The Devilish Mr. Danvers

by Vivienne Lorret

  DEDICATION

  To old friends and new—

  You have an uncanny ability to pop into my life at the perfect moments. I cherish you.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from The Maddening Lord Montwood

  About the Author

  By Vivienne Lorret

  An Excerpt from Changing Everything by Molly McAdams

  An Excerpt from Chase Me by Tessa Bailey

  An Excerpt from Yours to Hold by Darcy Burke

  An Excerpt from The Elusive Lord Everhart by Vivienne Lorret

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hedley Sinclair chafed her icy hands together. The holes in the worn kid gloves snagged, expanding bit by bit. It couldn’t be helped. Most of her older sister’s cast-offs were threadbare now. This pink muslin dress had once been trimmed in a border of rosettes, but that had long since torn away. The petticoats had grayed from too many washings and frayed from too many mendings. The stockings were warm but only if layered by fours.

  Beneath two woolen shawls, Hedley shivered. Her teeth chattered together. It had been six years since her sister had married and sailed to the colonies with her husband. Six years since Hedley had received any cast-offs or any wardrobe at all. For most of those years, she’d been confined to her attic rooms. Not forgotten, but invisible all the same.

  Yet that was all behind her now. She’d inherited Greyson Park. The walls around her were her very own, and no one would ever lock her away out of shame again.

  Then again, perhaps Mother was hoping she would freeze to death, or starve. Although, upon seeing her home for the first time two days ago, Hedley had realized there was a greater chance that the dilapidated roof would cave in on her instead.

  Standing in the parlor, she glanced up to the ceiling. Missing hunks of horsehair plaster exposed the lath beneath. In certain places, and with the morning light filtering through the milky residue on the windows, she could see the room upstairs.

  Nonetheless, Greyson Park was hers. That thought caused her frozen lips to smile. The family solicitor had informed her of her inheritance weeks after Grandfather’s death, which was nearly two months ago. From Mother’s incensed response, Hedley hadn’t been meant to find out either.

  When the time had come for her to leave, they’d exchanged no parting words with each other. However, the solicitor had imparted the “unhappy” news that she would be given no allowance, no servants, and no escort for her twenty-mile journey on foot. Which had been fine with Hedley. All she needed was right here—her own home. And now that she was here, she was determined to make the best of it.

  With that thought, she opened the tarnished brass tinderbox on the mantel. Only a small circle of char cloth remained, and her piece of flint was little more than a sliver. She hoped it would be enough.

  Kneeling down, she placed the tinderbox on the fieldstone ledge of the hearth and hunched over to ward off the chilly wind that blew down through the chimney. The last feral bite of winter, gnawing on the end of March, was fearsome indeed. Steel in hand, she struck the flint toward the cloth and—

  The shard sliced right through her glove. Her hand jerked back. Instantly, a thin line of blood appeared on her knuckle. Pressing the wound to her lips, her eyes narrowed at the flint. The sliver had broken in half. “Lucifer’s talons!”

  Her late grandfather’s favorite oath didn’t help, but saying it made her feel better.

  She tried again, striking the flint to the steel. And again. “If you don’t light, I’ll . . . I’ll throw you into the chamber pot. No noble calling for you. Oh, no. Instead, you’ll end up as a—”

  A tiny spark ignited. Nothing more than a pinpoint of orange. Still, it was something.

  Pursing her lips, she blew the spark to life. Quickly, she lit the spunk stick and moved it to the kindling bundle in the hearth. After another moment of nurturing the flame, the dried bits of twig ignited.

  Hedley sat back on her heels with a sigh of relief. The meager fire already began to warm her cheeks. Since that was the last of her flint until the caretaker, Mr. Tims, returned in a day or so, she needed to be more conservative. Tonight, she would do well to remember to place the curfew over the coals in the kitchen so the embers wouldn’t die out.

  Standing and humming to herself, she brushed off her hands and put the damper over the tinderbox. Then, moving to the woodbox, she stopped short. It was completely empty. If she didn’t add a log to the kindling immediately, she’d have no fire at all.

  She only had herself to blame. She’d burned too many logs yesterday, trying to keep warm. A frigid wind had come straight through the pale brick façade of Greyson Park. Then soon after, a fog had settled in and lingered. By the looks of the heavy gray clouds outside the window, today wasn’t faring much better.

  Used to relying on herself, Hedley lifted one of the shawls from her shoulders and draped it over her hair. Tying it at her neck like a little old woman, she made her way through the house and outside by way of the kitchen.

  A steady drizzle greeted her. Sort of. The truth was, the rain felt more like tiny, frozen shards of glass. Already, the hard clay path to the woodpile was slick, covered with a fine sheen of ice. The soles of her shoes slid over the crackling ground. Fog as thick as pillow stuffing obscured her view of the shrubs, trees, and outbuildings. She didn’t mind that, however. Not having a glimpse of the carriage house suited her nerves. Just thinking of it, in fact, sent an icy shudder through her, making her grateful that she lived apart from those who knew her shameful secret.

  A dog howled, startling her away from her thoughts. The nearness of the mournful bay stole the breath from her body. She only hoped the animal was friendly.

  “Boris!” A man’s voice quickly followed a second howl. The sounds echoed around her, making it impossible to note the direction from which they originated. “Come here, you foolish beast!”

  Though the words were harsh, the tone was not. It was edged with amusement in a way that was somewhat familiar.

  Even though she’d always had a keen ear for sounds, Hedley quickly shook her head in disagreement with herself. It couldn’t be him. It had been six years since she’d last heard that voice. Her mind was obviously playing tricks on her. Perhaps her mother was right after all, and Hedley was the family lunatic.

  A shadow passed in front of her, sleek and gray, along with the steady thump, thu-thump of paws crunching over the icy ground.

  She turned, squinting as it disappeared into the fog.

  A high, musical whistle followed, merging with the thick expanse surrounding her. Then, a low woof answered. The dog was definitely closer, but what about the man?

  The methodical march of heavy footsteps over the ice-covered grass grew louder. Closer. She knew that if she were unable to see the man, then it was unlikely he could see her either. Therefore, if she stood perfectly still, he might never know she was here . . .

  No! Hedley rebelled against that idea immedi
ately. She was tired of being invisible. She wasn’t going to spend any more of her life that way. Gathering her courage, she peered down at the toes of her red shoes. Anyone who wore red shoes surely could never be invisible.

  She drew in a breath. “Good day?”

  The heavy footsteps halted. The dog gave another woof.

  “Good day to you too,” the man replied, his tone less amused and more wary. “I thought I’d seen smoke coming from the chimneys of Greyson Park yesterday.”

  A neighbor visiting, then? If that was true, then he could not be the man she thought he sounded like. For an instant, disappointment washed through her. Hedley didn’t know any of the neighbors. Mr. Tims, however, had told her that Fallow Hall down the lane was owned by the Marquess of Knightswold, who’d let the property to three gentlemen tenants recently. “It was quite cold yesterday.”

  “Aye,” the stranger said, and the crunch of footsteps began again. “As is today. And with the rain freezing over, it’s no time for a traveler to be out of doors.”

  Wasn’t he a traveler? If he was indeed a neighbor, the nearest house—Fallow Hall—was two miles away. Before she could ask, a dark shape started to form not too far from her.

  She swallowed, suddenly nervous and wondering why she’d announced herself. She was alone at Greyson Park with no one to save her, should this man choose to strangle her and use her corpse for his fire.

  “Very true, sir. I was merely airing out some of my grandmother’s bandages,” she lied. If the stranger thought the house was full of illness, then he wouldn’t come closer. It seemed a plausible assumption to her. “Wouldn’t want the infection to spread to the rest of us. Of course, my four older brothers all have hearty constitutions and will likely be coming outside to check on me any moment.”

  “Infection?” The man’s steps didn’t falter, and the dark shape continued to take form.

  “It’s dreadful. Open sores, coughing blood, and whatnot.” She could have sworn she heard a low laugh.

  Then, suddenly the man emerged on the path in front of her. The fog separated, sluicing away from his body as if he’d risen from a milk bath. Hedley drew in a breath, not believing her eyes. She blinked, wishing rain droplets weren’t clinging to her lashes, obscuring her view.

  It couldn’t be him.

  Tall and handsome as ever, he walked with a swagger. Raising his hand, he raked the unruly mane of dark hair off his forehead. The result left his features without softness. His hard jawline and high cheekbones were only accentuated by the sharp, angular cut of his side whiskers. Dark brows arched over even darker eyes. Yet beneath his aquiline nose, his lips formed—what she could only describe as—a pout. Not a pout in the petulant sense but more so in the kissing sense.

  Of course, Hedley knew nothing about kissing. Although, once upon a time, the only person she had thought about kissing was the man now walking toward her.

  Rafe Danvers. The man who’d almost married her sister. The man Ursa had left standing at the altar.

  “It’s the whatnot that frightens me the most,” he said, a smirk toying with those lips.

  She waited for recognition to show on his features. For that half smile to diminish into a firm line of disapproval. After all, she knew he hated the Sinclairs for what Ursa had done. Yet as he approached, his gaze remained steady, assessing.

  “What about the four older brothers?” she asked, continuing the lie and giving him another chance to remember her. Surely she hadn’t changed that much. She still had the same oddly shaped face with blue eyes that were noticeably too large, in addition to a distinct dimple—more like a rut—in her too-small chin.

  Then again, he’d only had eyes for Ursa all those years ago. In fact, he never even called Hedley by name. Instead, he’d given her a nickname.

  “Hey there, armless girl,” he’d once called her. His reason, he’d explained, had been because she’d walked with her arms behind her back, and with the way her shawl had draped from her shoulders, she’d appeared armless.

  Six years ago, Hedley had been dazzled that he’d even spoken to her, let alone given her a different name. It was as if they’d shared a secret. A secret that had kept her sighing for months. His nickname had meant that she wasn’t invisible after all.

  Yet that all changed when Ursa left him at the altar.

  Soon after, Hedley had become invisible again.

  “I would ask why your brothers weren’t out here helping you,” Rafe said, stopping only two strides from her. “Or Mr. Tims, for that matter.”

  Those acquainted with Mr. Timstonbury enough to call him by a shortened version of his name were usually friends of his. She, however, never would have guessed that Rafe Danvers would have kept track of Greyson Park after all these years. Especially when this house had once been part of Ursa’s dowry. At one time, this house would have belonged to Rafe.

  “Mr. Tims is out of town, which is why my brothers are here,” she said, still watching for any signs of recognition. If he remembered her, then he would call her bluff. She had no brothers. A fact that might have made all the difference in her life.

  “Terribly informal to meet a stranger”—Rafe hesitated as his gaze drifted down to her chin. Those dark eyes sharpened for an instant before he shook his head—“this way. Formality prohibits making my own introduction. Though, perhaps I know your brothers?”

  She exhaled the bitter taste of disappointment and peeked once more at the toes of her shoes. He didn’t recognize her. Then again, why would he?

  “No, sir. I’m certain you don’t.” When she looked up again, she saw that he, too, glanced down at her feet, his brow furrowed. “And they wouldn’t be pleased to find me out here speaking with you. Good day.”

  She turned to head back into the house. Then, in the same moment, she heard another low howl from the dog. Only this time, it was accompanied by the rush of paws over the crisp grass. The sound grew louder. Closer. The dark shadow appeared to her right, moving swiftly just as a large gray beast emerged from the clearing, charging forward, ears flapping, tongue lolling off to the side—

  And barreled into her.

  Hedley slipped on the ice. Arms wide, her feet shot into the air. Suspended for an infinitesimal moment, she still had plenty of time for full-fledged embarrassment to hit her. And then she hit the hard-packed ground. Twice. First her bum and then her head.

  “Careful there, sweeting,” Rafe said, appearing above her, holding out his hand.

  Blinking up at him, she suddenly couldn’t breathe. Although the lack of air in her lungs had less to do with the fall and more to do with the way he’d called her sweeting.

  And all these years, she’d thought armless girl sounded magical.

  Lying there on the icy ground, she took an accounting of her entire person. For the most part, she was unharmed, but there was a strange, slushy pwum-pum-pum of her heartbeat. Not only that, but her stomach bobbled, like a toy on the end of a string.

  The dog howled and once again she heard the rhythmic crunch of his paws on the frozen grass, but she paid little mind to it. Putting her gloved hand into Rafe’s, she allowed him to assist her to her feet. Covered in sleet or not, she felt warm all over.

  “If you’re going to be out of doors in weather like this, you should tread more carefully. Ice can be tricky,” Rafe said, his mouth curling up on one side. Clearly, he was trying not to laugh at her—and not doing a very good job.

  Her warmth abruptly vanished. Incredulous, Hedley glared at him. “Ice? You don’t say.”

  Then, just when the sound of his laugh began, the dog barreled into Rafe too.

  He slipped. His amusement—and that smirk—slipped as well. Hedley would have felt immense satisfaction to see him land flat on his back. Yet the more he tried to right himself, the closer he came to taking her down with him.

  The soles of Rafe Danvers’s boots slid on the path. His left leg shot out from beneath him, stretching him farther than any man dare. And when his foot collided with
the stranger’s, he catapulted her into the air.

  Still holding her hand, he tried to save her. Arms locked, outstretched, he caught her—or more so, she crashed into him. Sideways. Her elbow glanced off his nose. Her bottom collided with his stomach. Wind barreled from his lungs. And before he knew it, he was flat on his back.

  The woman landed hard on top of him. A curvy bit of baggage. Sprawled over him, she was soft and plump in all the places that a man enjoyed.

  “Your dog is an idiot,” she grumbled, shifting her body to disentangle their limbs. Her arm—the one that had struck his nose—was above his shoulder. One of her legs moved between his, her hip nestling into his groin. Her lush breasts pressed against his chest.

  Rafe tried not to notice. But . . . being a man, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “I cannot argue that point.” Boris, the dog in question, gave the side of his face a sloppy lick before proceeding to prance around, tail wagging, clearly pleased by what he’d done.

  Lifting up, the stranger looked around as if to assess the damage. In the fall, she’d lost the shawl tied around her head, revealing a widow’s peak of golden hair with threads of copper woven throughout and knotted at her crown. Her wide forehead was smooth, marked only by wispy brows. With her gaze down at her limbs, a thick fan of dark brown lashes rested on her cheeks. And beneath a rather pert nose, plump, berry-stained lips drew his attention. Against her pale flesh, those lips stood out in sharp contrast. Even more because of the unforgiving dimple in her small chin.

  It wasn’t necessarily a beautiful face. In a family of artists, he knew how to recognize beauty. Hers was an appealing sort of . . . odd face. Odd, but pretty all the same. It intrigued him. With that wide forehead and narrow jaw, it formed the shape of a heart. Her mouth did too. A tiny, berry-stained heart inside a pale moon heart.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, lifting that heart-shaped face.

  Cloudy, cornflower blue eyes alighted on his gaze. Peculiarly, he felt as if she’d crashed into him all over again. He knew those eyes. Yet the memory wouldn’t form. He’d seen her before, but whatever recollection he might have didn’t match up with the lush woman on top of him.