London's Perfect Scoundrel

by Suzanne Enoch

  His right wrist hung suspended about level with his shoulder. His left hand, however, was still free, and he looked angry enough that she couldn’t be entirely certain the threat of a pistol would prevent him from grabbing her. She could just forget the entire thing, let him grow a beard down to his knees, but her argument was serious. She needed him to be a gentleman, and he therefore needed in his own mind to have the appearance of one. Besides, even if she changed her mind now, she would still have to approach him to unlock his wrist.

  “Frightened of me, Evelyn?” he murmured, apparently reading her thoughts.

  “Just cautious,” she returned, closing the distance between them.

  With his jacket removed, his shirtsleeves pushed up, and his cravat dirty and wilted, he somehow seemed even more masculine and virile than before. Evelyn was abruptly and forcefully reminded that even with the amount of time spent in his company, they hadn’t touched in three days. And the last time they had touched, he’d been removing her gown and sticking his tongue in her mouth.

  “Your fingers are shaking,” he noted, lowering his left hand.

  “Be careful now, Marquis,” Randall cautioned.

  “You don’t need to make this so difficult,” she said, stopping in front of him. Holding her breath, she reached down and took his wrist in her fingers.

  “Yes, I do.” Saint lowered his voice so it was barely more than a whisper. “I know what you want.”

  He didn’t resist as she raised his arm and closed his left wrist in the manacle. “And what is it that I want?” she asked, feeling bolder now that he was secure.

  Saint gave a faint grin, lopsided and dark through three days’ growth of whiskers. “It’s not for me to be a gentleman, Evelyn Marie.” He glanced past her at Randall. “Tell him to leave. You don’t need him right now.”

  If she had any sense, she would do no such thing. With Randall there, though, St. Aubyn would never converse with her about anything serious or important. And besides, in the deep, dark part of her that whispered this was all an excuse to touch Saint again, she knew she didn’t want Randall present, either.

  She half turned. “Randall, hide the pistol in the cellar where none of the children will find it. You’re scheduled for a reading lesson with Mrs. Aubry right now, aren’t you?”

  The boy nodded his lanky blond hair. “Aye. Don’t you let him go without me here, though.”

  “Of course not. Will you come back in thirty minutes?”

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “Yes. It’s necessary.”

  “Whatever you say, Captain. He better start bein’ convinced soon, though.”

  “He will be.”

  The boy left, closing the door behind him.

  “Be careful about him,” Saint said in a low voice, his face turned toward the door as though he were listening for something.

  “Randall?”

  He returned his attention to her. “If you don’t help his cause as he likes, there’s nothing to stop him from locking you in here with me.”

  She looked up at him, a small, uneasy thrill running through her. “Are you worried about me?”

  “I think you’re in a great deal more trouble than you realize, and I think any mistakes on your part might get me killed.”

  So he was still only thinking of himself. “You’ve threatened to take his home away from him. How is he supposed to react? How are any of them supposed to react?”

  He scowled. “I remain unconvinced. And at the moment, Evelyn, you are very precious to me.” Saint rattled the chains imprisoning his wrists. “So be careful. I don’t wish to end up as a skeleton in the cellar of an orphanage.”

  “You won’t.” This was ludicrous. Even in the middle of a mercenary proclamation, he could say she was precious to him and it made her pulse speed. It was only because he showed such little concern for anyone else; when he did so, even in passing, it was as spectacular as a stroke of lightning.

  “Evelyn?”

  She started, her gaze darting back to his enigmatic green eyes. If he knew what she’d been thinking, he didn’t say. Evie blushed anyway. No one made her blush as he did; probably because no one said things that made her self-conscious, made her think outside her prim, proper life as he did. “My apologies. I was considering your warning. I will keep it in mind.”

  “Good.”

  “And now I believe you need a shave.”

  “To be honest,” he returned, his expression softening a little, “my face itches like the devil.”

  Evie wished that he would remain angry; wry and charming, the Marquis of St. Aubyn stirred into life far too many unaccustomed sensations.

  Taking another breath, she backed up to retrieve the little table. Fortunately she’d escaped Ruddick House before Victor rose and found his things missing. No doubt she would hear about the theft when she returned home, and all during the evening with Lord and Lady Gladstone. “Oh, bother,” she muttered, mixing the shaving soap with water.

  “I did offer to do this myself.”

  With a grimace she dunked the brush into the soapy water. “You’re not the bother. My dinner appointment is.”

  “Tell me why.”

  She paused, the brush halfway to his chin. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Why not? It’s not as though I have anything to do but listen to your scintillating tales.”

  “It’s nothing. My brother and I are invited to dinner with Lord and Lady Gladstone.”

  His expression didn’t change, even though he and the countess were known by everyone to be lovers. “I don’t suppose you’d give my regards to Fatima?”

  “No, I won’t.” Evie knocked the brush against his chin, and more lather than she expected splattered onto his face, his neck, and his wilted cravat. “Apologies.”

  “Don’t apologize; tell me why you don’t like dear Fatima.”

  “Humph. Tell me why you do like her.”

  “Lovely soft breasts, long, slender legs, and a willingness to s—”

  “Stop!” she demanded. “She’s someone else’s wife!”

  He shrugged, the manacles clinking against the rough stone wall. “I take her marriage vows as seriously as she does. As they all do. You can’t be that naïve.”

  “I don’t consider my opinion naïve. I like to think it’s honorable.”

  Saint gave a short, humorless laugh. “You are unusual, Evelyn. I’ll give you that. Now, are you going to shave me, or just throw soap on me?”

  “You’re awful.” Evie lowered her hand, just staring at him. How could she feel…attracted to this man?

  “I never said I wasn’t awful. It’s not my fault if you view me as something other than what I am, my dear.”

  For a long moment she kept her silence, considering. “I prefer to think that I view you as what you could become, under your cynicism and your whiskers.” Slowly she raised the brush again, sliding it up along his cheek. “And I intend to reveal that person.”

  “He died a very long time ago, I’m afraid. And no one, including myself, mourned his passing.”

  “Stop talking. I’m trying to do this right.” Dipping the brush into the soap again, she lathered his other cheek. She liked touching him when he couldn’t do anything about it, when the contact was entirely on her terms.

  “Have you decided how long my sentence is to last?” he asked when she set aside the cup and picked up the razor.

  “I prefer to think of it as your enforced education.”

  “If our positions were reversed, I could think of several ways to educate you,” he said with the hint of a smile. “I’m at your mercy, Evelyn. Is shaving me the wildest, wickedest thought you could come up with?”

  His low, sensual drawl made her shiver. Her fingers trembling, she backed away for a moment to collect herself. “Behave,” she commanded.

  Saint shifted his gaze from her face to the razor. “At least kiss me good-bye before you cut my throat with that.”

  “Shh
.” Pressing the fingers of her free hand against his chin to hold him steady, she slowly, carefully ran the sharp blade of the razor down the side of his face. “This would be easier if you weren’t so tall,” she complained, letting out her breath.

  “Use the footstool,” he suggested, clanking the chains again as he indicated her seat on the far side of the room.

  He seemed awfully helpful suddenly, and as she retrieved the stool and stepped up onto it, she realized why. Evie found herself at eye level with St. Aubyn, her face only inches from his.

  “I—”

  Lurching forward against the restraints, Saint captured her mouth in a hard, soapy kiss.

  She felt it all the way to her toes. All she had to do was back away a few inches, and he wouldn’t be able to reach her any longer. The knowledge made her feel…powerful, even as his hard, demanding mouth against hers left her breathless and aching for things she didn’t dare express aloud.

  Evie kissed him back, tangling her free hand into his dark, disheveled hair and boldly running her tongue along his teeth. Saint moaned, and a hot, tingling sensation ran down her spine and started a low warmth between her thighs.

  Oh, he was right. There was so much more she’d rather be doing with him than shaving his face. She kissed him again, hot and openmouthed. The chains around his wrists rattled as he pulled against them, trying to embrace her. He was hers, and she could do whatever she wanted with him. Whatever she wanted.

  “Stop,” she hissed, more to herself than to him.

  “Why, Evelyn?” he murmured, seductive as the devil. “Touch me. Put your hands on me.”

  She wanted to, so badly that it hurt physically to step backward off the stool to the floor. “No.”

  He scowled, soap smeared across his face and one cheek smooth. “You want me as much as I want you. Come here.”

  Evelyn shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the warm, intoxicating haze his presence inspired. “This isn’t about what you or I want; it’s about what’s best for those children.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he retorted, making a last lunge toward her against the chains and then falling back against the wall. “Did you really think shaving me would turn me into your version of a hero? You wanted to touch me. You still do; you’re trembling for it.”

  “I am not.” She tucked her hands behind her back.

  “Let me go, Evelyn. Forget this nonsense, and I’ll take you somewhere with satin sheets and rose petals.” He lowered his voice still further, to that soft, sensual drawl that left her heart racing. “I want to be inside you, and that’s where you want me.”

  “You’re fooling yourself,” she retorted, pacing to the door and back again. “Yes, you’re handsome, and I’m sure you’re…skilled at your seductions.” Oh, he was infuriating, and even more so because his words created images in her mind that enticed and aroused her. “You’d best remember, though, that you’re not chained to a wall because your better qualities outweigh your poor ones.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “And?”

  “And so you’d best stop trying to seduce me and start listening to what I’m saying.” She grabbed the stool, moved it back half a foot, and tromped onto it again. “Now hold still.”

  “As long as you’re holding a blade to my throat, my dear, I’ll do as you ask. But I’m not here because I want to be convinced of something. I’m here because you lied to me and locked me up. You’re the one with a task. And I don’t plan on being here much longer, so you’d best get on with it.”

  At least he’d made her angry enough that she wasn’t thinking about kissing him any longer. Saint wasn’t a coward, to bait her while she held a razor in her hand. Still, if she expected him to become civilized, she would have to lead by example.

  Evie took a deep breath. “I have no doubt, given your…keen sense of self-preservation, that you will try to escape.” She slid the razor down his other cheek, trying to ignore the sharp green eyes watching her every move. “For that same reason I also believe you will listen to the argument I present to you.”

  A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth. “Before you start presenting your argument, you should wipe the soap off your chin, Evelyn Marie.”

  Chapter 14

  His love was passion’s essence—as a tree

  On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame

  Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be

  Thus, and enamored, were in him the same.

  —Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto III

  Saint hoped someone was tending his horse. Evelyn had mentioned that they’d put Cassius into the old barracks’ stables, which made sense; whether his peers missed him or not, someone was bound to notice a prize bay Arabian tied outside the Heart of Hope Orphanage for a week. Feeding the stallion was a different part of the equation, but considering Evelyn’s compulsion to rescue children, he assumed she would be equally diligent about feeding his animal.

  A damned, bloody week. She’d even brought him a copy of the London Times yesterday, just to prove that no one had come forward to say they were missing a marquis. He paced to the end of his shackle and back again, as he’d been doing for the past hour. It hardly counted as stretching his legs, but he needed to do something for exercise.

  He’d been playing along with her, learning all the orphans’ names, teaching the infants their letters and numbers. It passed the time, if nothing else. He knew what Evelyn was looking for: some sign that he’d grown a conscience and had fallen in love with the little brats. The stubborn, prideful part of him refused to go along with that scenario, even to fool her. Admittedly, some of the orphans were brighter than he’d expected, and a few of them seemed actually to have a share of wit. And yes, having them about was better than pacing alone in his dungeon.

  The two or three oldest boys bothered him, not so much because of the hard looks they had for him, but because of the way they seemed to treat Evelyn’s orders as a game. He knew several of them were members of the local thieves’ rookery, and without his intervention, they might very well have begun hiding stolen items or even their older fellows in the orphanage. If Evelyn stumbled across one of them, her keen sense of righteousness and honor would not protect her for an instant.

  The board of trustees would have met yesterday. In his absence, he had no idea what scheme they might be contemplating now to fleece the orphanage of the current month’s funds, since of course they had no idea he was planning to pull the proverbial orphanage rug out from beneath them and their purses. Even more frustrating, he had no idea which of them might have stepped in to assist Evelyn’s little education project in his apparent absence. They would be oh, so helpful, and flatter her intellect even though they believed her to be nothing but a pretty innocent with feathers for brains.

  His door rattled and opened, and he stopped his pacing, startled. His students were early for their afternoon session, and he hadn’t heard the door at the top of the stairs open. Damned Evelyn distracted him even when she wasn’t about.

  “What’s this?” a female voice said, and the housekeeper’s head edged around the door. “Saints preserve us,” she gasped as she saw him.

  Thank God. “You,” he demanded, striding to the end of his chain, “fetch me an axe or a hacksaw at once.” Evelyn still had the key to the shackles, and he needed to get out before any of the children realized what was going on and could warn her and whoever she’d given that damned pistol to.

  “What are you doing here, my lord?” she asked, taking in the shabby room and the mattress and the books stacked against the wall.

  “I’m being held prisoner,” he snapped. Wonderful. Rescued by a bloody imbecile. “I don’t have a key to the shackle, so I need an axe. Hurry, if you please.”

  “I was wondering what the children were doing, creeping down here at all hours. I thought maybe they’d taken in a stray dog or something. Bless me, though, they’ve captured a nobleman.”

  “For God’s sake, Mrs…. Housekeeper
, get—”

  “Natham, my lord,” she interrupted. “Natham. For four years, it’s been Mrs. Natham. I heard the wee ones whispering that you were going to sell this place. That would put me out of work, you know.”

  “We can discuss your employment later. In fact, freeing me will earn you a reward. Fetch me—”

  “Hmm. I’d best talk this over with Miss Ruddick, I think. She’s been down here, too, if I’m not mistaken. It’s been awful pleasant upstairs, the past few days. And she’s given me a salary increase, too. Nice lady, Miss Ruddick.”

  “Yes, she’s wonderful. Now—”

  “Good day, my lord.” Slipping her head back out of the cell, she slammed the door closed. A second later the key turned in the lock, and a moment after that he swore he heard her hoarse chuckling as she climbed the short set of stairs.

  Saint dropped into his chair, growling curses in several different languages. Evelyn had probably sent the hag down here to prove her point that his friends and allies were few and far between.

  He knew that already. He’d known it practically since he was seven years old. They’d sent a solicitor to the family estate to tell him that his father had died in London and that he was now the Marquis of St. Aubyn. He’d barely known the old marquis, who had whored and gambled until his fiftieth year, then married and fathered an heir. That task finished, he’d gone back to whoring and wagering until it killed him. Saint intended to model his life after the man. It made more sense than the rest of the hypocrisy leveled at him once he donned his black mourning jacket and half-pants.

  His mother had been so busy with huge mourning dinners and soliciting male support from her many new admirers that she hadn’t returned to St. Aubyn for more than six months. The servants in residence at St. Aubyn Park had fawned over him in her absence, hoping to be retained if the family should relocate upon the widow’s probable remarriage. When his mother and new papa du jour suggested he go away to boarding school, he’d been relieved to escape the pandering.