Dev stared at him.
Men didn’t change. Did they?
Tildy said they did. They could.
He didn’t like the thought that Paddington had.
It made his attempt at revenge turn sour.
“Well, what do you say? Shall we head out and claim your new life?”
A life where he, perforce, wore cravats and someone else had a say in the length of his facial hair? A life where he had to toady to the Grand Dames of the Ton and marry a woman he did not love?
Not hardly.
It was a pity that Wickham ignored all of his protests.
CHAPTER NINE
A HIDEOUS SOUND woke him the first morning in his new home in Mayfair.
The sound of someone being murdered, perhaps, or a rabid cat in heat.
Dev leaped out of bed and ran to the window just as the chilling yowl came again.
A peacock.
He owned a fucking peacock.
As surreal as that fact was, it was nothing to the maelstrom the past few days had been. Wickham had been as good as his word. After he visited Bow Street and hired a runner to hunt for his wayward fiancée—which Dev appreciated, because, frankly, he wanted her found as well—he took Dev to the magistrate and assisted with all the paperwork.
He was the heir to several properties, a nice fortune and, of course, the title of Earl of Canterby. Though Wickham assured him his life had completely changed, he didn’t feel any different. He did have a new wardrobe, most of which would be delivered within the week, and his face was closely shaved. Even his hair had been worked over by Wickham’s man.
But he didn’t feel different.
It was a challenge keeping thoughts of Tildy at bay. All through his ordeal, she’d been there, in the corner of his mind. He’d been swamped with memories and thoughts and regrets.
Again, only regrets that he’d let her slip away.
His annoyance at Wickham grew as he continued to speak of her as though she were one of his possessions that had suddenly gone missing, rather than a vibrant, passionate, exquisite woman. She deserved better in a husband, he decided.
He was glad he had bollixed the betrothal.
Though Wickham was not aware that he had.
His first day as Earl of Canterby was an anticlimax. He spent the day alone, wandering around his new house and making notes of things he wanted to change. The list was short. Simply anything that reminded him of his uncle and cousins.
After that, he reviewed the account books, which was difficult, because it underscored just how tightfisted and malicious his uncle had been—he could easily have helped Dev and his mother in their darkest hours, but had chosen not to. Then he took a stroll in the gardens to cool off.
Naturally, his peacock attacked him.
They were vicious creatures, peacocks.
It was a relief when Wickham dropped by to shatter his ennui…until Dev saw who he had in tow.
Paddington was the last person he wanted to welcome into his home.
But he was a lord now, and apparently one did many things one deplored when one was a lord.
Damn it all anyway.
Gritting his teeth and swallowing his bile, he offered his hand to them both and escorted them into the study, gesturing to James, his new butler, to bring refreshments.
Apparently James knew society far better than he, because—though it was not yet teatime—he brought whisky, which he offered on a silver slaver. Wickham and Paddington both gusted a sigh as they accepted the cut crystal glasses.
“I say,” Padding said after he took a sip. “Excellent stock.”
Dev nodded. He’d had nothing to do with it. His uncle had barrels of it in the cellar. “It’s Scotch, I believe.”
“Excellent. Excellent,” Wickham said. And then he turned his attention from his glass to Dev. “And how are you settling in?” he asked.
Dev shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”
A screech echoed from the garden and Dev made a mental note to visit the kitchen and ask Mrs. Winters if she, perchance, had a good recipe for peacock.
“I was glad to hear of your great fortune,” Paddington said. Dev searched his face for any sarcasm but didn’t find any. “I never liked your cousins.”
“Really?” Dev raised a brow. “I seem to remember you all being close at school.” It was a thinly veiled dig, but still one.
To his shock, Paddington flushed. “Yes. I was an ass back then.” He lifted his glass. “My deepest apologies.”
Good God. He seemed so…sincere. Dev struggled to hold on to his bitterness, but it was a slippery beast. Still, he could not forgive years of torment so easily. The lesser part of his soul opted for another barb.
“And how goes the search for Matilda?”
Both men blinked at the sudden change in topic, and then, to Dev’s surprise, they laughed in concert.
“Oh, we found her,” Wickham said.
“She’s staying with my aunt.”
Dev raised a brow. “Is she? And who is that?”
“Elizabeth Suttersby. She’s right here in London, just outside of Mayfair.”
Good God. She was so close. The blood in his veins surged. A crackle of anticipation surrounded him.
“It appears she didn’t deplore the betrothal so much as the loss of a chance for a Season,” Wickham said with a smirk. “So we are going to let her have one.”
Dev boggled. “Did she say that?” That wasn’t what she had told him.
Perhaps he should have guarded his tone. Both men stared at him.
“No,” Paddington said, taking another sip of his drink, his eyes still on Dev. “We haven’t spoken to her. She doesn’t even know we found her. That’s what Elizabeth told us.”
Wickham sighed. “Women love to be romanced, don’t you know. We should have seen it.” This last bit he addressed to Paddington.
“We should have. But who could have imagined she would take such drastic measures to avoid a perfectly acceptable marriage?”
Who indeed.
“So you are still betrothed?” Dev’s voice cracked on the question.
“Of course,” Wickham said. “Although I am glad we did not release the news.”
“We are,” Paddington said with a snort.
“I have to woo her, apparently.” This, Wickham said with a hint of disgust. “Women.”
“They, ah, do like to be wooed,” Dev offered.
“I should have known. But no matter. I shall play her game. We will meet tonight at the Berkshire Ball and I shall sweep her off her feet and…well, you know.” He flourished a hand. “All the rest of it.”
The men continued talking about their plans to encourage Tildy to melt into a pudding at Wickham’s feet, but Dev had lost the thread of the conversation.
Tildy was going to be at the Berkshire Ball tonight.
Tonight, he could see her again. If…
“How do I get an invitation to this ball?” he asked, rudely interrupting Wickham’s dissertation on how a well-bred debutant should not require wooing at all.
Again, for some reason, both men gaped at him.
Wickham cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t think you’d need one,” he said.
“You are an earl.” Paddington nodded.
“Earls don’t need invitations?”
“Generally not. We just go where we want.” Wickham grinned. “We should all go together. We shall dazzle the debutants with our manly selves.”
There was only one debutant who required dazzling. And, if the Gods were with him, she would attend.
* * *
“I don’t want to go,” Tildy said, even as her maid pulled tight on her stays.
“Nonsense.” Aunt Elizabeth, like a mother hen, clucked around, supervising her dressing. And what a to-do it was.
“Why do I need to wear so many layers?”
“It is the way things are done. Now hush. Let’s get the gown on. Careful of your hair.”
Her hai
r had been brushed and straightened and forced into a coiffure so tight nary a curl could escape. She did not feel like herself without her hair.
It all felt like an affectation. Some desperate attempt to make her look like a biddable, innocent girl. She was neither.
But Aunt Elizabeth had been kind to her, and generous, letting her stay and keeping her brother at bay. It was only polite to let her have her fun. She seemed certain that Tildy would attend the ball tonight and find that perfect man who could make all her dreams come true.
It was a hopeless hope. Over the past few days, Tildy had had plenty of time to think on it, and she’d realized she would never find a man who could make all her dreams come true at a society ball.
There was only one man who could.
And he was lost to her.
Oh, how she wished she’d paid attention to the location of his lodgings. Somewhere in St. James was all she knew, and there had not been an opportunity to go a’hunting. Perhaps tomorrow her aunt would allow her a smidgen of freedom and she could begin her search. But still, the question remained, even if she did find the house he’d been staying in for a few days, would he be there still? She doubted it but could not scuttle the need to find out.
Who knew where he would be now?
What a mess.
But she was determined to find him again. And pose a question.
Granted, he was only a soldier and her brother would never approve and in all likelihood, Dev was probably glad to have gotten what he had and pleased to be rid of her…but she had to at least try.
She had to give them a chance.
In the meantime, she would play Aunt Elizabeth’s game and pretend to search for a husband.
It was just damned annoying.
Her aunt squealed and slapped her hands. “You look ravishing, darling!” She set her hands on Tildy’s shoulders and turned her to the glass. Some strange doe-like creature stared back. To her horror, she realized…she looked like them. All the mindless, simpering cattle on the marriage mart.
Her belly dropped.
“Are you not thrilled?”
She forced a smile. “Of course.”
“Oh, tonight is going to be brilliant. Just you wait and see. You will be the belle of the ball.”
She didn’t want to be the belle of anything. “I would rather stay home with a book.”
“Nonsense. Ladies don’t read.”
Oh, lovely. One more thing she would have to give up.
“Aunt Elizabeth—”
“Now, now, Matilda. No more moping about.”
“I wasn’t moping.”
“You have been. For days. Put a smile on your face and for God’s sake, try to be charming tonight, won’t you? For me?” She waited until Tildy nodded and then she wrapped her in a fragrant hug. “Excellent. Shall we? The carriage is waiting.”
For a brief second, she had the urge to run away again, but she quashed it.
After all, she had nowhere else to go.
CHAPTER TEN
THE BALL WAS WELL UNDERWAY when Tildy and Aunt Elizabeth arrived, which was good form, her aunt assured her. “One does not want to be early.” But when Tildy asked why not, there was no answer.
As they stood at the top of the stairs, looking down on the glittering assembly, Tildy’s mood lifted. It seemed like a lovely event…and there appeared to be all manner of food and drink, lovely music and plenty of places to hide from suitors if the need arose.
She couldn’t help thinking that if things had been different, if she had really been a debutant attending her first ball in search of a white knight, it would have been exciting beyond bearing.
As it was, she was simply here to pretend to search for an acceptable suitor, to please her aunt. Still, there was no reason she could not have a good time. So she did.
She danced with several men, allowed two of them to bring her lemonade and one to bring her a plate. Before long, she found herself surrounded by a veritable phalanx of young men. They were witty and attentive and laughed at her jests—even when they were not funny—and blandished her with flowery compliments, none of which she believed for a second.
It was a pleasant way of passing the time.
But never, for an instant, had one of them truly garnered her attention.
It was during a break in the music when three new guests arrived at the top of the stairs. As their names boomed through the ballroom, a silence fell.
Tildy barely noticed the murmurs rising around her, and even so, she couldn’t have cared less about this Earl of Canterby that sent them all into a dither. All her attention was on keeping her belly from voiding her dinner. Because she’d heard two of the names and they were the two names she most dreaded hearing.
And what the hell were her brother and George doing at a ball? Neither of them attended society events if they could help it. She shot an accusatory glare at Aunt Elizabeth, who attempted to look innocent.
Oh blast.
She knew at once, she’d been set up. She glanced around her, looking for a path to that hiding place behind the potted palm, but she was crowded in by young lords and short of a scene, she could not escape in time.
Ah, well. There was nothing for it.
She would have to face her brother and her fiancé here, in the middle of the ballroom.
How mortifying it would be.
For them.
She threw back her shoulders and tipped her head, just so, and made her way to the bottom of the stairs, awaiting their astonished and joyous—or peevish—discovery of her.
They were neither joyous nor peevish—they both smiled genially—confirming Tildy’s suspicion that Aunt Elizabeth had been in league with them all along. When her aunt joined her, Tildy smiled—or something like it; there were definitely teeth—and whispered, “Traitor.”
Elizabeth smiled back. “I am only looking out for you, my dear. Now do be cordial.”
Cordial.
Of course. She excelled at cordial.
She stepped toward her brother and extended a hand. “Paddington,” she said in as cordial a tone as she could manage. It was a frosty cordial. “Wickham.”
Both men kissed her hand, Wickham’s salute being markedly more elaborate.
“Allow me to make known to you my sister, Matilda Paddington.” Her brother gestured to a tall lord standing to his side. “Matilda, may I present Deveney Hargrove, Earl of Canterby.”
Her first impression was that he was a large and looming man with dark hair and dancing eyes. He seemed amused to make her acquaintance. He looked familiar, hauntingly so, but it wasn’t until he bent over her hand and she caught a whiff of his unique and tantalizing scent that she realized why.
Her knees nearly failed her.
Her jaw dropped.
She gaped, rather like a tarsier she’d once seen at a menagerie.
It was him.
Her heart soared. Her soul sang. Her pulse thrummed.
And no wonder she had not recognized him right away. He was a far cry from the raggedy man who had rescued her from a rainstorm—had it been less than a week ago?
He was dressed in an exquisite and costly suit with a snowy cravat and collars that rose to an impeccable point. His unruly hair, like hers, had been tamed, and—to her immense satisfaction—his beard was gone.
He smiled. A dimple winked in his cheek.
She should have been overjoyed. She should have been thrilled.
She was furious.
He was an earl?
A despicable, feckless, lying earl?
“My lord,” she said, executing a curtsey. “So nice to make your acquaintance.” Oh, her tone was perfectly respectable. Only he caught the vitriol in that one word.
“Likewise.”
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you here, Miss Paddington,” Wickham said.
Tildy blinked. Good lord. Was he gushing?
“We are so happy you are here,” her brother said, with only the hint of a reproof
in his tone. “I know Wickham has been anxious to see you again.”
Wickham nodded. “Indeed.” He stepped closer, blocking her view of Dev, which annoyed her for some reason. She was angry with him, but she had to remind herself of that. “Would you care to dance?”
Normally, she would have refused Wickham’s request, because, frankly, she had no desire to dance with him in the slightest, but when she caught the dismay on Dev’s features she said, “Of course,” but only to make him pay.
She did not expect his woebegone expression or how it would lance her.
There little opportunity to think on it. Wickham whipped her into his arms and launched her into the dervish of a dance that stole her ability to think on anything. Of course, her mind was whirling as well.
He was a lord.
A lord of the realm.
Her beautiful soldier with nothing to his name, the man who had given her a gift she would never forget, was really a lord.
Better yet, she would not have to search for him. He was here.
As she made the rounds of the ballroom floor with her secret fiancé, her dismay faded. Her annoyance with him melted. Until she caught a glance of him, surrounded by tittering women in white and their slavering mamas.
It occurred to her, in that moment, that if she wanted to win him, there was no time for petulance. If she dared delay a confrontation with him, some other wench might well snap him up.
He was undeniably handsome, kitted out as an earl—although she cared not a whit about his title. It was the man she wanted.
Ah. It hit her like a stone.
She wanted him.
This man.
She wanted him as her husband.
“So you agree?”
Her attention snapped back to Wickham who, apparently, had been talking.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You agree we put all this nonsense behind us and begin again?”
“Begin again?”
To her disbelief, Wickham dropped to one knee. Right there in the ballroom in the middle of a dance. In front of God and everyone. “Lady Paddington. Would you do me the great honor of becoming my bride?”
Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors Page 7