Evelyn’s brother grasped the back of his chair and leaned forward. “You know who the devil I am,” he muttered, “and you know who my sister is. She may be appallingly dim, but she’s a good girl. Stay away from her, St. Aubyn.”
Saint’s estimation of Mr. Ruddick rose a notch or two. Direct threats took guts, especially when aimed at him. “I’m out,” he informed the rest of the players at his table, dumping his cards into the discard pile.
On the other hand, though he knew relatively little about Evelyn, he had gathered that she wasn’t the least bit stupid. He stood, sliding his chair back so that Victor had to move aside or get knocked over. The rest of the room had quieted to an eager buzz of muted conversation; but then, probably everyone knew he’d waltzed with Evelyn last week.
“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing her brother toward the door.
“I prefer not to be seen conversing with you,” Victor stated, scowling. “You’re no good for anyone’s reputation. Just leave my family alone.”
“Then cease sending your sister to chat with my particular…friends,” Saint returned. “Do your own dirty work, Ruddick.”
With that, he strolled out the door and back into the ballroom. Damn all brothers and husbands and fathers. This had been a perfectly nice evening before Victor Ruddick had stepped into it. Interesting, though, that no one in Evelyn’s family knew she was dabbling in charitable works at the Heart of Hope Orphanage. He could use that to his advantage.
Saint smiled darkly. He seemed to be holding all the cards in this little game. Whatever Evelyn was up to, it centered around the orphanage—which meant it involved him. Tomorrow he would just up the ante a little and see if she still wanted to play.
Chapter 8
Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not formed to live alone:
I’ll be that light, unmeaning thing,
That smiles with all, and weeps with none.
—Lord Byron, “One Struggle More, and I am Free”
Saint awoke with a start, hurling the nearest object to hand—his boot—at the shadowy figure lurking at the foot of his bed.
“Ouch! It’s me, my lord! Pemberly!”
“I know that.” Saint lay back again, pulling the blankets over his head. “Go away.”
“You instructed me to awaken you at half past seven, my lord. It is precisely half past—”
“Pemberly,” Saint growled, wakefulness beginning to steal like a pounding hammer into his skull, “fetch me a drink. Now.”
With a mumbled curse, the valet fled the room, narrowly avoiding the second boot aimed at his backside. At the door’s subsequent slam, Saint uttered a curse of his own and clutched at his temple.
This was ungodly. And if half past seven was the time at which good, proper-minded folk rose, he was glad not to be one of them. He sat up again, more slowly this time, and lit the lamp Pemberly had left on his bedstand.
Considering that he’d only returned home three hours earlier and that he’d slept alone—again, and for the thirteenth day in a row—Saint decided he had every reason to be in a piss-poor mood. At nearly thirty-three years of age, he’d settled his life into a certain pattern that most people found decadent and sinful, and probably secretly envied. He happened to enjoy it, himself. For the most part, anyway.
He scowled, shoving sheets and blankets aside and sliding to the edge of the bed. The orphanage matron, whatever her name was, had showed him Evelyn’s schedule for the week. Today had been designated as “painting day,” or some such nonsense, but it was to commence at nine o’clock in the morning.
Obviously he didn’t need to be there to watch workmen spread paint on the walls, but Evelyn would be there.
Running a hand through his tousled hair, he yawned and gave a tentative stretch. In the long parade of mistresses and lovers with whom he’d shared a bed or a broom closet, he couldn’t recall one who’d made him work this hard.
Nevertheless, giving up on the proper miss was out of the question. If he didn’t get her on her back soon, though, he was going to explode. Or part of him was, anyway. Saint looked down. “Poor fellow,” he muttered. “Be patient.”
He was pulling on his trousers when Pemberly cracked the door open and peered in. “My lord? I’ve brought whiskey and coffee.”
“Then get in here. And bring me today’s London Times. I need to know what social nonsense is going on this week.”
Already in the past two weeks he’d attended more proper social functions than he’d visited all last year. Putting up with the two-faced hypocrites was just another thing for which he would make Evelyn pay.
Saint half closed his eyes, conjuring the lemon scent of her hair and the feel of her soft, smooth skin beneath his fingers. This when he’d had so many lovers he couldn’t even name them all, and when most of the time he felt little more than bored. It was maddening, to want Evelyn Ruddick so badly that he practically came to a point every time he set eyes on her, and to know that he was a fool to do so. She didn’t know how to play this kind of game, obviously, and teaching her was going to take time. Lifting her skirts and taking her against some wall wouldn’t be enough any longer; no, Miss Ruddick needed a very thorough education.
Sitting at his dressing table to shave, he also realized that if he meant to seduce her, he needed to begin getting a better night’s sleep. Seduction rarely involved frightening one’s intended partner half to death with one’s red eyes and scarecrow hair. “Jesus,” he muttered at his reflection. Pemberly’s whiskey coffee had best be the strongest ever brewed.
When Pemberly returned, it was with both the newspaper and yesterday’s mail. Saint flipped through it, setting the few invitations he received aside instead of relegating them to the trash as he usually did.
“What’s this?” The missive, closed with the Prince of Wales’s official seal, surprised him. Prinny generally took weeks to decide anything. Three days was extraordinary.
He opened it, skimming through the closely spaced contents. Prinny invited him to Brighton again, apparently because nothing inflamed Queen Charlotte more than Prince George gathering disreputables like Saint around him.
The next paragraph, though, made him scowl. “Damnation.” Prince George had ordered a study to be made regarding a proposed park expansion. A study commissioned by the Prince was one step shy of an open debate in Parliament. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Undoubtedly the Regent had been encouraged to gain Parliamentary approval because of his financial troubles, but Prinny himself had been the one to mention the possible negative publicity involved in razing an orphanage. He obviously took his scant popularity seriously, damn it all.
Saint rose quickly, heading down to his office to scrawl out a reply. No time remained for subtlety; he needed to scuttle this before it reached open debate—and the ears of his fellow trustees. The idea that Evelyn might discover his plans before he was finished with her darkened his mood even further. Writing hurriedly, he offered to cover all expenses involved in finding and transporting the orphans to a different location, destroying and removing the old building, and planting the additional area of the park.
“Jansen!” he bellowed as he folded and sealed the letter, addressing the outside.
The butler hurried into the doorway. “Yes, my lord?”
“See that this gets to Carlton House immediately. Make certain they know it’s from me.”
“I’ll see to it at once, my lord.”
Saint sat back, wiping ink from the tip of his pen. Just what he needed—another complication. His uncertain timetable for disposing of the Heart of Hope Orphanage had just accelerated to immediate, and he had a civic-minded young lady painting classrooms in the bloody place.
He saw only one course of action: Make her give up, quickly, and seduce her at the same time. With a grim smile, he returned to his bedchamber and finished dressing. Perhaps he could make himself her next project, and cure himself of his odd desire for her before she realized what
he was up to. He certainly had tensions only she could ease. Educating Evelyn was going to be very pleasurable, indeed.
“I don’t want to go to school!”
Oh, dear. “It’s not school, Charles, it’s only a few classes,” Evelyn explained, keeping the determined smile on her face. Preparing classrooms, buying books, and hiring instructors was well and good, but if no one participated, the project would be a failure. And so would she.
“A few classes in what?” one of the older boys demanded.
“Reading, first of all. And writing. And arithmetic.”
“That’s school!”
“If someone hires you for work and agrees to pay you a certain wage, wouldn’t you like to know if he’s paying you what he promised?” she countered. “Wouldn’t you like to be able to read the newspaper and know if any jobs are available? Wouldn’t you like to be able to read stories about pirates and Red Indians and brave soldiers?”
The reluctant, muttered agreement gave her hope. The Duchess of Wycliffe’s advice had helped, but Emma had taught at an upper-class girls’ school, where the students wanted to learn and to succeed in Society. These children wanted food in their stomachs and clothes on their backs, and so different tactics became necessary.
What Evie couldn’t tell them, but what she’d begun to realize almost immediately upon meeting them, was that facts and figures could only make up part of her program. Even more than letters and numbers, these children needed to see that someone cared about them. That was why she was taking so much care in hiring instructors, and in making the classrooms clean and cheery and pleasant.
She’d tried to explain her thoughts to the board of trustees, but they seemed as willing and able to pay attention to her as her own family was. Well, she’d offered money, and that had convinced them to say yes. The rest was up to her. And that was how she wanted it, anyway.
The hairs on the back of her neck pricked, and she looked up. The Marquis of St. Aubyn leaned against the doorjamb, gazing at her. Heat ran down her spine, warming her in delicious places she was certain she could never tell him about. It was one thing to be attracted to the scoundrel; to admit to it would be as good as announcing that yes, please, she wanted him to strip her naked and run his hands all over her body.
As always he was in dark colors, as though he disdained the light of day. Nighttime seemed much more suited to his pursuits, anyway. Evie stood, shaking herself. “Good morning, my lord,” she said, curtsying. His real self was enough trouble without her inventing fantastic, even more seductive imaginings.
Saint returned the gesture with a careless, elegant bow. She wanted an example for the boys to follow, and little as she wished it to be the marquis, he seemed to be the only one available. The rest of the board apparently avoided actual contact with the orphans whenever possible. The girls around her began muttering and giggling, and she stifled a frown. She definitely would have preferred someone more reputable, for everyone’s sake. Beggars, however, couldn’t be choosers.
“It reeks of paint in here,” he said, scowling. “Up to the ballroom, everyone. And open the damned windows.”
In a happy, cacophonous rush they were gone, clattering up the stairs like a herd of cattle, before she could even protest. “We were chatting,” she stated belatedly. “Now it’ll take me another quarter hour to settle them down again.”
Saint arched an eyebrow. “Did you have somewhere else to be today? A tea or a music recital, perhaps?”
Actually, if she didn’t appear for Aunt Houton’s tea this afternoon, her family would know for certain that she was up to something. “That is not the point. I’m trying to gain their trust. You’re not supposed to stomp in here and disrupt everything.”
“Chaos is my forte,” he said, grinning.
For a moment her breath stopped. The light touching his green eyes was genuinely amused, and the transformation to his lean, cynical features was…remarkable. “I have noticed that,” she ventured, just to say something.
He moved away from the door. “Where’s your necklace?” he asked, coming toward her.
Evie reached up to touch her throat. “You still have it, I believe,” she returned, wishing he’d stayed across the room. “And I wish to return the other one to you. I can’t accept it.” She pulled it from her pocket, holding it out to him.
He ignored the gesture as he stopped in front of her. “Can’t, or won’t?”
As his gaze swept down the length of her and back again, she abruptly realized how very alone they were. The children were all on a floor above them, and the workers a floor below. “Both, my lord. You—”
“Saint,” he interrupted. “Keep it.”
“No. I—”
“Then throw it away, or sell it for bread to feed the dockworkers. I don’t care.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes, you do.”
“No,” he returned, taking the bauble from her hand and slowly sliding it back into the pocket of her pelisse, “I don’t.”
His hand lingered there, brushing against her thigh. “Then…why did you give it to me?”
He put his right hand in her other pocket, using the material to tug her up against him. Evie instinctively put her hands against his chest to keep from slamming into him. “Because I wanted to. Ask me another question.”
“I…” She searched her brain wildly for something that wasn’t insipid. “Don’t you have other things to do today? Women to seduce, clubs to get drunk at?”
He smiled again, less amused and warmer at the same time. “What do you think I’m doing right now?” he murmured, lifting his hands.
The material of her pelisse, and her gown beneath, lifted as well. He slid his spread fingers along her thighs and up to her waist, raising her dress past her knees. At the same time he leaned down and kissed her, teasing at her mouth with his lips and tongue.
Knees wobbling, Evelyn gasped and wrenched backward. “Stop that!” She shoved her dress back down where it belonged.
Frustration crossed his gaze for just a moment, as though he’d forgotten he was teasing. If he had been teasing. “One day very soon, Evelyn Marie,” he said in his low drawl, “you’ll beg me to continue.”
“Doubtful.” She conjured a scowl, which wasn’t very difficult considering that she was torn between running away and demanding to know what he would do next.
“Hm.” He gazed at her for another moment, then returned to the doorway. “Stay here if you wish, then. I’m going up to the ballroom.”
He vanished into the hallway. With a frustrated sigh, Evie looked at the vacated space around her and the scant quarter page of notes she’d been able to make. She needed to just ignore him, or better yet, to tell him he was wasting his time and that his seductions would never work on her.
Except that they were working on her. She rubbed her arms, trying to subdue the goose bumps his touch had caused. She knew the names of at least half a dozen of his rumored lovers, and yet when he looked at her she couldn’t remember anything but how exciting and tantalizing it felt when he kissed her.
Slowly she gathered her books and papers in her arms. She’d heard about his confrontation with Victor last night, and she also knew that he’d been outright banned from Almack’s and even a few of the less forgiving households in Mayfair. However much he deserved it, and however much he pretended not to care, it had to bother him. Even if he enjoyed living on the fringes of Society, it had to hurt, knowing that he couldn’t move back to the center if he wanted to. No one could like being a pariah.
And heaven forbid he should find a woman he actually cared for and wanted to marry. With his reputation, no woman of good standing would care to be courted by him—just his interest could ruin her. She knew firsthand that even his haphazard teasing and taunting was dangerous.
Evelyn left the dormitory for the stairs. Saint waited there for her, looking completely composed, as though he hadn’t just been lifting her skirts halfway to her waist and slipping his tongue down her throat. Such t
hings probably happened daily where he was concerned. Perhaps he really did need her lessons and her decorum as much as the orphans did. Yes, choosing him as her student was a fine idea, whatever Lucinda and Georgiana might think her chances of succeeding might be. And it had nothing to do with the way his touch and his kisses made her shiver.
“After you, my brave Evelyn,” he said, motioning her to precede him up the stairs.
She remembered Dare’s warning about not turning her back on him, but face-to-face was obviously just as dangerous. And if he was ever going to learn how to behave properly, someone was going to have to set an example.
With each step Evelyn took up the stairs, her shoes and her ankles appeared for just a moment beneath the hem of her gown. Saint hung back a little, fascinated by the glimpses of her legs.
He was utterly mad. That was the only explanation. For God’s sake, he’d seen more women’s bare legs in his lifetime than he could count. Dainty virginal ankles were new, but they were attached to parts of which he well knew the workings.
In near desperation he raised his gaze, but the sight of her swaying hips and bottom didn’t make his trousers feel any looser. It made no sense. Even lovers who knew exactly how to pleasure a man didn’t leave him feeling this way. No one had aroused him like this in a very long time.
“We opened the windows!” one of the boys yelled from the top of the stairs. “They ain’t here for us, are they?”
Evelyn glanced over her shoulder at Saint, a frown furrowing her brows. “Who is here, and for whom?”
“You’ll see.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” she muttered, and he grinned. Anything that kept her thinking of him and distracted her from teaching could only help his own cause.
They topped the stairs, and he drew even with her as she reached the wide double doors of the old ballroom. Paint and wallpaper peeled from the walls, and two of the now-open windows were cracked, but the hardwood floor remained in fair shape. Evelyn wouldn’t be looking at any of that, though. Her attention would be on the seated figures at one end of the room, noisy children milling around them.
London's Perfect Scoundrel Page 9