Evie started to snap a reply, but as she looked at her brother’s calm implacable face, she realized she would never win. He would never see that he’d done anything wrong toward her, much less admit it. But she couldn’t leave one thing unsaid. “The Marquis of St. Aubyn,” she returned quietly, “is more of a gentleman than Clarence Alvington could ever hope to be. You’ve made a poor choice all the way around.”
Her brother smiled grimly. “Now you’re going to attempt to convince me that you’ve gone mad, aren’t you? Look, there’s Clarence. Waltz with him, smile, and we’ll leave.”
Evelyn lifted her chin. “It so happens that right now I’d rather spend time with Neckcloth Alvington than you, anyway.”
She met Clarence halfway, watching with a kind of detached hopelessness as he took her hand and practically licked it. Thank goodness for gloves. “My lovely, lovely Evie,” he cooed, squeezing her fingers.
“Mister Alvington. I believe we are to waltz.”
“You must call me Clarence.”
“I’d really prefer not to,” she returned, almost amused as he looked at her uncertainly. He was probably the most unlucky of the lot of conspirators. The others reaped the benefit of her sale to the Alvington family, but he would have to live with her.
The waltz began, and he slipped a hand about her waist. The sensation made her want to gag; it reminded her of what he would expect of her after they were married. The idea of lying with him as she had with Saint…She closed her eyes, shuddering. Where was Michael? Didn’t he know how much she wanted to see him? To at least be near him?
The ballroom doors burst open. As Evelyn watched in openmouthed amazement, children poured into the ballroom. Ten, twenty, then more ragged children. Orphans. Her orphans.
The guests nearest the entrance began shrieking, moving back and to the sides of the room as if faced with a stampede of wild cattle. The orchestra squeaked to a halt, leaving the dancers stranded arm in arm in the middle of the ballroom.
“For God’s sake,” Clarence gasped, his face going white. “It’s a revolt!”
He wasn’t the only one to think the lower classes were staging a revolution. Lady Halengrove fainted, and most everyone else was stampeding over footmen for the far exits into the garden.
Evelyn, though, was looking at the tall, dark figure in the center of the chaos. Saint. He held young Rose in his arms, his expression as calm as if he were shopping for gloves on Bond Street.
As the orphans fanned out, she noticed him giving them signals. Immediately things began to make sense. Lord Alvington became boxed up against the refreshment table, while her brother suddenly became acquainted with Randall, Matthew, and two of the other older boys.
What are you doing? she mouthed at Saint, not certain whether to be embarrassed or amused.
He ignored her, instead strolling over to her brother. “Good evening, Ruddick,” he said in a carrying voice.
The remainder of the crowd quieted, obviously beginning to realize that they were not in immediate danger. Evelyn edged closer, having to drag Clarence with her when he refused to relinquish his grip on her hand.
“What the devil is the meaning of this, St. Aubyn?” her brother growled over Randall’s head. “You have been warned to—”
Saint dug something out of his pocket. “Here. You are now the assistant chancellor of the Exchecquer.” He slapped a parchment against Victor’s chest. “Congratulations.”
“I—”
The marquis turned his back, strolling now straight for Evie. Her heart began to pound. He’d done it. He’d beaten Alvington in the race to get Victor into the government.
“Here,” Saint said, handing Rose into Clarence’s arms.
“Are you my papa?” the girl said, with such precision that Saint must have coached her on her delivery.
“I—oh, good heavens, I—”
Saint stopped before Evie. “Hello,” he said quietly.
She couldn’t breathe. “Hello.”
“May I?” Reaching out, he took both of her hands in his. “I’ve brought your infants.”
“I see that.”
“They need you.”
In the back of her mind Evie realized that the room had gone dead silent. Everyone could hear every word they said to one another, but she didn’t care. Saint had come, and he was holding her hands.
“I need you, as well,” he continued.
“Saint—”
“Michael,” he breathed.
“Michael, how did you do this?”
He smiled, that crooked, wicked smile that made her legs weak. “You provided me with inspiration, and a source. Your literary Lady Bethson. I would do anything, you know, to give you a free choice.”
A tear she hadn’t felt forming ran down one cheek. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Saint—Michael—took a shallow breath, and then, to her surprise, went down on one knee. “I lied to you earlier,” he said in the same low voice.
“What?” She was going to faint. If he said he was finished with her, she was going to wither and die right there in the middle of the ballroom.
“I told you that I didn’t have a heart,” he continued as he gazed up at her, his voice shaking just a little. “I do have one. I just didn’t know it until I met you. You are my light. My soul craves you, and I love you with every ounce of the heart you’ve awakened in me. I…I could live without you, but I wouldn’t want to. Will you marry me, Evelyn Marie?”
Her legs gave way. Evelyn sank into his arms, reaching around his shoulders to grip him so he couldn’t vanish. “I love you,” she whispered against his cheek. “I love you so much. You’ve given me everything.”
“Only because you showed me how.” He took her arms, holding her away a little so he could see her face. “Marry me.”
“Yes. I will marry you, Michael.”
Saint smiled again, reaching back into his pocket. He pulled out a small velvet box and opened it to her. Inside lay a ring with a diamond center, surrounded by a silver heart, winking at her. Saint pulled it free and slipped it onto her finger, then leaned in and kissed her. Dimly she heard children cheering, and she chuckled against his mouth.
“I tried very hard to reform you,” she said, allowing him to help her to her feet. “But I have to admit that lately I’ve developed a new appreciation for scoundrels.”
Standing himself, he kept hold of her hand, as though he couldn’t make himself let go of her. “Good. Because I’m not certain how proper I can be where you’re concerned, my dear.”
Across the floor she saw Georgiana, Dare, and Lucinda cheering, and she laughed, leaning against Saint’s strong shoulder. You’re next, she mouthed at Lucinda.
“Orchestra!” Saint bellowed. “Play us a waltz!”
Lady Dorchester, white-faced and with several children hanging on to her arms and trying to head her off, stormed onto the dance floor. “What is the meaning of this?” she screeched. “A marriage proposal is well and good, but these filthy children cannot be here!”
“Why not?” Saint asked, swinging Evelyn into the dance and holding her much too close for propriety. “They know how to waltz.”
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.
—Lord Byron, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto III
THE END
About the Author
A native and current resident of Southern California, SUZANNE ENOCH loves movies almost as much as she loves books. She once appeared on an E! special, Star Wars Is Back, as an expert on the romance in the Star Wars movies. Other highlights include winning her third grade spelling bee, receiving an E.T. poster and T-shirt in an alien-inspired poetry contest, and submitting a script for The A-Team (which was not why the series was cancelled).
When she is not busily working on her next novel, Suzanne likes to cont
emplate interesting phenomena, like how the three guppies in her aquarium became 161 guppies in five months.
Suzanne loves to hear from her readers, and may be reached at:
c/o Lowenstein-Yost Associates
121 W. 27th Street, Suite 601
New York, New York 10001
Or send her an e-mail at [email protected].
Visit her website at www.suzanneenoch.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
By Suzanne Enoch
SOMETHING SINFUL
DON’T LOOK DOWN
AN INVITATION TO SIN
FLIRTING WITH DANGER
SIN AND SENSIBILITY
ENGLAND’S PERFECT HERO
LONDON’S PERFECT SCOUNDREL
THE RAKE
A MATTER OF SCANDAL
MEET ME AT MIDNIGHT
REFORMING A RAKE
TAMING RAFE
BY LOVE UNDONE
STOLEN KISSES
LADY ROGUE
Coming in November 2006
The Exciting Contemporary Romance
BILLIONAIRES PREFER BLONDES
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LONDON’S PERFECT SCOUNDREL. Copyright © 2006 by Suzanne Enoch. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition September 2006 ISBN 9780061748608
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