Page 21 of One Night with an Earl

“Perhaps we should allow Penelope to form her opinion of the man on her own,” Lord Malvern said.

At his unexpected defense, Ana stared at the marquess anew. Did he know about the old earl’s drinking, gaming, and avarice?

Lady Malvern’s lips thinned as she turned back to her husband. “I was merely suggesting Miss Gardner gently guide our daughter—”

“Nonsense. You want Miss Gardner to tell Penelope what to do because you know your daughter will object if you do so, my dear.”

Lady Malvern let out an audible huff. “That is entirely untrue. I respect Penelope’s judgment.”

“Good. Then it’s settled. Miss Gardner accompanies her as her chaperone but does not force an opinion upon our daughter.” He sank in the leather armchair and picked up his drink and his book, effectively dismissing his wife as if he’d snapped at her to depart.

Lady Malvern’s gaze was shrewd as she eyed Ana outside the library. “His lordship means well, Miss Gardner, but make no mistake, as the lady of the house, I am in charge of hiring and firing the staff.”

Chapter Eight

A knock sounded on Oliver’s study door. “Enter.”

“My lord, the man you’ve summoned is here.” Burk stood in the doorway, a question in his gaze.

“See him here, Burk.”

Burk bowed, then disappeared. Moments later, a squat, heavyset man with a thinning head of straw-colored hair entered his study. Oliver had requested a man who was skilled in investigating and had discretion. Oliver motioned for him to take a seat.

“Mr. Willis, tell me you’ve found her,” Oliver said.

The man handed him a piece of foolscap. “Not exactly, my lord. But I do have a list of possible women.”

Oliver took the proffered list. His brows pinched together as he scanned the contents, then he reached for a pen in an inkwell in the corner of his desk and proceeded to cross off two names out of five.

“Lady Somersby and Miss Lorenz are not who I’m searching for.” He knew both women from his family connections, and the mere notion that they were Lady Scarlet was ludicrous. His frustration grew, and he was discouraged and irritated. For a man who’d never had trouble forgetting a lover, it was disconcerting. Something about Lady Scarlet was unique. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it was the way she made him feel that was different.

Fierce, fiery, and free. Free of the guilt of his brother’s death. His father’s cruelty. His heavy responsibilities as the new earl. Her awkwardness in the bedroom had intrigued and aroused him, and for the first time, he lost his tightly reined control. Rather than regret it, he’d enjoyed it and wanted that feeling again. He’d experienced a connection with Lady Scarlet that he’d never had in the past and he wanted more.

Craved more.

Unfortunately, Lady Penelope roused none of these feelings. She would make a proper lord’s wife, and she had many childbearing years before her. She was titled, mild-mannered, well-bred.

Entirely and utterly boring.

He knew he was harshly judging her. After all, who could compare with Lady Scarlet? But knowing he was being unfair to the former did not satisfy this deep-seated need to find the latter.

Oliver tapped his fingers on his desk’s blotter as he looked at the investigator. “Was your search based on my criteria?”

“Yes. A well-spoken Englishwoman with a possible Middle Eastern or Mediterranean background.”

“That’s correct.” Oliver was convinced Lady Scarlet had come from a mixed heritage. Arab, Greek, Egyptian came to mind. Her curly hair had been a glorious mahogany, almost as dark as midnight. He’d never seen an English woman with a similar color and texture. And her silky skin had been smooth, luscious, and entirely devoid of body hair.

And virginal.

Even now, days later, the image made his body harden in lust. He’d lain in bed thinking of her, reliving their night together. The lush skin between her thighs had glistened with arousal. For him.

A different image rose in his mind. Hazel eyes. A hideous gray crepe gown and lace cap.

Lady Penelope’s chaperone. Her eyes were the right color, but everything else about her was wrong. The stiff posture, the pursed lips, the disapproving glare.

Then why did he keep thinking of her?

The chaperone distrusted him, but he supposed she was doing her job of guiding her young charge, no matter how ridiculously overprotective. But he’d caught a flash of more than mere distrust in her gaze.