The Devil and the Heiress

by Harper St. George

  After giving her direction to Lord Leigh the next morning, she noticed that he seemed to retreat into the same aloofness that had plagued him yesterday on the drive from London. The silence between them wasn’t tense, and for that she was grateful. Their shared laughter from the night before had created a more relaxed environment between them. However, she still found herself wondering what he thought of her. She should probably apologize for the kiss at the ball, but she was too afraid of his further rejection to broach the topic. He had held her hand briefly and laughed with her last night, but it would be folly to assume that he felt more for her.

  While she was reasonably certain he found her pretty, she really wanted to know if he found her admirable, someone worthy of his more romantic attention. Not that it should matter. He was an earl and she was an heiress, and that meant she would not choose him to placate her parents, even if a small part of her revolted at that fact. There. She acknowledged it. She didn’t simply study him in the interest of research. She admired him all on her own. Violet Crenshaw, not Miss Hamilton.

  As he continued to work on his ledgers, she retreated into her writing, which was the only thing that calmed her when she had these anxious thoughts. It wasn’t easy to work on her manuscript with the constant jolting of the carriage, but she managed it for a bit, until she broke the lead of the third pencil she had used that morning. Giving up, she dropped the loose pages of parchment on the seat beside her and stared out the window until she drifted off to sleep. Her face pressed against the lush upholstery of her seat back.

  She awoke a bit later when the carriage moved over a deep rut in the road, jarring her so that her forehead bumped against the window. The farther they moved from London, the worse the roads seemed to get.

  “Ouch,” she murmured and pushed herself away from the glass.

  “Careful, Miss Crenshaw.” Leigh’s voice, bored and slightly distracted, came from his side of the carriage.

  She rubbed the tender spot near her temple. He sat with his legs outstretched, seemingly absorbed in the pile of papers on his lap. His calf pressed against her skirt, so she leaned her leg slightly into the contact, simultaneously aghast at how desperate she was for a scrap of affection from him and exhilarated by the touch. A lock of hair had fallen down over his forehead; it was almost black in the shadows of the carriage. His brow was furrowed in concentration. She wished that made him less appealing, but the more unapproachable he appeared, the more she seemed to desire him. No, not true. Last night when they had sat and talked and laughed, she had wanted him to be hers with every part of her being. The very idea of posing as his wife tonight filled her with an emotion she wasn’t quite certain she recognized.

  “Are you injured?” he asked and looked at her, likely prompted by her silence.

  “No.” She sounded like a petulant child and immediately regretted her tone.

  His gaze swept her face as if he were determining on his own if that were true. The hint of a smile touched his lips when his focus came to rest on her eyes. The color encircling the gray was dark blue. His expression was earnest and searching, as if he were attempting to mine her secrets. As if she had secrets worth foraging for. A flicker, light as a butterfly, quickened in her belly at his attention. “You are an insightful writer,” he said.

  She stared at him, completely caught unaware by the compliment. “Why do you say that?”

  She regretted the question as soon as it made him look away from her and down at the papers in his lap. “Rose stared in growing horror at the scene before her. The couples twirled, light and gay in their movements, but hollow and numb in their hearts. Did they feel the poignancy of the music, or were they like figures in a music box, set to perform at the turn of a key but deaf to the soul of the melody?” He read her own words back to her.

  She knew he had her pages, and yet she still looked to the seat next to her where she had placed them before falling asleep. The black upholstery lay bare. “Give it back.” Louder, she added, “How dare you?”

  When he simply stared at her with a puzzled expression, she reached over and tore the manuscript from his grasp. He let it go so easily that she became off-balance and wobbled. His hand came out to steady her, but several loose pages fell to the floor.

  “This is my work. My private work. You had no right to take it and read it.” Her whole body felt hot and tight, as if her skin had grown too small for the anger and embarrassment contained within her. No one read her work except for August, and she had shown close friends a few selections, but no one ever read her unedited manuscript. The exposure she felt could only be compared to a stranger storming into her bath unannounced. It was as if she had been laid bare to him.

  She couldn’t stay in close confines with him another minute. She needed to have some distance between them. As her cheeks burned, she made for the latch on the door only to belatedly remember they were traveling down the country road at a fast clip. She stopped before she pushed the door open, but not before he asked in a panic, “What are you doing?” as he grasped her shoulder.

  “I have to get out. I can’t stay here with you.”

  He raised a fist and pounded on the ceiling of the carriage, as she took in gulping breaths. Had he read about Lord Lucifer? Did he know the man was him? Had he read the sinful thoughts Miss Hamilton had about him? Violet had written them too honestly and explicitly for publication. She had intended to go back and edit out some of the more wicked lines. They had been little more than girlish fantasies she had set to paper. Those lines came out to torment her now.

  He was depravity and his name was Lord Lucifer, the dark angel himself come to earth to tempt innocents. Rose had never so wanted to be debauched as when he gazed upon her.

  And this one: She stared at his mouth, the sensual lips and pink tongue licking at the drop of honey, and she longed to feel him licking at her.

  Oh, dear God! Neither of those were ever meant to see the light of day. She had written the last one in a heated moment after coming home from a ball where he had eaten a honey-drenched fig.

  As soon as the carriage slowed, she pushed the door open and jumped down, holding the papers to her chest. Then she walked as fast as she could down the country lane, heedless of the mud from the previous days of rain. All of her doubts rose to the forefront as she marched away from him. She had been an absolute fool to take this cross-country trip with him and, more specifically, to allow her infatuation with him to fester and grow. He was a spoiled aristocrat, believing himself above everyone and everything.

  “Miss Crenshaw!” he called from behind her. She could tell he was outside the carriage because his voice wasn’t muffled. “Miss Crenshaw!” His voice was much closer, prompting her to speed up her steps. “Violet!” This came from right behind her. In the next moment he was in front of her, prompting her to walk around him only to have him step in front of her again.

  “Miss Crenshaw to you, my lord. I have never given you leave to address me by my first name. You know it is improper.”

  “This whole trip is improper,” he quipped.

  “Yes, it is. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Her foot slipped in a slick of mud, and he was there to catch her with his hands at her waist. Holding on to his arm lest she fall, she paused to regain her bearing, while keeping the manuscript tucked against her chest.

  “Stop walking . . . please,” he said when she tensed to step away. His voice was low and graver for it. “My apologies.”

  Staring at the serpent engraved on a brass button on his frock coat, she said, “While I appreciate your attempt to placate me, I doubt your ability to understand your transgression.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment and simply continued to hold her in this indecent way. His hands tightened on her rib cage, and while she knew that she should, she couldn’t let go of his forearm. The heat and strength of him beneath her bare hand felt too strong and solid, a par
t of him that she wanted to explore. She stared at his gloveless fingers, long, graceful, and lightly tanned against the dark blue of her traveling costume. “I know that I have upset you, and for that I apologize.”

  His face was difficult to read, but he said the words with meaning. Unfortunately, she also knew that he had no idea how he had violated her privacy. “You are an only child, aren’t you, my lord?”

  Twin lines formed between his brows. “Aside from a bastard half brother and two half sisters . . . yes.”

  She tucked that bit of information away to dissect later. “Then you have never had to respect boundaries of privacy?”

  The lines deepened. “You are angry that I violated your privacy?”

  How could he not realize that? Sucking in a deep breath, she said, “Yes, of course I am. My writing is very private and personal. I am not yet ready to share it with anyone, much less someone I barely know.”

  Dropping his arms, he stood quietly before her, and she realized that she had hurt his feelings. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We are, but I wasn’t ready to share that with you. August typically reads my work, and even she has not seen this yet. You had no right to assume that I would grant you unfettered access to everything.”

  When he didn’t say anything immediately, she added, “You are like every other nobleman who has come to call during our time in London. You assume simply because of the virtue of your birth that I owe you pieces of myself that I am not ready to share. Who I am, my joys and pleasures . . . I will not be forced to reveal more than I am willing to you or anyone else.”

  He let out a rush of air and pushed a hand through his hair. He had discarded his hat as soon as they settled themselves in the carriage earlier. “You are right, Miss Crenshaw. I assumed too much.”

  Her heart squeezing in her chest despite herself, she said, “It’s not your fault. It’s the way you were raised.”

  “It is my fault. I should have seen. My birth does instill in me certain privileges, but it is my fault for being blind to them.”

  Just like that, she felt her defenses lowering. Pleased with his answer, she smiled at him. “No one has ever told you no, have they, my lord?”

  He grinned, revealing that tiny dimple in his cheek that sometimes made an appearance. “It happens. Occasionally.”

  “It should happen more often.” She felt better about things. He wasn’t beyond redemption, unlike Lord Ware, who thought he could simply weasel his way into what he wanted. And it didn’t seem as if he had read her wicked lines, because he was not regarding her any differently.

  “I shall endeavor to make it so.” His grin stayed in place as he offered his arm to her. She accepted and walked back with him to the carriage. After helping her inside, he picked up the stray sheets of parchment that had fallen and handed the pages back to her. He held them as if they were precious and he was afraid of mussing them. That pleased her immensely.

  She shuffled them back into the stack on her lap, all the while watching him covertly. The heat of his touch still lingering on her waist, she was besieged by a new and possibly more powerful sensation than desire. It swelled within her chest and almost caused a sigh to leach out of her. Was it adoration? Dear Lord, how would she survive this trip with such a feeling within her?

  Chapter 11

  They traveled blindly, so propelled by that first explosion of love that one could almost pity them their ignorance of the reckoning ahead.

  V. Lennox, An American and the London Season

  They were husband and wife that night.

  “Rochester.” Christian gave the name to the sleepy-eyed innkeeper who greeted their arrival. They had traveled as long as they dared after sunset in an attempt to outrun the men who would most certainly be looking for them. The alarm must have certainly been raised by now, and all the larger coaching inns and train stations would have their names and descriptions. Christian hoped that no one had put together his departure from London with hers, but it would have been foolhardy to rule out the possibility. For that reason, they kept off the main road as much as possible.

  The innkeeper nodded and ushered them inside. “Good evening to you, milord. My apologies to you and your wife.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Violet grin and the apples of her cheeks redden. “I received no notice of your arrival.”

  Christian gave a shake of his head. “All’s well, my good man. My wife and I decided on a quick jaunt to visit an ailing aunt without the requisite travel arrangements.”

  The man kept nodding as if he understood perfectly and indicated they should follow him up the stairs. “You’re in luck that we have accommodations for you. Will you be needing a meal? The kitchen has closed, but I am certain my wife can put together a cold supper for you.”

  They had decided that Violet would not talk if at all possible. Her attempt at a proper accent was one of the worst he had ever heard in his life. Instead, she put her hand on his arm to follow and nodded her head vigorously.

  “Yes, and some warm water. My coachman will bring in our luggage.”

  Once he had led them to their rooms, the innkeeper left to bring their food. The rooms were humble and furnished with a small bed, a bedside table, and a washstand. One room had a small table with two ladder-backed chairs, which is where they took their meal. Over bread and cold chicken, Violet said, “Do you suppose that I might write to you, my lord?”

  He nearly choked on his bread. Taking a sip of ale—no wine having been offered—he said, “Why?” It was a daft thing to ask. He should be encouraging her interest and not giving her chances to revoke her offer. The truth was that he had been off-balance ever since reading parts of her manuscript. It was plain to see that Miss Rose Hamilton was an amalgamation of Violet and her sister. But who the devil was Lord Lucifer? She claimed to not prefer lords, but someone had inspired such passionate words. He had planned to ask her, but after such harsh words, he knew that he should keep his mouth firmly shut on the subject.

  “Because I will be in Windermere, and you will be at Blythkirk, and eventually London.” She shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed our journey together. I think we might strike up a proper friendship if given the chance.” She smiled, looking both shy and eager for his acceptance.

  He had to look away, lest he reveal how much he wanted her. They could be very good friends. He could see that easily. She was charming and intelligent, with a sensible logic that belied her years. To be fair, she was not at all how he expected she would be. His interest before had been almost purely physical and mercenary—even then something else about her had appealed—but now . . . at some point during the past couple of days a fondness for her had taken root. He had no doubt that she would be a delightful and passionate lover, and that even their time spent out of bed would be pleasing.

  “Or do you suppose it’s wildly improper?” she added when he hadn’t responded.

  “It is wildly improper.” He cleared his throat to soothe the husk in his voice. “We are both unmarried.”

  Glancing down at her plate, she said, “Does that bother you overly much?”

  “It did not bother me in the least before.” He paused, understanding before he even said the rest of the words how true they were. He meant them to be contrived, to add another layer to the foundation he was building, but they were absolutely true. “But with every day that passes, I find that the married state does hold some appeal.”

  She stared at him and blushed, a wave of color washing down her face. He would have bet his entire life that her breasts were now a pretty shade of pink. “I meant would it bother you if I write to you even though it is improper?”

  He had known what she meant. His words had been intended to turn her thoughts toward marriage. They had succeeded, but unfortunately, they made his own thoughts turn to the fact that they were posing as husband and wife and there was a bed conveniently located behind them.


  Christ. To bed her . . . He closed his eyes and drank deeply of his ale. One more week. The fall of his trousers pulled tight across his hips.

  “Does it bother you?”

  She shook her head. The pretty blush still stained her cheeks. “No, but then we know that I am prone to improper decisions.” She smiled and waved a hand at the room, indicating the whole trip. “Besides, perhaps a little intrigue will dissuade some suitors from their pursuit.”

  Some would be repelled, but the worst ones would want her anyway because of her money. He wanted to tell her that marriage would solve her suitor problem, but it was still too soon. Instead, he said, “Then write to me, Miss Crenshaw, and I will write you back.”

  She smiled broadly, thrilled with his answer. Turning her attention back to her meal, she said, “Will you tell me more about Blythkirk?”

  He stared at her fingers as she played with her bread, his brain still swimming in the arousal of the previous moment. He had never noticed before, but ink seemed to permanently stain the tips of the fingers that held her pen. “There isn’t much to tell. It’s a small estate compared to Amberley Park. It belonged to my mother’s brother. When he died without issue, it was left to me. It was where I would go between terms at school.”

  “You wouldn’t return to Amberley Park?”

  “My father abhorred my presence there and I his. Blythkirk became a refuge.”

  She was silent, watching him with those all-knowing eyes that saw too much. He didn’t know why he had revealed so much to her. His father was dead and buried. There was no need to discuss the bloody bastard.

  “Your mother is still living? Where is she?”

  “My father banished her to the Continent years ago, after she had taken one lover too many.” Christian could still remember the terrible row they had had that night when his father had returned home to Amberley Park early. His mother had been packed off the next day, sporting a swollen jaw and red-rimmed eyes. Christian had never known the man she was cavorting with, except that he had been a commoner from one of the nearby villages. “She has never seemed inclined to return for very long, even though he’s been dead for over fifteen years.”