Page 17 of Of Lies and Earls (Inglorious Scoundrels #2)

J acob.

Only during her most intimate thoughts did Honoria allow herself to use his given name. Jacob . Whispered, imagined, sighed in the dark, when no one could hear her craving.

She lay in bed, fingers curled into the cotton sheets. Her nightshift was twisted around her thighs, one leg bared to the pale moonlight that streamed through the gap in her curtains, the other bent as she slowly traced the path she wished his hands would take. The feel of her nightgown whispered against her skin, a poor substitute for his touch.

What would he think if he saw her now? The prim and proper Miss Hartwell, the woman who cooly stood before his desk, delivering reports every evening, reduced to this trembling creature of need and want.

She imagined his lips on her breasts—hot, claiming, reverent. His tongue circling a taut nipple, his hands spreading over her waist, his breath warm as he kissed lower… lower. She could almost feel the rough calluses on his palms, scraping deliciously against her sensitive skin.

Her breath hitched, catching in her throat.

In her mind, he was over her now, his broad shoulders blocking out the world, parting her thighs with hot, confident hands, fingers slipping through her folds. She arched, eyes fluttering shut as she imagined the slow, teasing pressure of his touch. His fingers inside her, curling just right, his thumb brushing where she throbbed.

She gasped, her hand moving in rhythm to the memory of him murmuring in her ear, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her.

And then he was inside her.

Hard, thick, stretching her fully. Filling her. Completing her in a way she hadn’t known she needed until she’d met him.

She imagined the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, the slick slide of his body against hers, the sound of his breath, low and ragged, his voice broken as he groaned her name. Not Hart. Not Miss Hartwell. Just Honoria.

Her name in his low, raspy voice would be the sweetest sound.

Her free hand gripped the sheet as she reached the edge, legs trembling, breath catching. And then she came, with his name on her lips and her heart aching in her chest, pleasure cascading through her in waves that left her boneless and spent.

She lay still afterward, chest rising and falling, the sweat cooling on her skin, the scent of her arousal hanging in the air around her.

She glanced at the window, grimacing at the morning light filtering through the curtains.

Her pleasure faded, leaving behind a hollow ache that no amount of self-pleasure could fill.

She exhaled sharply and flung the blankets aside, frustration simmering beneath her skin. It wasn’t just a desire now—it hadn’t been for a long time. She wanted him with an aching depth that terrified her—not just his body, but his mind, his heart, his gentle hands and quiet voice, the fire in his eyes when he was excited about a new project.

But how did he feel?

He had kissed her. Her .

She touched her lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of his mouth, the taste of him. But when she’d said she would be staying, he’d seemed almost disappointed.

She dressed slowly, fingers fumbling with the buttons of her dress, wincing as one caught in her hair. Her normally deft hands betrayed her inner turmoil.

Was he regretting their kiss? Had he kissed her as a way to say goodbye? As a consolation prize before she departed?

And now that she was staying, he felt ashamed and confused. That was certainly an unpleasant possibility.

She was infinitely confused, caught between hope and dread.

She ran a brush through her hair with unnecessary force, wincing as it caught on tangles. The woman in the looking glass stared back at her with dark-circled eyes and lips pressed into a thin line.

“Enough,” she whispered to her reflection. “Collect your bearings, Honor. You’ve faced down worse than the uncertainty of a man’s feelings. You will not cower now.”

She walked out of her room and started on her daily duties, the familiar routine a balm to her nerves. She was checking the inventory in the pantry, making sure the silver was properly polished, when a footman approached her.

“Miss Hartwell, there’s a post boy outside. He says he has a missive for you.”

Her heart leapt to her throat. It was from Lydia. It must be. But was she writing from? She was supposed to be on her way to the Continent by now.

She hurried outside. A scrawny boy of about ten stood shifting from foot to foot, his cap twisted in his hands. He brightened when he saw her, extending a folded paper sealed with wax.

“For you, miss,” he said.

Honoria flipped a coin to the boy, who caught it, doffed his cap, and scampered away before she tore open the note, her heart pounding a violent tattoo against her ribs.

Dear H,

I have not left the country. In fact, I reconnected with Thornton, and everything is too complicated to explain in a single missive, but we’ve talked, and a lot of things have become clear. I was never certain I could leave him behind, and now I know I can’t. We are both in hiding, for now. But I am safe, and that’s all I wanted you to know. Do not worry about me. I will contact you as soon as I can.

L

Honoria stood frozen, the paper trembling in her hand as she read the words again and again, as if with every repetition new words might appear between the lines. Last she knew, Lydia had been furious with the viscount. Yes, Honoria knew that Lydia still loved him—love like that didn’t simply disappear—but hadn’t the viscount abandoned her and left her to die?

Everything Lydia had told her about her prior life, all the hardships she had to live through because of the viscount’s actions, were still fresh in Honoria’s mind.

Unless some of it was a misunderstanding?

Honoria had always believed Lydia’s recounting of events without question. Having suffered at the hands of a nobleman herself, she had no reason to doubt her. But the more Lydia shared, the more Honoria sensed something was missing. Maybe even something Lydia didn’t realize.

It made no sense that after proposing to her, he would abandon her just like that. And for what?

He still hadn’t married or even had a mistress.

She hoped she was right—that Thornton was a better man than Lydia believed and that he still loved her.

If that was true, she was happy for her friend. But part of her felt jealous.

Whatever had transpired between them, they now had something Honoria didn’t: clarity. Even if it meant they were in hiding, on the run, they had each other. And they knew where they stood.

Honoria wished she could say the same about her situation with Caldwell. She glanced down at the note, Lydia’s words blurring as her thoughts raced.

But she could. If only she stopped avoiding the issue and talked directly to the earl, she could. The worst thing that could happen would be him rejecting her. And then… well, at least then, she’d know for certain. She could pack her bags and leave with her dignity intact, if not her heart.

She drew a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and went to find Caldwell.

Jacob.

His study was the first place she checked. She pictured him there, reading through correspondence, spectacles perched low on his nose, hair falling across his brow like it was wont to do. But the room was empty. And based on the order on his desk, she deduced that he hadn’t been there since last night.

The glasshouse was her next guess. Smaller than the one at the estate, this one was at least attached to the house by an indoor corridor.

She pushed the door open.

No one.

Notes, journals, and specimen boxes were scattered across the desk in their usual state of disarray.

It was always like this. There was a method to the madness on his desk that she usually found endearing, but at this particular moment, it annoyed Honoria greatly.

Why did he have to disappear the one time she needed to speak to him?

She sighed and, unable to help herself, began tidying his workspace. She had always dealt with turmoil this way—putting the outside world in order when her inner world was anything but.

She sorted the specimens by their labels, replaced the journals to their allotted space.

Then she saw it.

A beautiful, rare tulip, hiding in the shadows.

It sat in a pot on a raised platform in the corner. She moved toward it in awe. The bloom was unlike any she had seen before—velvety petals of the deepest purple, so dark they appeared almost black at the edges, lightening to a rich plum in the center.

She stepped even closer.

She knew every plant in his collection—had tended to many herself—but she had never seen this one before.

Her curiosity overtook her. She bent down to read the label.

Tulipa Honoria Obscura

She stared, breath catching in her throat, the world narrowing to those three words, written in black ink on a cream-colored card.

He had named it after her.

* * *

Caldwell could not concentrate.

He just couldn’t.

Every time he sat before his work, his mind continuously drifted to thoughts of her. The botanical journals in front of him might as well have been written in Cyrillic for all the sense they made to him now. His eyes skimmed over the same paragraph three times before he gave up with a muttered curse, shoving the papers aside.

He had tried to stay away. Tried to tell himself the kiss was a mistake. That restraint was the honorable path, the gentlemanly course of action. After all, she was in his employ, dependent on him for her livelihood.

But his resolve had crumbled like sand under the tide. If Hart— Honoria —continued staying in his household, his feelings for her were not going to disappear. They would only grow, feeding on proximity.

He wanted her. And she needed to know that.

But he didn’t just want her body—though God knew he wanted her with an intensity that left him awake at night—but he also wanted her mind, her spirit, the fire that burned beneath her composed exterior. He wanted her sharp wit and quiet observations, her gentleness, her strength, her level-headedness.

He wanted all of it. All of her.

Whatever decision she would make with that information would be up to her. He would lay his heart at her feet and accept whatever verdict she passed.

Abandoning his work in his glasshouse, he went in search of her.

He approached her door and knocked, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet corridor. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing in his ears.

No answer.

He opened the door cautiously, half-expecting—half-hoping—to find her still abed, sleep-tousled and warm. But the room was empty, the bed neatly made.

He scanned the room with his gaze and was about to leave when something dark caught his eyes near the bed. He couldn’t see clearly without his spectacles, but were those his gloves he had given her?

Was it possible she slept with them by her side?

His lips curved into a smile at the thought.

He hesitated for only a moment before propriety gave way to curiosity. He walked in and slowly made his way toward the oddly familiar object.

Closer and closer he moved, disbelieving his own eyes as the shape finally revealed itself.

Not gloves at all.

But a mask.

Black. Intricate. With delicate filigree work around the eyes and cheeks, pointed cat ears perched on top. The same mask that had haunted his dreams for days.

Her mask.

It couldn’t be.

Could it? The woman he’d kissed during the masquerade—not just kissed, but had nearly taken right there on the chaise—the woman who had responded to him with a passion that matched his own, who urged him on…

Had it been her?

It had always been her.

His heart slammed against his ribs, his thoughts tangled.

Why had she not told him this?

She had sought him out at the ball—he had no idea for what reason—and thinking she was a harlot, he had kissed her.

And she let him.

Did she think he knew who she was?

No, she had given no indication of that. Oh, God. She must think him a rake who kissed women indiscriminately, with no regard for their feelings or reputations. He had kissed her just last night, as well, and then acted as though it never happened.

Devil take it. She must think him a complete reprobate.

He grimaced and paced to the window, his fingers tangling in his hair.

He glanced out the window, and there she was. Entering his glasshouse.

No doubt, looking for him.

He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, rushing to confront his fate.

It was time for the truth to come out—from both sides.

No more masks.

No more lies.

Just the truth.

* * *

“Hart.”

She jumped and whirled at the sound of his voice, her hand flying to her chest where her heart thudded wildly. He stood framed in the doorway of the glasshouse, sunlight streaming behind him, casting his face in shadow.

“Jaco—My lord,” she stammered, catching herself before the intimacy of his given name could fully escape her lips. Her cheeks flushed, and not from the heat of the glasshouse.

He tilted his head, watching her with those penetrating eyes that seemed to see too much. The intensity of his gaze made her feel exposed, bare before him, as though he could read her every thought.

“Have you been looking for me?” His voice was calm and controlled, but something was beneath the surface—tension, perhaps, or anticipation.

“Yes. Um… Right. I wanted to speak with you.” She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she clasped them together to still them.

“Then speak.” He took a step closer, and the air between them seemed to crackle. Or perhaps it was the humid air of the glasshouse.

She was so distracted by his unexpected arrival that her mind was a jumbled mess. Again . All her preparation flew out the window, the carefully constructed speech she’d rehearsed in her head dissolving like sugar in hot tea. What came out instead was, “You kissed me.”

“Pardon?” His eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Last night. You kissed me.” She lifted her chin, determined to maintain at least the appearance of composure, even as her insides quivered like jelly.

He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “Yes. Apologies. I—”

“You apologize?” A range of emotions hit her in rapid succession. Confusion. Disbelief. Disappointment. Then…

Anger .

“You’re apologizing for kissing me?” She let out a short humorless laugh, and then all her bitterness tumbled from her lips. “Here I am dreaming of kissing you again, my heart filled with trepidation at the thought of your touch, hoping against hope that the feeling is mutual, and you apologize to me?”

“You dream of me?” He looked absolutely dumbfounded. His composure finally cracking, a flush rose from beneath his collar to stain his cheeks.

“And this!” She waved her hand toward the flower behind her. “This tulip. You named it after me. Didn’t you?”

“I did,” he said, his voice low and rough. He took another step closer, close enough now that she could smell the familiar scent of him—bergamot and leather and something uniquely his own.

“And what, does it not mean a thing? Have you a mountain of flowers named after every servant in the house?” Her anger made her bold, pushing words past her lips that propriety would have kept locked away.

“No.”

His monosyllabic answers started grating on her nerves, stoking the fire of her frustration. “And then you give me your gloves. A-and in your bathing chambers, you looked at me as though losing me would break you. And now you act as though none of that means anything?”

“I—” He tried to interject, but she could not stop the stream of her words.

“I thought it meant something. But if your intent is to play with my feelings, then you are a cruel, cruel man, and you’ve succeeded in your…” She stumbled for another word but was too upset to come up with anything else but, “cruelty.”

He crossed the space between them in two strides and grabbed her by the shoulders, his large hands spanning the width of her upper arms, warm and strong and sure.

And then he kissed her.

Not the gentle, questioning kiss of the night before, but an urgent kiss, full of passion. Deep. Consuming.

His mouth moved over hers with a hunger that stole her breath, his hands sliding to her waist, pulling her flush against him.

She wound her arms around his neck and drew him close, kissing him back with the need that had simmered within her for weeks… months… years.

“Honoria,” he murmured against her lips, and the sound of her name sent a thrill through her entire body. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Me too.”

Those words seemed to snap the last thread of his control. With a low growl, he pushed her against one of the stone pillars that supported the glasshouse. The cold of it hit her back, but it only sharpened the contrast of his heat against her front.

His mouth claimed hers again, deeper, bolder, more desperate. One hand cupped her breast through the fabric of her dress, his thumb brushing over the peak that hardened beneath his touch. She arched into his hand, a moan escaping her lips, swallowed by his kiss.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Tell me this isn’t what you want, and I’ll stop. I swear it.”

Instead, she reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, her fingers fumbling in their haste. “I want this. I want you, Jacob.”