Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2)

by Nicola Davidson

  “Of course not, madam. And your terms are most agreeable,” he murmured.

  “Well then. Do excuse me, I must see to the week’s menus. And Mr. Howard, should you require anything, do not hesitate to ask. We are so very, very delighted to have you here.”

  Good God. The woman looked like she was about to burst into tears. “Ah, thank you, madam. Most obliged. I look forward to a satisfactory outcome for us all.”

  Mrs. Donovan bobbed a curtsy, then hurried from the room.

  Mindful of Belinda the companion sitting in the corner and pretending to attend to her embroidery, George sat forward on the chaise and looked Louisa directly in the eye. “All right,” he muttered. “What the hell are you playing at?”

  “Me?” said Louisa softly, widening her eyes innocently. “Surely that question should be directed at you, the one wearing a shockingly bad disguise?”

  “It is not shockingly bad. It is very good. Fooled your man Maxwell.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but Maxwell would be fooled by a broom wearing a jacket. Unfortunately, my parents’ usual secretary is in Edinburgh on business for several weeks, so we have his younger associate Maxwell in his stead.”

  “You didn’t say anything,” he said abruptly, tapping his fingers on the armrest of the chaise.

  “No,” Louisa replied, maddeningly bland. “I didn’t.”

  “Why not? Will you make an announcement at supper tonight? Or are you saving it for an old fashioned spot of blackmail, perhaps?”

  If he didn’t know this damnable she-wolf better, he might have sworn he glimpsed true hurt in her eyes. But it was gone in a moment, to be replaced by haughty disdain. “Clearly, Mr. Howard, you have your reasons for taking on this position. I take it you won’t be telling me what those reasons are?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Louisa shrugged, the movement tightening her awful gown against her pert little breasts, and he shifted uncomfortably as his cock twitched. Hell. Her breasts shouldn’t hold any allure whatsoever—the damned things would be no more than a mouthful. But he’d always been fascinated by them, wondering at the softness of her skin, what color her nipples might be before and after suckling. And it irritated him no end.

  “Then,” she hissed, still low enough for her companion in the corner not to overhear, “My reasons for not revealing your real identity will remain equally mysterious. But let me reassure you, my parents will never learn from me that your surname being Howard is a very recent occurrence.”

  Relief surged through him. So powerful that he almost tipped the chaise over when he slumped back…swiftly followed by another emotion he couldn’t even name as a nagging truth crystallized in his mind. To gain the twenty thousand pound reward that would save him and his mother from ruin, it was Louisa bloody Donovan who he would have to coach and change until she dressed and behaved and spoke like a lady of the ton. Louisa who he would have to ensure made it to the altar by the end of the coming season, to wed a senior peer she quite possibly neither liked nor loved. A man who would have the right to touch her. Take her. Treat her however he wished, probably lock away her books forever.

  Fuck.

  Listening to Maxwell back in London, the task of polishing a rough heiress to diamond quality had seemed tricky but entirely achievable. But with Louisa, knowing her temper, knowing her stubborn hide, knowing the fierce intelligence that had felled many a lesser man…knowing the unwanted reaction she sparked in him every bloody time they were in each other’s company…tricky had just become next to bloody impossible.

  Fuck.

  ~ * ~

  “Louisa, if you don’t stop pacing, you will wear a hole in the rug.”

  Turning, she glared across her bedchamber at Belinda. “I am not pacing. How ridiculous.”

  “You know, dear, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you suspected Mr. Howard to be more than your match when it comes to a battle of wills. And I think you are a little taken with him, too. He’s much younger than I thought he would be. And so tall and broad-shouldered!”

  Her cheeks heated, which only made her angrier. “That is even more ridiculous. Besides, even if I did happen to think he was…adequate enough, it means nothing. He wants to win, and so do I. And only one of us can.”

  “You are right,” said Belinda with a sigh. “And your mother would never, ever permit a match with a lowly tutor. Besides, Lord Kildaire is far more handsome.”

  “Poppycock,” snapped Louisa before she could stop herself.

  Oh, good grief. She needed to calm down, and quickly. If anyone thought even for a moment that she had deep feelings for “Mr. Howard”, she would be locked in her room, George banished in the blink of an eye, and some other ghastly measure employed to correct her. Not to mention that it was nearly eleven o’clock, and her first comportment lesson was about to begin.

  What would he even start with? Her unladylike speech? Her hair with its still-sizzled section? Her clothing? Her complete inability to dance without maiming her partner? All these were distinct possibilities, and if she were grudgingly honest, a little help with country dances and waltzing wouldn’t be so very terrible. But if George attempted to dissuade her from reading or her experiments, he would receive a very swift knee to an unmentionable area for his trouble. Ditto if he tried to tame her hair or make her wear gowns that fitted or colors that became her. Those were very specific battle tactics to assist unsuitable men in deciding she was absolutely not the right woman for them.

  A sharp knock sounded, and even though she’d been expecting it, she still nearly jumped a foot in the air. “Come in.”

  George ambled through the door, having to duck his head so he didn’t bang the frame. “Good morning, Miss Donovan, Belinda. Ready and eager to get to work, I see.”

  Louisa rolled her eyes. Entirely too smug for a man wearing a wig, fake belly, and spectacles he probably couldn’t even see through. “Depends on the work you are referring to, Mr. Howard. By the by, I do hope you will take advantage of my mother’s offer regarding the stables. Vigorous exercise does wonders when one’s clothing…doesn’t fit like it used to.”

  Even from across the bedchamber she heard Belinda’s gasp of dismay, but George’s lips twitched.

  “How true. Although you are hardly the authority on well-fitting clothing, are you, Miss Donovan? Take the monstrosity you are wearing. At least two sizes too large, plus trimming that hasn’t been in fashion for at least one hundred years and is far too fussy for your petite form. May I ask what the color is supposed to be?”

  “Jonquil,” she bit out.

  George frowned. “And exactly how many jonquil-colored items are there in your wardrobe?”

  More than you could ever imagine, because I look so dreadful in it.

  Unease iced the back of her neck. Hell and damnation. No one knew more about style than George; he and Beau Brummell were the ton leaders of all things fashionable, and the Prince of Wales slavishly copied them both. When George complimented a lady on her gown, the henwit would wear the same color for a month.

  If George got into her dressing room, he would see the range of yellow and orange gowns that modistes had practically wept when creating because of the terrible clash with her hair, and soon know it was deliberate.

  “Er…a few.”

  “More than a few,” piped up Belinda. “Half your wardrobe.”

  Traitor!

  George tilted his head thoughtfully. “And what color is the other half of Miss Donovan’s wardrobe, madam?”

  “Orange, sir,” said Belinda, clearly eager to be of service. “With a few peach. Although I do believe one Russian Flame might have tiptoed its way in.”

  “Good God. I must see the collection at once.”

  Louisa near-flew across the bedchamber to stand in the archway door of her dressing room, her arms outstretched protectively. “My clothing is just fine, thank you. Why don’t we go downstairs and…dance? Yes, a dancing lesson would be good. You may have heard, Mr. Howa
rd, that I need some assistance in that area.”

  Instead of being agreeable, George stalked toward her. “Please stand aside, Miss Donovan.”

  “No.”

  “Louisa!” said Belinda. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Howard is here to help, and you and I both know your wardrobe is in dire need of it.”

  “I said no.”

  “Stand aside, or I’ll be forced to take certain measures,” he drawled, his jade eyes glinting.

  Her heart pounded at the underlying steel in his voice, and she almost shivered as her unease became something else. Something hot. Dangerous. Something that tautened her nipples and made her want to squeeze her thighs together against an unfamiliar ache.

  “Never,” she said, swallowing hard.

  For a long moment they stared at each other. George had halted barely a few feet away, close enough for the scent of sandalwood soap and shaving cream and something else essentially him to tease her senses.

  “Very well,” he said.

  Louisa smiled in relief and triumph. Victory could always be achieved, you just had to stand your ground with these gentlemen. “All right, then. I…ahhhhhhh!”

  In the blink of an eye she went from standing on solid ground to dangling helplessly in the air, George’s big hands clamped about her waist as he moved her out of the archway and set her down again without so much as a grimace. How had he done that so damned effortlessly? She was no featherweight! And the feel of his hands on her waist, so close to the undersides of her aching breasts…just for a moment she had wanted his fingers to slide up and cup her more than anything in the world.

  “Now,” he said. “Let’s take a closer look.”

  In just a few minutes her clothespress, armoire, chests of drawers and all the hooks around the walls had been emptied, and gowns, gloves, and bonnets of primrose, jonquil, saffron, straw, orange and peach lay in a small mountain on the floor. The only garments he treated with any kind of reverence were an ivory ballgown with silver muslin overlay, a dark blue riding habit she loved too much to discard, and a day dress trimmed in emerald green.

  “Never say you actually approve of something I own,” she said waspishly.

  George sighed. “I think you know damned well what colors complement your hair and complexion. The evidence is right here. Which leads me to believe the pile on the floor is…a choice.”

  Cursing inwardly, Louisa attempted a frown of confusion. “A choice? Why, of course it’s a choice. I simply adore yellow.”

  “Flame yellow, I’m sure. But everything on the floor is going to be given away with all haste.”

  “Like hell it is,” she snapped.

  “Louisa!” came the familiar chastisement from back in the bedchamber, but she was too annoyed to heed it.

  “You move those gowns one inch and you’ll be sorry, Mr. Howard.”

  George smiled, angelic as a cherub. “An inch?” he said, picking up the nearest one, a truly awful primrose cambric with white lawn trim that made her look like an ailing lemon, and tearing it clean in two. “Like that, you mean?”

  “You…you cretin.”

  “It’s a very simple decision, Miss Donovan. While I’d much prefer we give away these well-made gowns and accessories to women who would cherish them, I am prepared to indulge some wanton destruction. Such as…”

  His big hands moved again, and a straw bonnet with a large saffron bow she saved for outings with especially stubborn would-be husbands suffered mortal damage.

  “No!” she shrieked, launching herself at the pile, intent on saving at least a few terrible gowns for the purpose in which they were intended.

  Except her foot slipped on a glove, throwing her off balance. Almost in slow motion, she ended up launching herself at George instead, tumbling him onto his back and landing directly on top of him. The fake padding dug into her stomach, but above it his chest was warm and hard, even though his shirt and jacket.

  Her cheeks ablaze, Louisa attempted to climb off his prone form. But her hands and kidskin boots kept finding slippery silk and satin, and even more humiliatingly, she fell back down. To nearly suffocate him with her cleavage. Well, what would have been her cleavage if she actually had any.

  “Is everything all right in there?” called Belinda. “I heard a thump.”

  “Fine,” Louisa yelled back quickly. “I dropped a hatbox.”

  “You dropped yourself,” said George. “On me.”

  “Sorry,” she muttered. “Sorry, I’ll—”

  “Stop. Bloody. Wriggling,” he growled.

  Something about his tone made her freeze, and she stared down at his face. Even behind the spectacles his eyes were burning, and his cheekbones were even more prominent than usual as he held himself very, very still.

  Louisa sucked in a sharp breath. Could he possibly be…aroused? Want to kiss and touch her even a fraction as much as she wanted him to?

  Yet before the thought even had time to lodge, she found herself on the floor, and George kneeling several feet away from her, scooping up the yellow and orange gowns.

  “And what do you think you are doing?”

  “Removing these,” said George, not meeting her eyes. “Excuse me.”

  And before she could say another word, he was gone.

  Well. She needed to pay him back for the indignity of shredding her husband-repelling wardrobe, and after that reaction, there might just be a less literal way to knock him from his perch.

  Louisa grinned. Let the games begin.

  Chapter Six

  Carlisle

  “Ah, there you are, nephew. Tell me you have news that will brighten this otherwise dreary and common gathering of farmers and merchants.”

  Percival stifled a smile. The soiree was actually very well done, and currently attended by some of the best families of the north. Held at a small estate on the outskirts of the city, the ballroom was warm and bright with several fires lit, and a small candle chandelier suspended from the ceiling. The decorations were a nod to Christmastide, a mixture of snow white, ruby red, and hunter green. In one corner stood long tables laden with food and brandy and champagne, and in another, a string quartet played a variety of traditional and faster pace tunes.

  But of course, nothing and no one was good enough for Charity Grenville.

  He tsked. “For shame, your grace. How could it possibly be dreary and common when your long lost son is receiving a hero’s welcome?”

  “It is ridiculous and vulgar. The older folk haven’t seen him in twenty years. The younger ones have never even met him. And Howard…ugh, that laugh. And that accent. I cannot bear it. He is going to bring the dukedom into ill repute, the way he is smiling and shaking hands with everyone. We Grenvilles have standards. The Duke of Mannering should be conversing only with those of adequate rank, not every single person who asks him a question or makes a comment. And the Duke of Mannering certainly does not add his own off-color humor. Oh, I dearly wish the black sheep of the family had remained quite lost.”

  “You and me both,” said Percival coldly, his cousin’s inexcusable actions causing his anger to leap from slow burn to violent rage for the second time that day.

  This morning his wellborn but significantly younger and rather pathetic wife had gotten in his way, and he’d felt so much better after sending Beth sprawling heavily onto the hallway floor that he’d picked her up and done it again. It stirred his juices, too, when she cowered away from him, bruised and scratched and begging for mercy. Especially in a public place. Often when he physically corrected her, Percival liked to leave the door open so any servant could see the power of their master. When he was done with his correction, he would unfasten his trousers and shove his member deep into Beth’s mouth until she gagged and cried, then turn her around onto her hands and knees and force himself into her dry, tight passage to climax. That was how you demonstrated authority.

  Besides, it wasn’t like women were useful for any reason other than seeing to his every need and being silent and
decorative. And his actions were exactly how a duke should behave. Not like damned bloody Howard.

  Charity nodded. “Well, yes. Now I ask you again, have you found out anything worth repeating from your brief sojourn to London?”

  “What I learned is that carriage travel in winter is decidedly unpleasant, even with a decent carriage and adequate accommodation along the way. Next time it can be you who bumps along rutted roads and endures the cold.”

  “Such a plaintive wail, Percival. Anyone would think you didn’t want to be a duke.”

  He bit his tongue. They were on the same side after all, wanting the same outcome. “Sir Malcolm is still missing.”

  “Still?” said Charity, her eyes actually widening. “How can that be? We’ve had London searched thoroughly. And with that barrel frame, odd purple eyes and horrid bald head of his, it is not like he is an inconspicuous man.”

  “I know. I am starting to suspect the local constabulary are not overly exerting themselves in attempting to find his whereabouts, and it is becoming problematic. People in London aren’t going to believe Sir Malcolm is merely unwell with a cold and recuperating at his townhouse for much longer.”

  “And what of the lowborn whore?”

  “Lady Edwards appeared to be in excellent spirits, oddly enough. She went out and about visiting friends, buying goods from the market, even borrowed some books from the lending library.”

  “Her children?”