see. Whose bed was it supposed to be?’

‘Sir Simon’s.’

A second paused and he tossed back his head and laughed. But now he understood. Finally understood. ‘That dandy.’

She looked affronted as if he’d insulted her. A sourness tasted in his mouth that, because of a mistake, she’d ended up in his bed. If the gossip was to be believed, Sir Simon had deflowered his share of debutantes.

The memory of her speaking with Simon at the ball came back. It had bothered him then. This was worse, and Ralston’s heart pounded at the thought of Nora in Simon’s arms.

Ralston picked up the discarded quill on the escritoire in his room and fingered it. ‘Your efforts have failed. You escaped one match only to end up with another. And I thought you’d tricked me to become a countess.’

Her green eyes flashed in her face. ‘No! I don’t want to become your countess!’

A burst of anger flared in his chest. ‘Well, it’s no longer up to either of us, is it? It will be an epic scandal.’ A scandal he could not afford. He had no choice but to diffuse it before it reached Town, and he introduced his bill in the House.

Her magnificent green eyes flashed again, then she released a breath as if reining in her temper. ‘You’re wrong. It is up to us. I have something for you to convince you that we are unsuited.’ She stepped forward. For the first time, he noticed an object in her hand. She placed the wrapped item on his desk.

‘What is it?’

She stood still, her fingers folded before her. ‘Unwrap it. You will see how unsuited we are.’

His curiosity was piqued. Reaching out, he picked up the package. The item was light and small. He unwrapped the cloth. ‘It’s a seashell.’ Looking up, he met her eyes.

‘It’s not just a seashell, my lord, but a painted topshell and is unique to the Cornwall coast. The body of the snail that inhabited the shell is as colourful as its shell and is flecked with purple, red and brown. I found this during my explorations.’

‘Interesting, indeed,’ he said, ‘but what on earth does it have to do with our predicament?’

She let out a small sigh. ‘Don’t you see? We are unsuited. I am a scientist, a biologist, and my current interest is conchology, the study of mollusk shells. I have no desire to marry. Ever.’

‘Interesting,’ he repeated, ‘but I still do not see how this changes—’

She took a step forward and the scent of her soap wafted to him. He inhaled the fragrance like a drug. He was grateful the escritoire was between them so she couldn’t see his physical response.

Her eyes were wide, imploring. ‘You must understand. I have no interest in Society or the fickle beau monde, only my research. I hope to present my findings to the London Scientific Society in the future. I would make a dreadful countess. Tell my mother whatever you wish, my lord, but do not go through with a betrothal.’

His brow lifted. ‘You do not look like a scientist.’

Her lips twisted wryly. ‘And what do you think a scientist should look like?’

‘Bespectacled, serious and introverted.’ And male, he thought to himself. Not a woman who slips into a man’s bed uninvited in the middle of the night. Certainly, not a woman who looked like her. A woman who made him think of heated encounters in the bedroom, of her glorious auburn hair, loose down her back as she rode him and screamed his name as she came.

His name.

A spark lit her eyes, and she raised her chin. ‘Your assumptions are ignorant but not shocking. Scientists, especially women, can look and act differently than as you described.’

He picked up the shell. It looked like an ordinary shell. The home of a sea creature. All he’d wanted was a businesslike marriage of convenience that would suit both partners.

‘Are we in agreement, then?’ she asked, a note of eagerness now in her voice. ‘If you prefer, we can consent to a temporary betrothal during the house party since others must have heard and the news will spread. When the scandal is forgotten, we can then both agree to cry off when we return to London.’

He leveled his gaze on her as his mind kept turning to the prior evening. ‘No. We are not in agreement.’ If she thought a scandal of this proportion would just blow over, she was gravely mistaken. It would be disastrous for him. He’d be a laughingstock in the House chamber and could just imagine the members talking behind his back. Politicians gossiped worse than magpies.