Page 1 of Daring the Forbidden Earl
Chapter One
“Imust say, you exquisite creatures are as a cold, fresh drink of water after my travels in France.” Mark Carlton—recent and reluctant inheritor to the title, the Earl of Sinclair—groaned appreciatively to the bevy of young ladies who had surrounded him. “There is nothing so fortifying to the soul as an English Rose, just waiting to be plucked.”
The ladies covered their laughter with dainty, gloved hands, though some of the more enamored beauties peered coquettishly over the top of their champagne glasses. One even dared to flash a subtle wink at him, likely keen to be the first plucked.
A striking brunette grazed her arm against his. “It cannot be easy, taking on the vast responsibility of becoming an Earl. You ought to find a wife who can share your troubles and cheer your grieving heart.”
“I assure you; I am searchingverythoroughly for the most radiant and ravishing young lady in the country. As an Earl, it is vital to have an… intimate knowledge of the daughters of every peer.” Mark smiled, feeling satisfied as the ladies collapsed into another fit of raucous giggles. “Why, you would certainly feel like Countesses once I had lavished you with my particular charms.”
One of the young ladies, a pretty redhead, fanned herself furiously, as though she might swoon and faint at any moment. He tended to have that effect on women, for they had all read about his exploits in the scandal sheets. As far as he was concerned, it made his search for a nightly partner that much easier, for they already knew they could expect an unforgettable evening. And he never failed to deliver.
A blonde toyed with a strand of golden hair. “You are truly wicked, Lord Sinclair!”
“Perhaps, but I can make you see heaven far sooner than any angel,” Mark replied, as quick-witted as he was infamous.
For a moment, he had not quite understood why she was referring to him as “Lord Sinclair.” That title had always been his father’s, and though it had been almost four months since the old Earl had passed on into the hereafter, Mark was not yet used to being revered as a man of true power and station. Indeed, that was the entire reason he had gone to Bordeaux for a month, in order to escape the responsibility.
And to grieve my father in peace… If I had stayed, there would have been chaos.
He knew himself. If he had not gone away, he would have thrown himself into his vices, until there was not a full bottle of brandy in all of London, or a woman he had not shared his bed with.
“Lord Sinclair!” the brunette whispered in a sultry tone, wafting her fan close to her bosom, evidently to draw his eye toward her ripe breasts. “You will have us all panting until we cannot contain ourselves.”
The young ladies all gasped, gulping down their champagne in a vain attempt to cool their delightfully rosy cheeks. It perpetually delighted Mark, to visibly see the influence his words had upon these marvelous creatures.
“Will you dance this evening, Lord Sinclair?” The blonde emulated her dark-haired friend, until it seemed as though they had begun a heaving competition.
Mark looked toward the dancing pairs who whirled and twirled to the jaunty tune of the orchestra. “Perhaps, though I do pity the ladies sometimes.”
“Why is that?” the blonde pressed.
“So many of them do not realize that there is far more enjoyment to be had between men and women than a simple brush of palm on palm.” He took a punctuating sip of his own champagne, and grinned as the buoyant squeals of delight washed over him.
No sooner had he taken that satisfied sip than he saw a sight that closed his throat, making him choke on the bubbling liquid. Spluttering wildly and spraying champagne onto the gown of the horrified blonde, the proud puff deflated out of his chest, as though someone had taken a needle to his proud balloon.
“My goodness, how disgusting! Did you just… spit upon me?!” the doused young lady cried, staring down at her ruined gown. But Mark had no attention to spare for her laundering debacle.
His honey-brown eyes were fixed on a vision in sapphire silk that had just entered the ballroom, praying she had not seen him spit the contents of his mouth onto the wailing unfortunate who was still gawping at him as though he had covered her in something far worse.
Johanna, as I live and breathe. As beautiful as the day I last saw you, and no doubt twice as haughty. You dare to tread upon my territory?
She stood out from the crowd of gaudy revelers, with her elegant, swan-like neck and cream complexion. How he would have loved to trail his fingertips across that smooth skin and feel her tremble in his arms, or stroke his hands across her shiny blonde hair, currently braided into submission atop her head.
He could just make out her slender yet curved silhouette beneath the cascades of silk and felt grateful he had not tried to chase away his choking with another mouthful of champagne. He would surely have spat that out, too, especially as his gaze settled on her pert bosom.
Suddenly, she turned. Panicking, Mark excused himself, before darting toward a long, velvet drape beside the door to the dining room and ducking underneath it.
What am I doing?! She will think me more of an oaf than she already does, hiding behind a blasted curtain like I am fearful of a governess coming to scold me.
And yet, when it came to Johanna, he could not help but revert to boyhood, when he could not even look at a lady without blushing furiously and feeling his tongue tangle in a knot.
Perhaps it was because she had been married to hismucholder uncle, who was at least thirty years her senior, though she had never behaved as an aunt toward him. Or perhaps it was her beauty, her sensual figure, and the fact she was forbidden to him that made him so uncharacteristic in her presence. Truthfully, he did not know the reason he responded in such a way.
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” One of Mark’s dearest friends—Liam Westwood, the Earl of Keswick—appeared in the narrow gap in the drape. Behind Liam, the third member of their gentlemanly trio—Kenneth Denninson, the Duke of Hudson—raised a dumbfounded eyebrow.
Mark cleared his throat. “I was just… admiring this paneling.” He stroked the mahogany behind the drape, wishing the ground would swallow him up. “The Countess really has tremendous taste in… um… wood.”
“What are you really doing behind there?” Kenneth interjected. He had always been blessed with the gift of sniffing out nonsense a mile away.
