The Devilish Mr. Danvers

by Vivienne Lorret

  “Yes,” Calliope answered. “Even if he cannot decide which name suits him.”

  Having his fill of affection, Boris turned around and bounded back down the stairs, tearing off through the hall. Hedley wondered why he seemed in such a hurry. “He has more than one?” Though, remembering back to her first encounter with Rafe at Greyson Park, she thought he had mentioned something similar.

  Nearing the bottom of the stairs, Calliope nodded. “You have met the esteemed Boris Reginald James Brutus, also known as Duke. Danvers likes to call him Boris. Everhart and I call him Duke. Yet the truth is, our friend here has several names and does not come to any of them. Of course, you may choose whichever name suits you—although he seems to prefer that you call him Boris.” Calliope’s brows lifted in something of a secret smile but for reasons unknown to Hedley. “My aunt had called him a brute during her visit here and, I have recently learned, for good reason. Both her prized Pekingese are expecting a litter any day now. He was a very naughty matchmaker.”

  Naughty, indeed. “Matchmaker?”

  “It’s a bit of foolishness on my part,” Calliope said with an absent wave of her hand. “But every time I turned around, he was always leading me to Everhart. That dog is Cupid on four legs. So if you truly do not want to marry, then be on your guard around that loveable beast.”

  Hedley laughed at the silliness. “I have been warned.”

  In the foyer, Valentine offered an elegant bow. “Good evening, my lady. Miss Sinclair.”

  “And to you, Valentine,” Hedley said with a smile. His mouth twitched in something of a grin as they passed.

  Together, Calliope and Hedley walked down a series of halls, admiring paintings and tapestries. Fallow Hall was a mixture of masculine and feminine, with little touches of freshly cut flowers here and there to soften the battle scenes on display.

  “In typical English houses, we would all gather in the parlor or drawing room before dinner. Since this is Fallow Hall, however, we’ve taken to starting our evenings in the map room,” Calliope offered, a rosy blush tinting her cheeks.

  Hedley looked for the source of her friend’s apparent warmth. When they reached a pair of French doors that led into a vast open chamber with Everhart waiting at the door, she understood Calliope’s blush immediately. Heat and something akin to hunger fairly radiated from Everhart as he looked at his bride. Hedley looked away.

  Within the room, a staircase curved to a loft above. The walls were covered with maps, and a cheery fire crackled in the hearth. By the time Hedley’s gaze alighted on the other occupants of the room, she saw two of them seemingly arrested, glasses paused midway to their mouths. Boris stood between them, wagging his tail.

  “Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present to you the radiant Miss Hedley Sinclair.” Calliope ushered her into the room. “Hedley, you know Everhart and Danvers, of course, but the other dashing gentleman before you is Lord Lucan Montwood.”

  The gentleman in question stepped forward and bowed. “Lucan Montwood, at your service, Miss Sinclair.”

  Uncertain of whether or not to curtsy, Hedley slid one foot behind the other and bent her knees. “My lord, a pleasure. And please call me Hedley.”

  As she rose, she looked to Rafe to see if he would mock her for doing the wrong thing. But he was still standing there with his glass suspended in his grasp.

  “And you may call me whatever you like,” Montwood replied with a grin as he looked from her to Rafe. Montwood chucked Rafe on the shoulder. “Danvers, where are your manners?”

  Rafe blinked. Then he cleared his throat and lowered his glass. “Yes, of course. Might I introduce my friend Lord Lucan Montwood.”

  Calliope laughed and Everhart chuckled. Hedley saw a gleam brighten Montwood’s gaze as he inclined his head once more. “At your service . . . again, Hedley.”

  Hedley recalled what her friend had told her earlier about gentlemen revealing more in their actions and in what they do not say. If that was true, then she’d managed to stun Rafe. His easy, devilish grin was absent. In fact, he was looking at her as if they were strangers.

  Standing before him in all this finery, Hedley had stripped away the easy comfort between them. While the rest of the party might find it amusing, to her it was quite depressing.

  Without saying a word to Rafe, she gave her attention to Montwood, who was now walking toward her.

  He proffered his arm. “Might I be your escort this evening?”

  “I would be delighted.” And she hoped her smile was convincing.

  Dinner was a grand affair. Hedley had never sat at such a fine table. At Sinclair House, she was usually given a tray of broth and a hunk of bread to eat by herself in the attic. Here, it was all elegance, with silverware that reflected the flame of each candle like mirrors, and crystal goblets that glistened, turning the lamplight into slashes of rainbows on the white tablecloth. Though the food was not better than the broth, or even the porridge, at Sinclair House, the setting and company made all the difference.

  Surreptitiously, she kept her eye on Calliope, who sat at the end of the table, and mimicked everything she did. Everhart sat opposite his wife. Montwood sat at the corner, between Hedley and Calliope, and across the table, Rafe.

  For reasons beyond her understanding, he’d turned surly. Each point of the conversation directed at his side of the table ended as quickly as it began. But she learned much from Everhart and Montwood, who effortlessly wove together new threads to the old in order to keep their dinner pleasant. All but one in the party made her feel as if she belonged here.

  As dinner progressed, she began to wonder if Rafe regretted their familiarity. He would hardly look at her. Although when he did, his gaze turned fierce in a way that she hadn’t witnessed before. He didn’t eat much. More than anything, he pushed the food around on his plate. Not even the pudding pleased his palate. And when he looked across the table, his expression was accusatory, as if it were her fault.

  His heated indictment, however, had the opposite effect he’d likely hoped for, she was sure. Because instead of losing her appetite, hers increased. She was ravenous. But the food did not satiate her. Instead, it left her feeling decidedly frustrated.

  Not soon enough, the end of dinner came.

  “Would you mind forgoing the usual custom of leaving the gentlemen alone with their port and cheroots, and instead gather in the music room?” Calliope asked as they stood beside the table.

  “I would love to.” Not only did Hedley want to put some distance between her and Rafe, but she was thrilled by the prospect of hearing music.

  For years, Ursa had taken lessons from a piano master. Hedley, on the other hand, had become familiar with the perfect hiding places closest to the music room at Sinclair House. While Ursa’s discordant playing had not been pleasant, the master had made such wondrous sounds that every note had seemed alive to Hedley. She’d always found herself humming the same tune for days.

  Rafe cleared his throat and withdrew a slender silver case from his breast pocket. “I will join the party shortly. Montwood, I trust that you will see to our guest’s enjoyment.” His words came out short, clipped, as if under duress, leaving her to wonder why he didn’t ask Calliope instead. After all, she seemed the more natural choice.

  Montwood bowed. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Devoid of answer or explanation to Rafe’s peculiar change in temperament, Hedley adjourned with the others.

  Moments later, she found herself sitting next to Montwood at the piano, pleasantly distracted. The keys were so white and shiny below their black counterparts. She fought a terrible urge to remove her gloves and run her fingers over them. Instead, she contented herself with watching the effortless motions of Montwood’s fingers.

  It didn’t even appear that he was touching the keys but, more so, gliding over them. Whenever he added a little trill that didn’t seem like it belonged, she would look up at his face, and he would grin at her, flashing a dimple in his cheek.

&n
bsp; She felt comfortable here, beside him. As comfortable as she was with Calliope. Hedley knew right away that Montwood was a kindred spirit. He didn’t make her nervous or cause her heart to turn slushy. Instead, he possessed a pleasant, easy charm that she admired. Yet sometimes she noticed that a dark, haunted look would cross his gaze in an all-too-familiar way.

  She’d seen a similar look in her own reflection.

  “Have you played for many years?” she asked. He was just as good as the piano master had been, if not better.

  “A few.” For an instant, Montwood appeared as if that was all he would say on the matter. Then, he surprised Hedley by looking at her as if he too felt a connection. “One learns to do what one can in order to find acceptance. I play for my supper and for my friends.”

  “Then you are without a family as well?”

  “Much in the same manner that you are.” The music altered for a few beats, his focus on the lower notes even as he held her gaze. “Noble family lines tend to keep their secrets locked away.”

  A shiver of dread and commiseration slid down her spine and limbs. She had the urge to apologize for whatever trials he’d born but thought better of it. Such a conversation was better suited for another time. “Do you ever play for yourself?”

  “Occasionally,” he said, his amber eyes drifting down to the keys as the music brightened once again. “Though I have learned that most people prefer jovial tunes.”

  She understood. If she were able to play music, she wondered if the notes would be light and gay or dark and somber. Yet, as she thought about it, she would prefer to leave the dark and somber parts of her life locked away. Even though Rafe likely didn’t realize or . . . care, he’d helped her a great deal yesterday by simply listening to her and then holding her as she cried.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t think about that either. “You are very good with your hands.”

  “That’s what all the ladies say.” That dimple flashed once more.

  Hedley blushed even before she understood his response.

  Watching Hedley cozy up with Montwood on the piano bench, Rafe was suddenly reminded that nearly every man of Montwood’s acquaintance wanted to kill him.

  Although why the compulsion to wrap his hands around his friend’s throat tore through him, he didn’t know. Because he wasn’t jealous. After all, his entire plan to secure Greyson Park and win the wager depended on Montwood’s marrying Hedley. He should be cheering instead of clenching his fists.

  Crossing the room, Rafe passed Everhart and Calliope as they danced the steps of a waltz in the snug space between the sofa and the back of the room. The lively music was for a cotillion, but they were so engrossed in each other, he doubted they realized.

  Hedley glanced down at Montwood’s hands and said something that Rafe could not hear. Then, shortly after Montwood’s reply, carnation pink color flushed her cheeks.

  Rafe’s fists tightened until his fingertips ached from the pressure.

  As if absently realizing there were other people in the room, both Montwood and Hedley looked in his direction.

  “By your expression, that cheroot must have had a bitter taste, Danvers,” Montwood said, striking an ominous chord on the piano that made Hedley smile as if she were privy to a joke.

  Rafe fought the urge to glare at his amber-eyed friend. However, if the challenging grin he received in response was any indication, then he may not have succeeded. “You are mistaken. The cheroot was quite sweet.” Though not as sweet as a certain young woman’s lips . . .

  Shifting his attention to Hedley, he saw her gaze dip to his mouth.

  “I think I should like to try one,” she said.

  Montwood missed a note but recovered. Rafe missed a breath and a heartbeat. And he wasn’t sure he could recover. Not at the thought of Hedley wrapping those berry-stained lips around the tip of a . . . cheroot.

  Hedley’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. Is it not an occupation for a lady?”

  “It depends on the lady,” Rafe said unable to shake free of the images sprouting in his mind. “Though many in society would frown upon it.”

  “Oh.” She looked so disappointed that he was tempted to offer her one anyway. And teach her exactly how to hold it, light it, draw on it . . .

  But then Montwood interrupted a perfectly good fantasy. “Why don’t the two of you dance?”

  “I’d much rather hear you play,” Hedley said quickly.

  Though thankful for the rescue, Rafe pressed his hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

  Montwood laughed. “Yes, my dear, you must allow Danvers to step on your feet before you refuse him.”

  She pursed her lips as if in thought. “I suppose I should have confessed that I do not know how to dance, rather than wound your ego.”

  “There is no shame in that. You are among friends,” Montwood added, pouring on the charm. “And if the notion of dancing with Danvers lacks appeal, then I’d be more than happy to be your first partner.”

  Rafe growled at the thinly veiled innuendo.

  Montwood would never dance with Hedley. Prepared to tell him just that, Rafe opened his mouth. But then he closed it again. This was what he wanted. Why did he need to keep reminding himself?

  “I’d prefer not to dance at all, if you don’t mind. I’m not graceful like Calliope.” Hedley gazed at the couple with something akin to longing in her expression. “They move as one.”

  Relief washed over Rafe. While he knew he needed to encourage a romance between Montwood and Hedley, the idea of watching Montwood become the first to dance with her turned Rafe’s stomach to stone—much like the undercooked potatoes in this evening’s meal.

  Just as he was about to lift his hand to discreetly press it against his gut, Boris appeared beside him and angled his head underneath that hand, begging for a scratch. Rafe complied, appreciating the distraction. But only for a moment, because then Boris ambled over to the piano bench and wedged his nose between Montwood and Hedley. If Rafe didn’t know any better, he would swear that the dog was looking at him with expectation.

  Hedley scratched Boris’s head absently as she continued to study Montwood’s fingers over the keys. Behind him, Everhart and Calliope had likely forgotten anyone else was in the room as their dance went on and on. And Rafe felt like an outcast.

  He didn’t like it.

  Rafe turned to the window. As if Mother Nature mirrored the sentiment, a flash of lightning lit up the gray dusk. In the reflection of the glass, he saw Hedley stand, her expression wide with worry.

  “It’s later than I thought,” she said. “I’d better return to Greyson Park before the storm arrives. Thank you all for your wonderful hospitality.”

  Montwood ceased playing instantly. “Nonsense. You must stay.”

  Calliope moved apart from Everhart. “We cannot let you risk your health in this weather. Surely the storm will be upon you too soon. Please stay. I’ve so enjoyed our time together and don’t want it to end.”

  “Woof,” Boris offered, earning another scratch behind the ears.

  Hedley turned to Rafe, but he didn’t say anything at all. If she decided to leave, he would insist on walking with her and seeing her safely inside. The temptation to linger, light a fire, and wait out the storm would likely develop into something far more scandalous.

  Yet if she stayed, then she would be sleeping in a room beneath the same roof as he. The temptation to pad down the hall and rap on her door, solely to see to her comfort, would likely lead him down the same path of ruin.

  There was no way he could win.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Hedley had never slept better in her life. For the first time in years, she had a feather pillow and mattress—both as soft as clouds—instead of rough, lumpy straw that made crunching sounds each time she shifted.

  Heavy blue satin bedclothes trimmed in white fur had kept her warm all through the night. This morning before dawn, a maid had even entered her room to light a fire in the hearth and sweep out th
e old ash. Hedley had thanked her, which ended up startling the maid because, apparently, people usually slept while she went about her work.

  Hedley felt safe here at Fallow Hall and comforted by the lack of groaning and creaking coming from the walls surrounding her. Sometimes, she feared that Greyson Park would collapse on her.

  Calliope’s chambermaid had found more clothes in the attic. Apparently, another crate hosted scores of day dresses, underclothes, shoes, and hatboxes. One of the dresses was a walking dress. Although more than a decade out of fashion, as Meg had told her, Hedley couldn’t wait to see what it looked like.

  Throwing back the covers, she raced across the room and washed. Donning this design of dress took her quite a bit longer than she imagined. In the end, however, she enjoyed the fit.

  The bright plum-colored muslin hugged her torso in a way that might have been scandalous if not for the short velvet-trimmed jacket that hosted two rows of buttons. At her waist, the dress fell in thick pleats down to the floor. There was even a pair of half boots. Of course, these too pinched a bit, reminding her that these clothes weren’t truly hers. But when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she didn’t mind at all.

  This was all such a wonderful dream that she never wanted to wake from it.

  Outside her bedroom door, she was surprised to find Boris, sprawled out and looking like a spilled vat of lumpy gray gravy. Lifting his head, he yawned before assembling himself into a standing position.

  “Were you my guardian last night?” She reached out to run a hand from the top of his head down the length of his spine, earning a tail wag. “I don’t suppose anyone else is awake this morning.”

  Boris’s tail wagged faster. He looked at her with his head tilted to one side. Then, as if he’d understood, he headed down the hall for a time before he looked back over his shoulder.

  “Do you want me to follow you?”

  She received a low woof in reply. So, with nothing better to do, she followed.

  After a series of long halls adorned by polished tables topped with fresh flowers, beautiful landscape paintings on the walls, and even a statue or two, Boris suddenly stopped in front of a door.