Free The Earl's Mistress by Liz Carlyle Page A

Isabella suddenly remembered Lady Petershaw’s instructions. “H-how far away is that?”
    He laughed, but with little humor. “Back out the lane, turn right, and continue on another two miles,” he said, “so do take a lamp, my dear, if you decide to bolt from my little den of iniquity.”
    “Kindly do not make a jest of me.” She turned too swiftly and felt the floor sway.
    He flicked an appraising glance at her. “You will sit down, Isabella,” he ordered, snatching away her glass, “in that blue chair by the fire.”
    “You’re very domineering,” she remarked, watching the dregs of her brandy go.
    He set her glass on the sideboard with a hard thunk .
    “Quite domineering,” he said, turning to cut her a dark look. “Are you going to have a problem with that? If so, I’ll fetch that lamp now, Mrs. Aldridge, and you may head on back to Virtue-upon-Boredom, or whatever little village you came from.”
    Her breath caught at the unholy glint in his eyes. “No, it . . . it is your house,” she managed, “and, as you’ve so clearly stated, your rules.”
    “Yes, I’ve found matters run more smoothly when a man is unwavering in his expectations.”
    “More smoothly for whom?”
    “For the man giving the orders,” he replied without rancor.
    “Ah, and that would be Mr. William Mowbrey?”
    The earl was pouring himself a brandy, his hand rock steady. He set the glass by one of the chairs, then squatted down to poke up the fire.
    “I was christened Anthony Tarleton William Mowbrey Chalfont,” he said, staring into the depths of the hearth, “if it somehow matters to you.”
    Strangely enough, it did. She watched as he stood with a leisurely grace and folded his rangy length into a matching chair opposite hers. His tousled gold-brown locks were damp, Isabella noticed, and he’d put on a fresh shirt, left open at the throat beneath a waistcoat of fine brocade. With his aquiline nose and harsh cheekbones, he was a shockingly handsome man—and all too aware of it, obviously.
    Using one long, booted leg, Hepplewood kicked a footstool over in his direction, propped up his feet, then steepled his fingers to study her. It was a posture of utter repose, yet a commanding one all the same, leaving Isabella to wonder if everyone who came within the man’s sphere was obliged to obey him.
    “You haven’t a drop of charm, have you?” she remarked.
    He smiled faintly. “I used to have,” he said, “but I found it a double-edged sword. Nowadays I find it more expedient to simply order what I want—and to pay for it when I must.”
    Isabella swallowed hard. “And what, exactly, do you want, Lord Hepplewood?”
    “Exactly? To bend you over that chair, Mrs. Aldridge, and fuck you until you beg for mercy.” He picked up his brandy with his long, elegant fingers. “But I’m willing to wait until you’re more comfortable with the notion.”
    The alcohol must have numbed Isabella, for she did not blush. “Well,” she murmured. “At least you’re honest. And along with your lack of charm, I notice you’ve no servants.”
    “I haven’t any servants in the house, ” he corrected.
    “But there is . . . someone?” she said a little hopefully.
    Again, he shrugged. “I’ve a caretaker in a cottage beyond the stable. Yardley sees to my horses and builds up the fires. His wife and daughter come in most afternoons to tidy up and take away the laundry. There are village girls when I need the house turned out.”
    “You do not eat?”
    A smile twitched at his thin mouth. “Oh, I’m a man of appetites,” he said. “Yes, I eat—and cook, too, when necessary. I enjoy a measure of self-sufficiency. But yes, the helpful Mrs. Yardley comes back and forth, and sometimes puts a joint on to roast.”
    Isabella was mystified. “Why do you live here?” she asked more softly.
    “It is my home,” he said simply. “I have others, of course. But Greenwood is private—a sort of sanctuary—and a place where I