The Devil Earl

by Deborah Simmons

  It reminded Prudence eerily of something out of one of her novels: a large vaulted room with shadowed corners and dark, musty volumes. She half expected a wraith to float through the mantelpiece and drag her down to a long-forgotten dungeon, but she put the enticing image aside, certain that Lady Buckingham was the most ghastly thing in this ornately appointed home.

  The woman’s words still rankled, and as Prudence’s gaze traveled over the editions so nicely displayed, she wondered, rather uncharitably, if Lady Buckingham had ever opened any of them. She reached up for a volume, and was about to remove it from its place when a deep voice sounded behind her.

  “Prudence.” She started so dreadfully that her spectacles slipped down upon her nose, and for a moment, she could almost have believed that a specter had materialized amid the deserted furnishings to haunt her. Enthralled by the prospect, she whirled around, only to find that the speaker was no ghost, but a flesh-and-blood man.

  Prudence was not disappointed, however, for it was, of course, Ravenscar standing at her elbow, his lips twisted in a wry greeting. How had the man managed to enter the room without her taking notice? Prudence’s heart pounded with the residual effects of his sudden arrival, along with his use of her first name, while she grappled for her usual selfpossession.

  “My lord! You startled me! I did not hear you come in,” she managed. Was that amusement sparking in those gray depths? Prudence wondered suddenly whether Ravenscar had deliberately unnerved her, not for his pleasure, but for

  her own…With a sigh, she ruthlessly reseated her glasses,

  disgusted with herself for imputing to the earl such absurd motives. A man such as he did not have the time, nor the inclination, to cater to a spinster’s silly wishes.

  And yet…Prudence could not stop the shiver that ran up her spine at the sight of him, here alone with her in the stillness of the library. He was too near, really, for proper decorum, but when had Ravenscar bowed to the dictates of others? Although Prudence told herself that his stance was obviously one of long habit, the knowledge did nothing to ease the strange agitation that had seized her.

  He loomed over her, a great dark being, more masculine than anyone she had ever encountered, so close that she seemed to feel the heat radiating from his body and could catch a whiff of his scent, a musky cologne that reminded her of deep passageways and secret corners.

  Ravenscar’s presence discomposed her so much that Prudence momentarily forgot just what she had wanted to discuss with him, and her normally efficient mind groped blindly for clues until she recaptured her errant train of thought.

  “I wanted to ask you about your brother,” she said shakily. “Have you heard anything? Made inquiries?”

  With a soft sound of some indeterminate emotion, the earl stepped back and turned away from her. Was he annoyed at her question? Disappointed? Prudence found him very difficult to read at times. For an instant, she thought he was going to leave her without answering, but finally she heard his low voice, cool once more as he masked his concern for his sibling.

  “I have heard nothing, though I have spoken with the finest Bow Street has to offer,” he said. At the dainty inlaid desk, he turned suddenly, and Prudence realized that he moved abruptly but gracefully, in a most disconcerting manner. “Why do you ask?”

  Prudence was nonplussed at the change in him—from so close and compelling to distant and unapproachable. She watched as he picked up a gilt figurine. “I am interested, of course,” she answered honestly. “Having met Mr. Penhurst, I hope he does not do himself more harm with his headstrong ways, and having met you, I—” Prudence faltered when his head came up swiftly at her words “—I wish that your name might be cleared.” She finished in a rush, lifting her chin, as though daring him to dispute her words.

  Ravenscar said nothing for a while, simply holding the golden serpent in his gloved hand, and yet she sensed he could not be still. As she watched, his thumb idly stroked the object in a way that riveted Prudence’s attention.

  She found herself going hot and cold and hot again, all at the sight of his long fingers touching the surface again and again. Cursing the fashion for gloves, Prudence wondered just what his hands might look like bereft of them—and what they might feel like against her skin. She swallowed.

  “I must confess to being a bit puzzled by your behavior,” Ravenscar said. “After all, your own sister believes me to be a killer. Why do you continue to defend me?”

  It took Prudence a full minute to wrest her gaze away from the absent action of his fingers. “Why, it is too silly, my lord, to imagine that you murdered the boy. Would that get you your money back? Certainly not,” she answered. “It would make it impossible to ever regain your funds.”

  “Ah…” Ravenscar dragged out the sound, as if filling it with all sorts of obscure meanings. His lips curled into a wry grimace as he replaced the statue upon the desk. “So, it is logic that motivates your conclusion.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Prudence replied.

  “But what of the cursed blood they make so much of in Cornwall? How do you know that I was not consumed by an uncontrollable rage that drove me to kill?” he asked, stepping toward her. “We Ravenscars are well-known for our passions, are we not?”

  For a moment, Prudence was at a loss as to his reasoning, until she caught a glimpse of those bleak gray eyes. It came to her then that this was a test of sorts. He expected her to flee him as she had seen so many others do this evening, but, naturally, she would not. She was made of sterner stuff than these Londoners, who, she had come to discover, seemed only too happy to believe the worst of their fellows.

  Prudence did not flinch when he fixed her with a grim stare that threatened some indefinable retribution. “I consider myself quite a good judge of character, my lord,” she replied. “And although I sense you are a man of—” Prudence cleared her throat, suddenly all too aware of his choice of words “—strong passions, I simply cannot believe you would toss your brother into the sea without compunction. Especially when you came to our cottage the very next day, attempting to save him from what you believed to be ladies of ill repute.”

  He grinned. The effect was so startling, that Prudence nearly gaped at him. Ravenscar smiled as he did so much else, in an unknowingly wicked way, so that his white teeth were not at odds with his harsh features. And yet, he was transformed by the simple act into a devastatingly handsome man.

  Prudence felt giddy.

  Gone was the distant, grim-faced earl with the steely stare. The dark, compelling man with the stormy eyes that rattled her composure was back, and he moved past the desk with the lithe grace of a cat, looking for all the world as if he were stalking her.

  “I sense that you, too, are possessed of strong passions,” he said, in a low voice that sent chills up her spine. Prudence stepped back. Ravenscar stepped closer. She forced herself to hold her ground then, for she knew he had a way of intimidating people with his body. She had watched him do it—using his height and his powerful personality to frighten or overwhelm those who would snub him. Perhaps he even did it without thinking, Prudence mused as he loomed over her, seemingly taller and darker than ever.

  “Me?” she asked, but it came out in a squeak that did not resemble her usual no-nonsense voice.

  Ravenscar nodded, and Prudence wondered how in the world someone could invest a simple affirmation with such deep, troubling meaning. Involuntarily she inched backward until her progress was stopped by the bookcase, and, suddenly, she realized her pose was strikingly similar to that of her heroine, cornered by the compelling and dangerous Count Bastian. She stared up at Ravenscar with no little surprise.

  “Yes, you, Prudence,” he whispered. “You are a very rare woman, a woman with great talent. Have I told you how much I admire your writing?”

  His voice seemed to weave itself around her, and Prudence felt her body tingle to life in answer to the closeness of his. “Thank you, my lord. You are most generous,” she said, a bit breathles
sly.

  “No,” Ravenscar said softly. “You are the generous one, Prudence. Generous and brave and intelligent. And beautiful, Prudence, so beautiful…”

  The tone that had been lulling Prudence’s mind into dazed submission to his will suddenly struck a false note, jarring her into alertness. Beautiful? She glanced up, disbelieving, into those cloudy gray eyes, expecting mockery, but finding none.

  Ravenscar was sincere. His face was taut, his mask gone, and his passions were evident as his black lashes drifted down over the promise of a storm more exhilarating than any she had ever experienced.

  Prudence was stunned. No one had ever admired her looks. Nor had she ever begged compliments, and yet when Ravenscar looked at her that way, she almost felt beautiful. Licking lips that were inordinately dry, Prudence watched the corner of his mouth tighten in response, and her heart started beating at breakneck speed. Something momentous was going to occur. She could feel it deep in her very bones, and her whole being was singing with anticipation.

  Afraid that even an indrawn breath might break the spell that held her in his thrall, Prudence remained still as Ravenscar leaned forward slowly, his wonderful hands reaching toward her. To her great disappointment, his goal was her glasses, and Prudence watched, in astonishment, while he eased them from her face.

  “You cannot know how long I have wanted to do that,” he said, in a low drawl that conveyed a multitude of things Prudence did not understand. Why on earth would the man want to remove her spectacles? Holding them in one hand, he lifted the other to her face, his glove smooth against her cheek, his fingers finding the nape of her neck and resting there. Her hair was up, and Prudence could not remember ever being touched in quite that exact spot. She trembled.

  Again, Prudence felt as if she had drifted into one of her stories, a helpless heroine caught under the influence of a tantalizing villain. But this was reality. The earl of Ravenscar, the man of her dreams, was pressing close to her, and it was more thrilling than any fantasy she had ever imagined. With a small gasp, Prudence lifted a hand to his black locks and urged his head down to hers.

  Their lips met. Ravenscar’s were warm and dry and firm, and Prudence, who had never been kissed in her life, thought she just might swoon. Instead, she closed her fist in his hair and hung on for dear life.

  His mouth slanted over hers, capturing first one lip and then the other, tasting and tugging in a fashion that Prudence would never have envisioned possible. It was astounding, this intimacy—more exotic and exciting than anything she could ever pen. She was alive for the first time in her life, every inch of her awakening and throbbing for Ravenscar. And then his tongue, warm and moist and exhilarating, touched her.

  “Open for me, Prudence,” he muttered. “Dear God, open your mouth and let me inside.” The words were spoken in a rasping voice so unlike Ravenscar’s that Prudence immediately complied, fearful that he might expire without her cooperation.

  With a low sound, he sent his tongue into her mouth, twirling and twining and stroking in the most amazing and intoxicating fashion. With her free hand, Prudence grabbed hold of his waistcoat and tried to anchor herself, for she was drifting, soaring up to the clouds on the storm that he had wrought within her.

  Just as Prudence felt herself growing dizzy from lack of air, Ravenscar broke away. She lifted her lashes to find him staring down at her with something akin to astonishment. Gazing up at him with a shock that far exceeded his own, she could not decide whether she ought to let go of him or urge him closer.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered.

  “My thoughts exactly,” he answered. Passion darkened his gaze as his fingers tightened on her and he lowered his head again. Prudence waited, breathlessly, for the touch of his lips on hers. Instead, she heard a grating shout.

  “Prudence!” Something about the sound penetrated her senses. She did not care for the voice; it was not Ravenscar’s deep, tantalizing tone. She liked the interruption even less. She was of half a mind to ignore the call entirely and drag the earl forcibly back to her, but his warmth was already receding, and she opened her eyes to see him standing apart from her, his gloved fingers gone from the nape of her neck, his body no longer looming over her own.

  Irritation and disappointment engulfed her as Cousin Hugh charged toward them. Even in the dim light, Prudence could see the red splotches of anger mottling his white face. “Prudence!” he said again, making her very name a rebuke.

  “Miss Lancaster had something on her spectacles.” Ravenscar’s low drawl drew her attention to him, and Prudence glanced up to find that the earl had removed a handkerchief from his coat and was calmly cleaning her glasses.

  “What?” Hugh exclaimed, apparently stricken nigh speechless by the scene he had just witnessed.

  “Miss Lancaster had something on her spectacles,” Ravenscar repeated, pinning Hugh with a gray stare that dared him to argue. Under that hard look, Hugh seemed to squirm and shrink into himself, though his face remained just as red as ever.

  “There, Miss Lancaster, I believe that should take care of the problem,” Ravenscar said, turning to her easily, and Prudence wondered whether he was talking about the glasses or about Cousin Hugh’s outrage.

  She watched, wide-eyed, as he eased the spectacles back upon her face, gently hooking the earpieces in place. The brush of one of his gloved fingers against the rim of one ear made her tremble, and Prudence saw a brief, answering flicker in Ravenscar’s gray depths before he stepped back.

  “Thank you,” Prudence whispered.

  “You are very welcome, Miss Lancaster. I was more than happy to assist you. Indeed, please consider myself placed at your disposal,” Ravenscar said.

  With a swift glance at the blustering Hugh, he smiled grimly. “I will leave you to your cousin…for now.” Ravenscar invested the innocuous words with all sorts of deeper meanings. Then, with a slight bow and a twist of his firm lips, he left the library.

  Prudence stared after him, bemused, until Hugh’s voice broke into her reverie. “Debauchery!” he hissed.

  Fighting an urge to put a finger to her swollen lips in delicious remembrance, Prudence stiffened herself to face Hugh, who was glaring after the earl.

  “He is a debaucher of women!” Hugh nearly shouted, pointing an accusing finger in Ravenscar’s direction.

  “Nonsense,” Prudence said. Calmly gathering her skirts, she walked right past him. “I am afraid you have been reading too many gothic novels, Cousin. You are confusing Ravenscar with the Count, who is but a character in a book.”

  Ravenscar, on the other hand, was flesh and blood, and much more exciting.

  Chapter Eight

  “Debauchery!” Hugh declared again, shaking his fist in the air, as they entered his apartments. He rounded on Prudence when she headed toward the stairs, effectively cutting off any escape to her room, as Mrs. Broadgirdle had done.

  “That man is a devil! The Devil Earl I have heard him called, and so he is, Prudence,” Hugh continued, firmly stationed at the foot of the steps.

  “Nonsense!” Prudence replied. “The Devil Earl was an appellation given to his ancestor, a wicked pirate who is long dead.”

  “Obviously, this…this murderer is living up to his namesake! And I do not care what flummery he spouts about spectacles and such, Ravenscar had designs upon… upon your person!”

  Hugh was positively crimson by this time—whether with outrage or mortification, Prudence was not certain—and her total lack of interest in his speech was obviously inflaming him further. She tried to think of something calming to say, but, really, she was too weary. She had yet to become accustomed to town hours, and although Hugh had whisked them away from the soiree immediately following the incident in the library, it was still so late as to be early morning. Phoebe yawned pointedly, but Hugh was not finished.

  “I forbid you to see him again!” he declared suddenly.

  Prudence eyed her cousin curiously. Perhaps her years of independence had changed her int
o an unnatural female, but she had no intention of obeying Hugh, or any other man, for that matter. An image of Ravenscar flitted tantalizingly in the back of her mind, and Prudence decided to reserve judgment. It would depend upon exactly what the man was ordering her to do, she thought, a bit giddily.

  Hugh crossed his arms in a petulant pose that reminded Prudence of a small boy determined to have his way. She was sorry to disappoint him, but, in his efforts to protect them, he was going too far. “I am afraid I cannot acquiesce, Hugh,” Prudence replied calmly. “I am in a quest to clear the earl’s name of the inadvertent blight my novel caused, and so I simply must be seen with him.”

  “One wonders just how many people saw you in the library, or is the ruination of your reputation part of your plan?” Hugh sputtered.

  “Oh, stop it!” Phoebe cried, covering her dainty ears with her gloved hands. “I am sick to death of hearing about that odious man and that ghastly book! What about me? Does no one care what I did this evening?”

  “By Jove, yes! What kind of an example are you setting for your sister, Prudence?” Hugh said, refusing to relinquish the subject.

  “That is quite enough, Hugh,” Prudence said firmly. All she wanted to do was to fall into bed and dream of Ravenscar, but instead she took Phoebe by the arm and guided her into the drawing room. “Come, Phoebe, tell us your impressions of the soiree.”

  Phoebe did not need further urging. “Oh, I met the most charming young man—cousin to the duke of Carlisle, I’ll have you know. He was simply splendid, so handsome and attentive. I had but to wish for something and it was immediately at hand, an ice or a bit of cake or my fan.”

  Phoebe blushed prettily as she rhapsodized about Mr. Darlington—his auburn hair, which was upswept into the latest fashion, his ornate watch fob, and his glittering rings. He sounded to Prudence woefully like a dandy, and try as she might, her attention drifted from Phoebe’s gentleman back to her own.