In the Arms of an Earl Read Online Free PDF

stole a glance at him, his smile had disappeared. In an instant, she realized what he must have thought—she’d shrunk at the idea of his wounded arm touching her.
    “I…I did not mean to offend you, Colonel Blakeney,” she stammered.
    A dark flush spread from the top of his open collar to his jaw. “My dear Miss Brooke, you’ve no need to explain. I understand my—infirmity”—his mouth twisted—“is disgusting to the gentler sex. I often forget how much it repulses young ladies.”
    He rose to his feet. She stood when he did and knocked over the bench. Sheet music spilled from its hidden cabinet, scattering across the floor in a sea of white.
    “Oh no.” Groaning, she sank to the floor. The colonel knelt beside her. She hugged a bundle of papers in her arms and looked at him in earnest. “You’re wrong, sir.”
    His nearness allowed her to make out every detail of his face…the dark, shadowy promise of a beard in the morning, the coal-black eyes…and the saddest, sweetest mouth she’d ever seen. His nose resembled one she’d seen on a Greek statue at a museum. It was perfect, except for a slight scar on the tip.
    “I am wrong, Miss Brooke?”
    “I am not disgusted by your injury.” She swallowed, amazed at her new boldness. “Any lady who would reject a man because of an injury he’d received in the war is not gentle at all. A true lady would look past an infirmity and see the real man.”
    He did not speak. She dropped her gaze. No doubt, he thought her reckless and unladylike, to speak so frankly.
    He took the music from her and set it aside. Before she could stop herself, she reached for his hand, which moved toward hers at the same moment. His fingers clasped hers, flooding her with a warmth that went deeper than his touch.
    “Where do you come from?”
    She wondered if she’d ever be able to speak again, past the lump in her chest and the sudden flames licking at her feet and spreading through the rest of her. “Weston, in Hampshire.”
    His laughter broke the spell. “I’m afraid I meant a more mystical place. You must be part fairy or some other magical creature. I’ve never met anyone like you.”
    Fire rose in her cheeks again, and she realized she was still holding his hand. Worse, she was holding his hand dressed only in her night rail and flimsy shawl. Yet she didn’t pull away.
    “My mother has always said I was”— stubborn, obstinate, impossible —“different.”
    “Your mother is right.”
    He rose to his feet, keeping hold of her hand. “If I may be so bold,” he murmured, and pressed her hand to his lips.
    Her knees buckled at the touch of his soft mouth on her skin. In all her twenty-one years, she’d never been so intimately touched by a man. He held her hand close to his face, turning it slowly as if he examined a priceless piece of statuary. She’d always disdained silly girls who allowed themselves to be compromised, yet here she was in a darkened parlor past midnight, her hand imprisoned in a stranger’s caress.
    His fingertips skimmed the sensitive skin on the back of her hand. She ought to pull away, but didn’t. Couldn’t. A stifled gasp escaped her. He released her, his chest rising with an agitated breath.
    “Forgive me,” he said simply. “I am not trying to compromise you, Miss Brooke. Your hand appeals to me.”
    She stared boldly into his eyes. His expression was one of utter peace and calm. “Thank you,” she replied, because she was quite at a loss to say anything else.
    He laughed, but wasn’t mocking her. As he stepped back, the room grew darker and colder.
    “You should return to your chamber, Miss Brooke. Perchance I will see you on the morrow.” The clock on the mantel struck four. “It’s morning now. I fear you will be bleary-eyed at breakfast. And you are expected to play for me tonight, are you not?” He gave her a friendly wink.
    She shrugged. The motion caused her to lose her shawl. She feared her face was as bright as a