My Lady's Dare. Gayle Wilson

      Chapter Three

      “And where did you find her, my lord,” Ned Harper asked, as he helped Dare out of his coat.

      It usually took the aid of one of the footmen to get the earl into his perfectly tailored jackets, but taking them off was not quite so much a challenge as to require the presence of a third party in the earl’s bedroom. Perhaps, Dare thought, that was not to his advantage. Not if Ned was in the mood to lecture.

      “At Bonnet’s,” the earl said easily. “I won her.”

      He had given Elizabeth into the more than capable hands of his housekeeper. Although Mrs. Hendricks hadn’t spoken a word of protest, the earl had certainly been made aware of her disapproval of his “guest.” Her nostrils had flared in distaste, and she had never looked at Mrs. Carstairs as he had given his instructions.

      “She was at the Frenchman’s?”

      “Directing the servants and announcing the scores between hands.”

      “At least you know she can count,” the valet said dismissingly. “Perhaps you can get her a position in one of the shops when you’ve finished with her.”

      “I don’t think she’s equipped for working in a shop, Ned,” the earl said mildly.

      “I suppose that after yesterday I should have known something like this would happen….”

      The words, their tone clearly chiding, faded as the valet crossed the room. Smiling, Dare didn’t ask for an explanation of what Harper had meant. Nor did he reprimand his valet for what had sounded very much like insolence.

      Their relationship had long ago slipped from the rigid bonds that normally governed the roles of master and servant and matured into a deep, abiding friendship. Ned Harper was one of the few people who always told the Earl of Dare exactly what he thought. Which was, of course, one of the reasons Dare valued him.

      Only Ned and Ian did that, he acknowledged, stepping in front of the dressing table’s mirror to remove his stickpin. Actually, the earl thought with a smile, neither of them hesitated in expressing the most brutally honest opinion about his actions. At least the youngest Sinclair still held him in some awe. Of course, the gap between their ages alone was enough to ensure that Sebastian probably always would look up to him. Thank God someone would, he thought in amusement.

      “Then what are you planning to do with her?” Ned asked when he returned from his errand, as if the break in the conversation had not occurred.

      He had handed the coat to a footman waiting outside the bedroom door. From there it would be carried to the kitchens to be brushed and aired. Now Harper began to unwind the earl’s cravat.

      “Do with her?” Dare repeated.

      “You have a mistress. Unless you’re thinking of taking on another one. And since you seldom have leisure to visit the first…”

      “My nights have been…otherwise occupied,” the earl said, smiling at his valet in the glass.

      Harper’s dark eyes met the blue ones reflected in the mirror. “Exactly. So what would you be needing with the Frenchman’s whore.”

      “What makes you so sure she’s a whore, Ned?”

      The valet’s snort was expressive.

      “Seriously,” the earl said softly.

      Again, Harper’s eyes lifted to meet his master’s. They were no longer derisive. They held on the earl’s a long moment before his lips pursed.

      “Well, let me see,” he said. “One, she was working for Bonnet. Two, you won her on a hand of cards. Three, she’s painted like a Maypole. And four, there isn’t enough fabric in the bodice of her gown to make a good codpiece. Will you be needing some more reasons?” Ned asked sarcastically.

      “Do you know, Ned, I believe I will.”

      “You don’t have time for this,” Harper warned.

      “I know,” Dare acknowledged.

      “Shall I find a house for her?” Ned asked, removing the silver-striped waistcoat.

      The earl slipped the lawn shirt over his head before he answered. He turned, wearing nothing from the waist up, and held the shirt, still warm from its contact with his body, out to his valet. “It seemed to me that there might be enough room here for one more person,” he said.

      “Not if you want to keep your staff.”

      “Are my servants so sensitive that a woman’s presence might drive them away? If so, I’m not paying them enough.”

      “Not a woman,” Ned said, taking the shirt and folding it over his arm. “That woman. Mrs. Hendricks, for one, will never put up with it, my lord. No decent woman would.”

      “Then I suppose Watson will be forced to find another housekeeper,” the earl said, meeting Ned’s eyes.

      Then he walked across to the bed and sat down, holding out one leg, still neatly attired in knee britches and silk stockings, which delineated the well-developed muscles of his calf. Harper watched him a long moment, and then, lips tight with disapproval, he threw the earl’s clothing over a nearby chair and stalked over to the bed. He stooped and put his hand on the heel of the earl’s evening slipper. He pulled it off, and held it in both hands, still squatting on the floor before Dare.

      “If you are willing to let Mrs. Hendricks walk out, as long as she’s been here, then you’ve got a bee in your bonnet for sure,” Ned said bitterly. “I knew as soon as I saw that woman she was trouble.”

      “She’s in trouble, Ned. Would you have had me leave her to Bonnet’s tender mercies?”

      “Yes,” Harper said shortly, grasping the other shoe by the heel and pulling it off roughly.

      The valet carried the shoes over to the door and handed them to the waiting bootblack. When he had closed the door, he returned to look down on his master, who was stretched out comfortably on the bed, ankles crossed and hands locked together behind his head. The broad, dark chest was bare, and the skintight britches stretched over a flat stomach, narrow hips and muscular thighs.

      The earl’s eyes were closed, the dark lashes lying against his cheeks like miniature fans. A lack of sleep during the past few days had left the fragile skin under them discolored like old bruises. Fatigue and grief had deepened the normally unnoticeable lines around his mouth.

      Grief, Ned thought. He had known what this was all about from the beginning. The earl hadn’t been in time to rescue his friend, so he had rescued Mrs. Carstairs instead.

      And here I am, Ned thought, nattering on at him like a schoolmaster because he’s brought some woman home. What does it matter if he wants to bring every strumpet in Gravesend home with him? Harper thought, unfolding a blanket he took from the foot of the bed and spreading it carefully over the earl. He’s more than earned the right to do that, even if they don’t want to be rescued.

      Smiling at the thought, the valet walked across the room and pulled the heavy draperies across the windows. The room darkened as if it were twilight instead of midmorning. Ned waited for his eyes to adjust, and finally, unable to resist the impulse, he walked back to the high bed, almost tiptoeing so as not to chance waking the sleeper.

      Even as a child, this was the Sinclair who could be counted on to bring home the strays. Any sick or mistreated animal Val had ever encountered had found its way back to the warmth of the Sinclair stables. Everyone believed that Mr. Ian was the best of the lot, and in a way, Ned supposed they were right.

      But I wouldn’t be trading this one, Harper thought, adjusting the cover he had laid over the broad chest, which rose and fell with a regularity that told him the earl was already deeply asleep.

      I hope to God you don’t disappoint him, he thought, remembering the flawless beauty of the woman who had waltzed in through the front door of the town house this