To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1)

by Nicola Davidson

  Soon they were walking past the gigantic Grecian pillars at the theatre’s entrance and up a long, sweeping staircase to the third floor where the Westleigh box was located. She positively adored the building, from the high, sculptured ceilings to the decadent opulence of the cream walls and thick red velvet curtains. There was something truly magical about a place that transported you to another world for a few hours, whether it be an opera, ballet, comedy or tragedy. Not to mention the people-watching she could do.

  “Which one is Westleigh’s box?” Bradford asked, glancing down the long corridor.

  “Fifth from the end. You’ll love it, it has the most wonderful view.”

  “Capital. Don’t really get to the theatre much, Mother isn’t a fan. Says it is too crowded and stuffy and bad for her nerves.”

  “Oh,” she said, her heart sinking a little. She still had yet to meet Lady Doverfield, but every time Bradford mentioned a comment his mother had made or a like or dislike, the desire lessened even further. The woman sounded about as far away from a spirited and fun-loving person like Lady Westleigh (who would be the ideal mother-in-law) as it was possible to get.

  “Here we are,” Bradford said eventually, pulling back a curtain. “After you.”

  Caroline tentatively poked her head in. By some miracle they had arrived during the half-time interval, and everyone in the box was talking and laughing while they ate delicacies from silver trays and sipped their drinks.

  “Hello, all!” she sang out, deciding to brazen out their shocking tardiness.

  “About time you got here,” said George. “The hens were fretting and refusing to lay.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “My apologies on both our behalves,” added Bradford politely, bowing to the group. “An important appointment I had went overlong.”

  Ardmore wiggled his eyebrows. “A likely story from the betrothed couple. Perhaps a little champagne to cool off?”

  “Oh, Ardmore,” she said pertly, accepting a glass. “Always around to add a touch of class to proceedings.”

  “It’s a thankless task, pet, but someone has to do it. Shilton? A third-rate brandy?”

  Bradford shook his head. “No thank you. I rarely indulge in spirits nowadays. Reminds me too much of misspent youth and dawns of pain and suffering.”

  “My good man, that is why one doesn’t stop drinking. To avoid such occurrences.”

  “Indeed, but I’m soon to be married. Can’t imagine my lady wife would enjoy peeling me from the floor.”

  George snickered. “It’s in the vows, Shilton. Where they say for better, for worse, in sickness and in health.”

  “Based on your extensive knowledge?” interjected a deep voice. “Perhaps you should get married too, George.”

  Caroline practically felt the grin slide off her face as Stephen stepped forward, the perfect Flora on his arm.

  “Good God, no,” said George. “Two weddings to sit through in the near future is more than enough, thank you. Everyone else is hereby banned.”

  “Forever and ever, Amen,” said Ardmore.

  Caroline rolled her eyes and stepped around two chairs to sit behind Lady Westleigh. At least there was one sane person in the group. “Good evening, your ladyship. You’re wearing a gorgeous gown. Why are you sitting all alone?”

  “Hello, darling. I am a fifth wheel. My escort still hasn’t arrived from his supper.”

  “Naughty Taff!”

  A discreet cough sounded.

  “It seems I must again beg your forgiveness, ma’am,” said a soft voice near her ear, and her skin pickled uncomfortably at how close Taff leaned in, his breath hot on her neck and his brand new starched linen cravat brushing her bare shoulder. But the countess didn’t notice anything amiss and merely smiled warmly at the other late-arriving guest.

  “Taff! There you are. Come sit next to me, dear boy. I thought you were bringing a friend?”

  “Unfortunately, my lady, he had another meeting and couldn’t join me here. Not sure about his level of disappointment though, don’t think ballet is really his thing.”

  Lady Westleigh laughed, snapping open a gold silk fan, exactly the shade of her gown. “Ballet is hardly any gentleman’s ‘thing’, Taff dear, but they escort us to performances because it gains them credits. Heaven knows a man always needs credits.”

  “Some much more than others, I’ll wager.”

  “Exactly! A reprobate like my son for example, well really, even if he attended the ballet daily I’m not sure he’d earn enough to atone for his misdeeds.”

  Caroline giggled, but her amusement was cut short when an exasperated voice said “Mother.” The box was spacious enough. Was the damned man stalking her now?

  Taff turned his head and smiled at Stephen. “Speak of the devil and the devil appears!”

  “Indeed he does, especially when his name is shamelessly taken in vain by those who should be upholding it. Glad you found us all right, Taff, did you manage to catch up with your friend?” said Stephen, settling himself into the chair next to her.

  Immediately his familiar scent enveloped her. Oh for heaven’s sake. Why was it that one man’s nearness made her want to shove him away, while another tempted her to crawl into his lap and kiss him until he begged for mercy? And where on earth was Bradford?

  “He did,” said Caroline, annoyed at herself. “Taff was just telling us the friend sends his apologies for being unable to make it to the ballet.”

  “Smart man. Far smarter than any of us,” muttered George as he sat down, wincing as Lady Westleigh leaned over and rapped him with her fan.

  “Sssshhhh, all of you,” the countess announced. “The performance is about to start.”

  Caroline breathed a sigh of relief.

  At last.

  ***

  Clapping politely as the curtain fell, Stephen leaned sideways. “Enjoy the performance, Caroline?” he asked mildly, knowing she hadn’t watched a damned thing. Exactly how he knew that, he wasn’t prepared to explore.

  “Yes,” she replied in an odd voice. “It was marvelous. Absolutely wonderful. Stephen.”

  “What part did you like best?”

  Jade green eyes shot sparks at him, but before she could answer, Taff turned in his seat and regarded them both with a warm smile.

  “Yes, Miss Edwards, do tell! I must say I was quite overcome with the occasion and spent more time looking about the place. You seemed to spend a great deal of time studying me. I do hope Lord Shilton isn’t the jealous type.”

  Caroline’s gaze narrowed, and Stephen hid a smile. He should probably warn Taff to start running, but the ballet had been rather dull and again, it was pleasant to not be the object of her displeasure.

  “You are sitting directly ahead of me, Captain Martin,” she said tartly. “I was not looking at you, but past you.”

  “My mistake. Perhaps while your fiancé is detained you might allow me to serve you?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Not even a drink? Some champagne?” said Taff, gesturing at a bottle.

  “No,” she said sharply, her gaze deliberately sliding away from Taff.

  Stephen felt his brow furrow. She was not being exactly polite.

  “So, Taff,” he said into the awkward silence. “How do you find the Theatre Royal?”

  “Magnificent. Just as fine as Forsyth House, or Hastings House for that matter. Lord Standish certainly knows how to host a picnic, never seen so much food in all my life. And the treasure hunt. Such fun! Did you enjoy yourself at Standish’s, Miss Edwards?”

  Caroline didn’t answer for the longest time, and for a moment he was almost tempted to lean over and shake her. Then she murmured, “Mostly.”

  Taff persisted. “Oh?”

  “Some conversations are too dull for words. But one endures for politeness’ sak
e.”

  “Caroline,” Bradford interjected chidingly from where he now stood behind her chair. Clearly he was bewildered by her frigid tone. “Come now, my dear, that is—”

  “Thank you, Bradford,” she snapped. “But I was conversing with Captain Martin. Actually, tell me, Taff, is your all-expenses-paid jaunt to town everything you hoped? Must be quite a change from the backwaters of Kent.”

  Taff’s shoulders went rigid. But instead of backing down, Caroline actually sat up straighter, her smile widening. What the hell was wrong with her tonight?

  Stephen got to his feet, furious at her out and out rudeness to his guest.

  “Caroline, might I speak with you a moment?”

  “Actually, Stephen, I’m rather enjoying my little chat with dear Taff, perhaps late—”

  “Now,” Stephen bit out, hooking one hand under her elbow and lifting her from the chair before marching her into the thankfully near-empty corridor in one efficient movement. By God, she had some explaining to do.

  “What on earth is the matter with you?” he snapped. “You’ve never been that rude to anyone. Blunt yes, but never downright rude.”

  “I don’t like him,” she threw back.

  “You don’t like him? You don’t like plenty of people, but you’re at least civil to them. What’s so different about Taff? Is it because he’s an orphan? Because he comes from a humble background?”

  Caroline’s eyes widened and he mentally kicked himself. That had been a stupid thing to say.

  “Yes, naturally,” she replied stiffly. “Living with both my birth parents and enjoying immense wealth has given me a particular hatred of poor orphans.”

  “Then why were you so impolite?”

  “As I said, I don’t like him.”

  “And this reaction is based on what, exactly?”

  “He…sits too close. And says inappropriate things.”

  Stephen nearly laughed at such an un-Caroline like statement. She ate badly behaved men for breakfast every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

  “Such as?”

  “Oh forget it,” she said, her eyes now shooting daggers at him. “If he steals all your mother’s jewels, cartwheels into your room, then murders you in your bed, don’t blame me.”

  “Murders me?” Stephen snarled, quite certain in the next twenty seconds either his head would explode or he would heave Caroline over the balcony and into the pit of chattering people below. “Are you demented? Taff saved my life!”

  She hesitated, finally seeming to grasp how blindingly angry he was.

  “Stephen,” she said softly, lifting a hand to squeeze his arm. “I—”

  He shook her off, the jolt of heat from her touch only igniting his temper further. “Don’t say another word. Taff’s service might mean nothing to you, but it means a great deal to me. If you can’t behave like a lady when Taff is around, and yes, he will be around for the Season, then your presence won’t be welcome at any of our functions.”

  Furiously, he spun on his heel and stalked back to the theatre box and his calm, gentle fiancée, leaving Caroline behind him.

  Damned infernal woman.

  Chapter Seven

  The inn was nondescript in every way—noisy, crowded and shabby, its best days long past. But it was warm, the beef stew filling, and everyone minded their own business.

  Perfect for a meeting such as this.

  “Tell me your thoughts. After the failed ambush, is it time for further…misfortune?”

  “Time?” he snapped, not even bothering to moderate his tone as he slammed down his stew spoon. Hot, choking fury was surging through his body like acid, this was far too personal to remember niceties. “Of course it’s time. Except I want to kill him slowly. The others were too fast, too merciful for the evil done.”

  Instead of an icy set-down, the flint-eyed man sitting opposite him merely took a sip of ale and settled himself more comfortably on a rickety wooden stool. “Then yes.”

  “Yes?” he whispered hopefully.

  “Yes, it is time. But you must follow my directions to the letter. Carelessness leads to mistakes and we cannot afford to make any. You read the report.”

  Indeed he had. The thirteenth Earl of Westleigh possessed a methodical, genius intellect, had tripled an already vast wealth, didn’t gamble, use mind-altering substances or have a single by-blow. A very unusual nobleman, their mortal enemy.

  “So when, then?”

  “Very soon. When we know he is planning to go out and about, we’ll take our revenge. Then those whom we loved and lost can finally rest in peace.”

  Chapter Eight

  He was having another of those waking nightmares. Either that or he needed to cease drinking forever. Because the words he had just heard were so startlingly ridiculous, so completely unbelievable, they could only be his imagination running riot.

  Blinking, Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately the hallucination of Lord Anthony Hartley standing in front of his wide oak desk, hat in hand, eyes lowered, his formerly unlined face a haggard hotchpotch of deep crimson and stark white, remained remarkably realistic.

  Hell. Not good.

  Stephen coughed to clear his suddenly sand-dry throat. “Forgive me, Hartley, I must have misheard you. For a moment there I thought you said Flora had run off with someone.”

  “You didn’t mishear me, Westleigh,” the older man croaked, obviously struggling to control his emotions. “My utterly idiotic, utterly rash daughter has eloped to Gretna Green. I hardly know what to say except I am sorry. So very, very sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “Beyond measure. If I’d had an inkling Flora might be contemplating anything so terrible when I sent her to Pamela, I would have cut off the girl’s allowance and locked her in her room instead. And to know…to know my sister helped her and that damned bounder with their unconscionable deceit, well, quite frankly I want to disown them all—”

  “Who?” Stephen interrupted sharply, mentally listing all the men in London with the looks and turn of phrase to lure a sweet, innocent young lady into shocking scandal. By God, as soon as he knew the name he’d have the scoundrel’s head on a platter. Not to mention other important parts of his anatomy. “Who did Flora elope with?”

  Lord Hartley hesitated. “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Tell me anyway. Immediately.”

  “Shilton.”

  All the air whooshed from Stephen’s lungs. “Shilton? Bradford Shilton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bradford Shilton, the man who blushes whenever you speak to him and won’t so much as take a piss without his mother’s permission, is the great seducer? Bradford Shilton is the cunning, unscrupulous bastard who absconded with my fiancée?”

  The viscount closed his eyes and nodded. “I know. When I read Flora’s letter I thought it an atrociously bad joke. But it’s true. She wrote they couldn’t help themselves, that they just knew they were meant to be together forever.”

  “How could they know that? They barely know each other!”

  “Well, er…not exactly,” Hartley muttered, continuing to stare at the carpet. “Doverfield’s country estate marches alongside mine. Flora and Bradford were playmates as children.”

  “What?!”

  “I realize it sounds bad, but they hadn’t seen each other in years. I never thought for a moment…she’s always been a good girl. It’s created all sorts of trouble, Esther is so devastated she won’t even sing.”

  Stephen choked on a cough. The younger Miss Hartley sang like a rooster with a head cold, so perhaps every cloud did have a silver lining. Albeit an extremely thin one.

  “What does Doverfield have to say about all this?”

  “The Marquess and Marchioness are both appalled. Say they won’t see the boy. Even p
acked up late last night and fled to the country, rather than facing up to Miss Edwards to tell her the marriage is off. Poor dear, I really do feel for her, this is beyond awful.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stephen snapped, his eyes narrowing to slits. Surely not. “Are you saying she doesn’t yet know her fiancé ran away with mine?”

  “Exactly. I’m sure the Doverfield’s will make a full restitution, but as a favor I am to go to the Edwards’ town house directly with a note from Shilton.”

  “You’ll do no such thing.”

  Hartley’s eyes bulged. “Pardon me?”

  “I said you will not go anywhere near Miss Edwards or her home.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “I will tell her,” Stephen bit out, the words surprising him as much as the viscount.

  “Really? You’d do that, Westleigh? I must say it would be so much better coming from a long-time friend, especially when you are the other injured party. Awfully good of you to offer.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What about the contracts? Will you be pursuing legal action?”

  “No. The engagement wasn’t public knowledge, and the quieter this whole debacle is kept, the better. I will not have Miss Edwards’ or my name dragged through the mud because of the ludicrous actions of others. However, I’m sure you understand that any Hartleys or Shiltons foolish enough to dawdle in my vicinity anytime soon will regret it immensely.”

  Hartley stared at him for another long moment then sagged against the side of a high-backed chair. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped rivulets of perspiration from his face. “Of course, my lord. You know…I truly am sorry we won’t be connected by marriage. You’re a credit to the Westleigh name. Your father would have been proud—”

  “High praise indeed. Now, if there is nothing else?” he replied in a tone so frigidly forbidding that the viscount paled, bowed jerkily, and limped hastily from the room.

  Slumping into his chair, Stephen lashed out with one arm and sent a large pile of documents crashing to the floor. Oh, how the fates must be laughing right now. Flora Hartley, his supposedly dutiful, scandal-free, ladylike bride-to-be, running away with a damned milksop in leading strings.