by Adele Clee
Valentine closed his eyes.
The saying “out of sight out of mind” was a fallacy. He pictured the curls brushing her cheek, dancing provocatively on her shoulders. He pictured himself looking down on her, the glossy tendrils spread wide across his pillow as he educated her in what it meant to groan with pleasure.
“Shall we get to it?” Her sweet voice sent a jolt of desire straight to his cock.
He needed to leave. He needed a stiff drink. He needed to dunk his head—and another part of his anatomy—in an ice-cold water trough.
Valentine opened his eyes. Anger flared for no rational reason. “Let us conclude this matter, Miss Kendall. I am in want of my bed.”
“As am I, my lord. It has been an extremely tiring morning.”
“Thoroughly exhausting,” Valentine agreed as he shrugged out of his greatcoat and dropped the garment on the ground. He gestured to Dariell, who stepped forward and returned their pistols.
“You must stand back-to-back,” Dariell instructed.
They did as Dariell asked.
Valentine cursed inwardly. He felt the warmth of Miss Kendall’s body radiating through his waistcoat. Although he had avoided looking at her figure since she had removed her coat, he felt her soft buttocks pressing against the tops of his thighs.
Good God, how the hell was he to turn around when his cock was ready to burst out of his breeches? How the hell was he to fire a weapon when his fingers shook like those of a man in his dotage?
“I only hope she is worth the trouble,” Miss Kendall whispered.
“Who?”
“The widow you and my brother are determined to marry.”
“Lady Durrant?”
“Indeed.”
In his youth, Valentine had paid court to Portia Durrant, known then as Miss Briscoe. Marriage was presumed to be the inevitable outcome. But how was a man to know his heart when he was detached from all emotion? How was a man to make a lifelong commitment when there was a chance he would turn out like his father? Mad. Deranged. Dangerous.
And so Miss Briscoe had married the decrepit Lord Durrant—out of spite, to teach Valentine a lesson.
“I have told no one of my intentions,” he said, though that was not entirely true. He had made a vow, a solemn promise to his mother that he would take a wife, sire an heir.
“Jonathan said the lady is having a devil of a time deciding between the two of you.”
Valentine did not give a damn what the trout said. Jonathan bloody Kendall could rot in hell for all he cared. Besides, he suspected Lady Durrant enjoyed manipulating events, took pleasure in showing Valentine what he had missed by not taking her as his bride.
“I wonder if the lady prompted my brother to call you out.” Miss Kendall continued to bait him. “Hoping fate might decide the outcome.”
Valentine gritted his teeth. The remark made him sound weak, made him sound like a lovesick puppy eager to sit, to beg, to wag his tail, to do his mistress’ bidding.
“We walk twenty paces and then fire.” Valentine hurled the comment like a ball of ice, hoping the reality of the situation hit hard, hoping she felt the coldness of his words trickle down her spine.
He caught Dariell’s curious gaze. At no time in the last five years had his friend seen him so agitated. Valentine was known for his control under pressure, and yet this lady’s presence ruffled his calm demeanour, gnawed his insides, nagged his mind.
“You may cock your weapons.” Dariell’s words were met with deathly silence, the stillness broken only by the clicks of their hammers. “Twenty paces. I shall count. One. Two …”
As Valentine walked the required number of paces, he considered the fact that he may have made his third mistake. A logical man did not place his life in the hands of a stranger, did not place his trust in a woman. What was to stop Miss Kendall turning on the count of ten and putting a lead ball in his back?
Relief rushed through him when Dariell called, “Twenty!” His friend paused, and they turned around. “Attend. Present.” The Frenchman looked to Miss Kendall. “That means raise your weapon, madame.”
Miss Kendall smiled at him. “Oh! Thank you, monsieur.” The lady closed one eye and pointed her pistol at Valentine’s heart. “When do we fire?”
Valentine raised his arm aloft and fired into the adjacent field—he would rather die than shoot a woman. A loud crack rent the air. Crows cawed as they scattered. A stream of white smoke burst from the muzzle and the sharp smell of sulphur reached his nostrils.
Miss Kendall arched a brow as he lowered his weapon. The corners of her mouth curled up in amusement. Although he had deloped, she did not fire or lower her weapon.
“Did I mention that my father taught me to shoot at the age of twelve?” she said, watching him keenly. “I would line glass bottles on the fence and practise with one eye closed.”
God damn!
Valentine’s pulse pounded hard in his throat. Had Jonathan Kendall sent an assassin in his stead? Had this angel come to do the devil’s work?
“And what do you intend to do now, Miss Kendall? Shoot me?” Pushing aside his nerves, he drew on the arrogance beaten into all aristocrats from boyhood. “If you wanted to kill me, you could have done so upon your arrival.”
Valentine handed Dariell his pistol and stepped forward.
“Perhaps I want to win with honour.” Miss Kendall’s aim remained trained on Valentine’s chest. “Or is it that I want to teach you a lesson, my lord?”
“And what lesson would that be?” Valentine stalked towards her. The imagined drum of a death knell rang in his ears.
“That it is dangerous to make assumptions.”
Valentine closed the gap between them until the muzzle of her pistol pressed into the fine silk of his waistcoat. From such close quarters, the ball would rip a hole right through his heart. Their gazes locked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to throttle her or kiss the smirk off her face, such was the nature of these new and confounding emotions.
“Assumptions about what?”
Her hand never faltered despite the fact it took strength to point a pistol straight for so long. “Assumptions based on my sex. You should not presume, that because I am a woman, I lack the skill to compete with you. Remember the lesson should you ever find yourself in a similar predicament.”
Valentine snorted. “I am unlikely to forget.” No woman alive possessed Miss Kendall’s courage and audacity.
Miss Kendall raised her arm aloft and fired. Despite the deafening sound, she did not flinch. Instead, she waited for the air to settle before stepping away and bending down to gather her greatcoat and top hat.
“I trust the matter is resolved.” Valentine could not tear his gaze away from the soft curves imprisoned within those damn breeches.
“Indeed.” She straightened. “Though in future, I beg you to disregard my brother’s childish tantrums.”
“You expect me to ignore his slanderous remarks? Honour is everything to a gentleman.”
“I expect you to be a man, my lord, and rise above the foolish antics of a boy.”
Valentine wasn’t sure if he should be flattered or offended. Either way, Mr Kendall was hardly a boy.
“Well, my hackney is waiting. The driver has already added three shillings to the fare. Apparently, it is the price one must pay for leaving a man waiting in the cold.” She turned to him and offered her hand.
With a sudden eagerness to touch her, Valentine took it without hesitation. The essence of this beguiling creature penetrated his gloves to infuse his body with a warm glow. “Am I to press a kiss to your knuckles, Miss Kendall, or shake your hand in a gentlemanly fashion?”
She shrugged. “I am told you’re a man who follows his instincts.”
His instincts told him to run, told him to put a hundred miles between them lest she bring turmoil and mayhem to his ordered and structured world.
“Then I shall kiss you, Miss Kendall, and bid you good day.” He bent his head and kissed her gloved
hand, resisted the urge to linger there for longer than necessary.
“Good day, my lord.”
They walked to the road in companionable silence.
The hackney was parked a little further along from Valentine’s carriage. Dariell bowed to Miss Kendall, strode off along the lane and climbed into Valentine’s conveyance.
Valentine stood rooted to the spot and watched Miss Kendall walk away. He could not resist one last look at the woman who defied all expectations, who broke down and reconstructed what it meant to be a lady.
Chapter Two
Once nestled safely inside the hackney cab, a relieved sigh burst from Ava’s lips. Only now could she release the anxiety she had kept at bay. Her heart pounded in her chest, wild and erratic. With trembling fingers, she tugged down the blinds for she did not wish to glimpse Lord Valentine’s carriage.
How she had held her nerve, she would never know.
And yet the worst was far from over.
With luck, she would make it home before Jonathan woke from his drug-induced slumber. Lord knows what he would do then. Ava would have to justify her actions, face the hurling accusations of a man who had lost his mind to his addiction.
But laudanum did not feed the hunger crawling through her brother’s veins. Gambling was his new love, the thing that gave him purpose, the thing that destroyed every aspect of the man she knew and loved.
Still, she had saved his life this morning, and that brought some comfort.
Gathering her composure, Ava sat forward and was about to instruct the driver to depart when a loud rap on the window sent her heart racing. Drat. On this lonely country lane, one did not need a high level of perception to know who demanded her attention.
“Miss Kendall?” Lord Valentine’s rich voice reached her ears.
Oh, hell’s bells! What the devil did he want?
“Miss Kendall?” The gentleman sounded most determined.
With reluctance, Ava sat forward. She opened the door mere inches and peered through the gap. “Can I help you, my lord? Have you a problem with a wheel?” What other reason could he have for delaying her departure?
Glacial-blue eyes studied her face though she found nothing cold in his gaze. It was alert, attentive, assessing. Honora was not biased in her appraisal of her only son. Lucius Montford Harcourt Valentine must have stolen into God’s box of gifts, for in Ava’s experience men were rarely intelligent, handsome and honourable.
“My problem is my conscience, Miss Kendall,” he said in the suave way that no doubt made women clutch their hands to their breasts and sigh. “I cannot permit you to ride home alone in a hackney.”
Ava imagined ladies swooned at the prospect of sitting in a closed carriage with Lord Valentine. “Why? I arrived alone in a hackney,” she said, dismissing the thought of sharing a ride with the viscount. “I have a pistol and have no qualms shooting the driver if necessary.”
The corners of Lord Valentine’s mouth twitched. “And I trust you have the box and powder with you to reload.”
“Do not mistake me for a fool, my lord. The box is under the seat.”
Why did men go out of their way to appear superior?
“Oh, you are by no means a fool, Miss Kendall.” The rich tone of his voice slid over her shoulders like the smoothest silk. He was teasing her, luring her into his trap until she had no option but to accept.
Being a woman uncomfortable with flattery and interfering gentlemen, she said, “I must insist that you step back and close the door. I really cannot delay a moment longer.”
If Jonathan woke before she returned home, there was no telling what trouble he would cause. Lord Valentine might find himself pacing the field again at dawn tomorrow.
A tense moment of silence ensued before the lord clambered into the hackney and slammed the door shut. He dropped into the seat opposite and rapped once on the roof. The cab rocked with the extra weight and lurched forward before Ava could protest.
“I don’t know what you think you’re about.” Anger burned in her veins.
“Have I not already made my point, Miss Kendall? I cannot permit you to ride alone.”
For the love of— She was not a simpering miss in need of a man’s protection.
Ava knocked on the roof. “Stop, I say. Driver. Stop this vehicle at once.” The cab jolted and jerked to a halt.
The look of shock and uncertainty on Lord Valentine’s face was a sight to behold. A gentleman with such an attractive countenance was probably unused to ladies challenging his commands.
Ava straightened. “I have not asked for an escort. I have not begged or pleaded for your assistance. The journey is relatively short, and my welfare is not your concern.”
In the dark confines of the carriage, Lord Valentine studied her. Twice his gaze dropped to her thighs, encased in gentlemen’s breeches, and still, he said nothing. He stared at her poorly tied cravat, seemed mesmerised by the swirling pattern on her waistcoat.
Heat rose to Ava’s cheeks. Anyone would struggle under such scrutiny. She reached for the greatcoat folded on the seat beside her and drew the garment across her lap.
“Have you always possessed the need to command and domineer, my lord? Do you belong to the school of men who fail to value a lady’s opinion? Do you believe me too weak to make calculated judgements?”
The viscount laughed. “I am an aristocrat. Dominance is in the blood. Pomposity is spoon-fed from an early age. But one might argue that my chivalrous need to accompany you highlights a weakness on my part, Miss Kendall, not yours.”
Oh!
Well, at least he could admit his error. “I suppose I should give you credit for your honesty. Nevertheless, I demand freedom from your company.”
The lord smiled, and her stomach somersaulted. Damn. Did he have to be so dreadfully handsome? Not that it mattered. She had no need to lay eyes on him again.
“Freedom comes from understanding that some things are within your control, Miss Kendall, and some things are not.”
Oh, the rogue! So he had decided to play on her weakness for philosophy. “Do not think to win me over by quoting Epictetus.” Was he refusing to remove himself from her conveyance? “Will you not obey my request?”
“Obey?” Lord Valentine snorted. He sat back and pushed his hand through his wavy golden locks. “Perhaps you might prefer a different quote.”
“What? You know more than one?”
Heat flashed in his eyes at her set down. It was similar to the look of admiration she had seen in Mr Fairfax’s eyes when the scoundrel thought to ply her with port so she might lose the use of her mental faculties.
“It is not what happens in any given situation, but how you react to it that matters.” Lord Valentine folded his muscular arms across his chest. His arrogant grin conveyed satisfaction in delivering yet another Epictetus blow.
Ava scrambled to recall a quote to throw back in retaliation, but his comment gave her pause. Being in such a desperate hurry, she did not have time to sit and argue. Of the many battles she would invariably face today, this one held no real importance.
“Very well. Sit there if you must.” Ava tapped on the roof of the hackney. She sighed with relief when they rolled forward and were soon on their way.
“So, you spent time in Greece?” Lord Valentine said, breaking the prolonged silence.
Still secretly seething, Ava lacked the enthusiasm for conversation, but it would be rude not to answer. “Five years.”
He raised a brow as if impressed that a woman of her breeding had survived without the luxuries afforded one living in town.
“My brother and I returned to London eighteen months ago, following the deaths of our parents.”
“Allow me to express my condolences on your misfortune.”
“Thank you.”
“I also recently returned from a five-year stint abroad. I worked in India and the Far East.”
“Worked?” Lord Valentine certainly knew how to shock and surprise. Why would a
gentleman with his wealth and fortune seek to soil his soft hands? “Your mother said you went with friends, that you returned together to pursue important goals.”
“We were in partnership, bartering and trading goods, mostly. Lord Greystone was the mastermind behind the venture.” Nothing in his manner or voice conveyed shame for having demeaned his position.
Ava found that she admired his honesty. But had he told her because it made him appear more progressive? Had he told her because it showed he differed from the rest of his ilk?
“Well, I imagine your work gave you purpose else you would have returned home sooner.” At least he had not spent five years on a Grand Tour as an excuse to live a life of debauchery.
“I cannot recall another time when I felt more fulfilled.” The lord glanced briefly at the window although the drawn blinds prevented his gaze from lingering there for long.
“And so you have come home to claim the hand of your one true love.” Ava’s tone carried a hint of mockery. She couldn’t help herself. In her experience, wealthy men rarely married for love. Lady Valentine made no secret that she wanted her son to sire an heir, that she wanted grandchildren to dote on, to carry the family name for generations.
“I came home to support my friends who were eager to address their grievances,” he corrected.
Confusion clouded Ava’s mind. Was he not attending a dawn appointment to prove he was worthy of Lady Durrant’s affections? Had he not come home to do his duty?
“But that is not the only reason you came home,” she said, pressing him for information.
A faint groan left his lips. “No. I made a vow.”
“A vow? To your friends?”
“To my mother.” He wore his frustration like a moth-eaten coat—with embarrassment, with a hint of annoyance that he had fallen foul to such a demanding creature. “She wants me to marry.”
“To marry Lady Durrant?”
He nodded. “My mother encouraged an alliance with the lady before I left for India.”
“You do not strike me as a man who does his mother’s bidding.” He seemed so strong, so self-assured. A man wholly in charge of his own destiny.