The Devilish Mr. Danvers

by Vivienne Lorret

  Hedley knew enough from her tour of Fallow Hall to realize that this was a bedchamber door. “No, Boris, you shouldn’t have brought me here,” she scolded in a whisper.

  But before she could lure him away, the dog lifted a massive paw and scratched the door.

  Hedley reached down and took his paw in her hand. “I didn’t expect you to wake someone.”

  Was she actually having a conversation with a dog? Perhaps she was mad after all. Yet just as she turned to slip away unnoticed, the door opened.

  “Boris, is that—” Rafe Danvers appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing more than a pair of perfectly snug buff breeches. Perfectly . . . she swallowed . . . snug.

  For an instant, they both simply stared at each other—lips parted, breathing halted, squishy pwum-pum-pum heartbeat. At least, on her part. She didn’t know about Rafe, but he didn’t appear to be breathing either.

  Even though she knew it was rude to stand there, she couldn’t move. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Her eyes moved. Several times, in fact. At first, it was nothing more than a glance. And then a more lingering perusal.

  Rafe Danvers was magnificent.

  “You have hair on your chest,” she said, the words tumbling out unheeded. Short, dark curled hairs dusted the defined muscles of his chest and down the ridges of his abdomen, disappearing beneath the waist of his breeches. She wondered if the hair continued. Then, as her gaze slid down to the heavy fall of his breeches and past those thickly muscled thighs, she saw that the bottom half of his legs and even the tops of his feet were dusted with dark hair too.

  Why the sight of it caused her stomach to dip and her body to heat, she wasn’t certain. But she didn’t mind at all.

  Lifting her gaze, she took in the sight of his arms, the breadth of his shoulders, the tight cording of his neck, and prominence of his Adam’s apple. Hedley knew, from this point forward, she would never be able to look at Rafe without imagining him just . . . like . . . this.

  She let out a slow, appreciative breath. Her palms grew damp and suddenly, she wanted to unbutton her jacket in order to breathe easier.

  The cording of Rafe’s neck tightened as his Adam’s apple shifted. “Have you come to my door to barter yourself for Greyson Park?”

  The gruff sound of his voice cut through the thick fog in her mind. Yet his words didn’t make sense.

  “I already hold Greyson Park. It would make more sense for you to barter yourself.” Suddenly, she realized what she’d said. With a start, her gaze flew to his. She covered her mouth with her hand. “I did not mean to suggest that . . . I don’t even know why I’m here . . . Forgive me.”

  And then, Hedley was even more thankful for the extra fabric of the walking dress, because she picked up her skirts, turned, and ran.

  A quarter hour later, Rafe found Hedley in the music room. Sitting at the piano bench, she stared blankly down at the keys. The image of her admiring every inch of his form was burned into his mind. He wondered if the image of his body was burned into hers.

  He doubted he would ever forget the heat and hunger he’d witnessed in her eyes. They’d turned dark, like indigo cloth. In that moment, he would have willingly—foolishly—taken her over the promise of Greyson Park. Then he would have regretted it for the rest of his days.

  Thankfully, she’d run away and saved them both.

  “I am appalled by what I said to you,” she whispered, apparently having noticed him after all.

  He stepped into the room. “But not appalled by how you stood there, imagining me undressed?”

  Her head snapped up as she glared at him. “You were already undressed.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind.”

  Carnation pink flooded her cheeks and she pursed those lips. “I am unwilling to bargain for Greyson Park, no matter the currency.”

  “Pity.” He grinned and let his gaze wander over her form—what little he could see of it from her position behind the piano.

  She straightened and pressed a hand over the buttons of her jacket, as if to protect them from his perusal. “Do you expect recompense?”

  “No,” he said, though pure carnal desire made him amend his answer. “Not at the moment, at least.”

  Her eyes grew wider as he stepped closer. “I was not offering.”

  He sat beside her and put the topic aside for now. In order to keep his hands occupied, he played a simple tune that he’d first learned as a child. Or at least, it had been simple when he was a child. Now, his fingers trolled awkwardly over the keys, and he wished he hadn’t played at all.

  “As you can see, I do not have Montwood’s innate ability to string notes together into a harmonious melody.”

  “He is rather skilled,” she remarked.

  Her blunt statement kindled a spark of jealousy within him. It was ludicrous to keep feeling this way when having her admire Montwood suited his own primary goal. “Perhaps you would care to try.”

  Her fingers floated reverently over the surface of the keys. “I wouldn’t want to spoil it.” She whispered the words so softly that he almost didn’t hear them.

  “Montwood bangs away on these keys day and night. I hardly think—” The rest of what he was going to say died abruptly when he saw her stark expression. She actually believed what she’d said. “You’re serious? No. That is utter nonsense.”

  He shook his head and took hold of her hands. For an instant, he forgot his purpose. The feel of her bare flesh against his distracted him. Her skin was soft and cool but marked with tiny abrasions. He rubbed his thumb over the nearly healed scratch on her middle finger. Then tenderly, over another that marked her knuckles. Her palms began to heat as his fingertips caressed the barest of calluses. Placing her hands beneath his, he pressed down on the keys and made a harsh, discordant noise.

  Hedley cringed.

  “There. Nothing spoiled,” he said, lifting away his hands.

  Looking down, she touched the keys, but barely. Her slender fingers mostly hovered over the ivory. Her breasts rose and fell in quick shallow breaths, as if she felt like a thief, afraid of being caught. “You don’t think he would mind?”

  “Not at all.” Rafe was arrested by the sight of her. Had he once regarded her face as odd? Impossible. Especially now, with her eyes so bright and eager that it made him ache. The air around her hummed, and those copper strands in her hair seemed to possess their own light. Her world was fresh and new, every moment a first step. A first glance. A first touch. A first kiss . . .

  A heady, drunken feeling arose inside him, making him dizzy and begging to be part of each one of her firsts.

  “All right then.” She spread her fingers, each touching a different key. Starting with the little finger on her left hand, she pressed down, one note at a time. When she ended with the little finger on her right hand, she drew in a quick breath and faced him.

  “That was . . . ” Her smile seemed to make her words evaporate.

  “Lovely,” he supplied. “Now, try it again.”

  She did. And then she repeated the motion in the opposite direction. “Oh, listen. These were the notes his melody started with. Do you remember?” She played three notes, two from her left hand and one from her right.

  Distracted, Rafe found himself nodding. Were those the same notes? “Surely you couldn’t have remembered the first three notes after hearing the melody played only once.”

  “It went like this.” She pressed her lips together and hummed a perfect representation of the cotillion that Montwood had played the night before.

  The flesh of his brow furrowed. “How are you doing that?”

  “I’ve always been fond of music.” She smiled and found a fourth and fifth note among the keys. “I used to hide behind the tapestry that concealed the servants’ hallway and listen to Ursa’s piano tutor for hours.”

  Ursa’s piano tutor but not hers, he thought. A familiar rush of anger aimed at Hedley’s family filled him. She’d been kept a secret from the outside world and all
because of a tragedy that had caused her to fear carriages. He could only imagine how accomplished she could have become with the right instruction. And yet . . .

  If she’d had a different life, then he wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing her in this beautiful, unguarded moment. His utter enjoyment of watching her clashed with his complete loathing for her family. The feelings within him were as harsh and discordant as that first press of the keys had been.

  He felt a keen separation in his thoughts. There was Hedley. And then there was her family.

  He didn’t see her as the enemy, but she was still an obstacle in his path to getting what he wanted. He couldn’t risk losing Greyson Park when he was so close to achieving his goal. “Montwood would be an excellent piano tutor for you.” He bit back the bile that collected at the back of his throat.

  “I wouldn’t want to impose. People have taken too much from him already.” She shook her head. Humming softly, she somehow managed to find the next note and then beamed. “I never knew it would be this easy.”

  “It isn’t.” He laughed, trying to ignore the fresh wave of jealousy that rushed through him when she’d come to Montwood’s defense. Surely they couldn’t have formed an attachment already. “Otherwise, I would be able to play. Instead, all I do is whistle.”

  Her attention on the piano ceased and she angled toward him, her knee brushing his. But she didn’t seem to notice—or mind—because she didn’t pull away. “I’ve heard you, and I’ve heard the servants whistle before, but I could never understand how it was done. Show me.”

  “Demanding bit of baggage,” he teased, shaking his head. “It isn’t something you learn from watching. It is something you learn from practicing.”

  She huffed. “I have practiced, but only air comes out, and I sound like a leaky window in a storm.”

  Because he saw how earnest she was, he tried not to laugh. He wasn’t entirely successful. Holding up a finger, he said, “Now imagine this holds a candle flame you wish to blow out.”

  He realized in the next moment that this was a terrible idea.

  She puckered those lips and blew on the tip of his finger. A swift jolt of arousal tore through him.

  “Like that?”

  Yes. I like that very, very much. He cleared his throat and shifted on the bench. His hand grazed one of the folds of her skirt, directly above her knee. He tried not to linger, but the contact made him abruptly aware of the soft muslin of her dress. He’d noticed earlier how it matched the color of her lips. Those temptingly sweet lips . . .

  Hedley looked down at his hand and then met his gaze. “As you know, I’ve had no experience with societal rules. Right now, you have that same look about you that you had last night when I expressed a desire to try a cheroot. It makes me wonder if I’m doing something improper.”

  “You shouldn’t sit so close to me,” he warned, though still unable to draw his hand away.

  She searched his gaze. “I sat this closely to Montwood last night, yet he did not rest his hand on my knee or look at me the way you are looking at me now.”

  Her unguarded honesty was going to kill him. It was only fair that he give her some of his own. “Because I’m a scoundrel, Hedley. I cannot be trusted to do the correct thing. Not where you’re concerned.”

  “You are leaving proper conduct up to me?” She frowned. “Essentially, you’re saying that I—or any young woman in society—is expected to draw back, even when everything inside of her is telling her not to. I don’t understand. Why am I meant to ignore the fact that I like the feel of your hand on my knee?”

  He cleared his throat and withdrew his errant hand. “I still plan to take Greyson Park.”

  “I still won’t let you.”

  Neither of their threats came out with any vehemence. Instead, the words were hushed, like whispered vows.

  “One battle at a time, sweeting.” Rafe exhaled and gripped the side of the bench when he caught himself leaning toward her. This was killing him. “Now, place the tip of your tongue between your teeth, just behind your lips, and then try to blow out this candle.”

  Her sweet breath brushed over the tip of his finger once more, but no whistle came forth. Her brow furrowed in frustration. She raked her teeth over her top lip in a way that made him salivate. “I need to see you do it.”

  He’d like to tell her what he needed, but it was probably wiser to whistle instead. He decided on the cotillion, adding his own trilling notes. Again, he earned one of her radiant smiles, and it warmed him far more than it should have done.

  “Ah, I see. You whistle like you kiss. Your lips form a pout while your tongue lies in wait. It’s much easier to understand now.” She studied his mouth. Her lids blinked drowsily. A soft blush colored her cheeks. “But perhaps, a young woman in society should not make such a reference.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  Hedley licked her lips. “Even though we are at war, do you think we could—”

  A throat cleared in the doorway.

  Damn. Now, those words were bound to haunt him for the remainder of the day. “Do you think we could . . . ” continue the whistling lesson in your bedchamber? Study breathing techniques by removing all of our clothes? Yes. We could. Absolutely. For hours.

  “Forgive me. Am I interrupting a lesson?”

  With a low growl, Rafe looked over his shoulder to see Montwood lift his dark eyebrows in curiosity. Then, the blackguard strolled into the room, clearly glad to interrupt.

  “Rafe was teaching me how to whistle,” Hedley said as innocently as if she truly believed that was all he was doing.

  By the skeptical quirk of his mouth, Montwood knew better. “I’ll bet.”

  Rafe stood, stepping behind Hedley to the opposite side of the piano in order to hide the evidence of the aroused state she’d put him in.

  “Do you think we could . . . ”

  Making an attempting of appearing unflustered, he gestured with a wave of his hand to the empty place on the bench beside her. “She’d never before played the piano until this morning and ended up revealing a natural affinity for music. Do you know that she hummed the music you played last night, note for note, after only hearing it once?”

  Whatever mockery Montwood had planned for Rafe disappeared as his blatant interest alighted on Hedley. “This I would like to hear.”

  She pulled her upper lip between her teeth, not realizing what it did to Rafe. Then without waiting longer than a deep breath, she played those first notes again.

  Montwood became enthralled by Hedley, quickly guiding her to the next notes.

  Rafe could only stand there for so long, watching his friend’s appreciation for Hedley grow. The satisfaction he’d anticipated was absent. In the end, however, he knew it would come to him.

  As he left the room, Rafe reminded himself once again that this was what he wanted.

  Hedley spent the next two hours beside Montwood, learning the piano. He never once laid his hand on her knee. Nor did she want him to. She didn’t feel an overwhelming need to be as close as possible as she had with Rafe. Then again, she didn’t feel uncomfortable near Montwood or repelled by him either. He emitted a pleasant sort of warmth but not one that she wanted to wrap around her. Yet she did feel as if they’d known each other for much longer than a single day.

  “Your thoughts are no longer on the music,” Montwood said, facing her. “Ruminating over Danvers?”

  Her shoulders were starting to stiffen from the position she held, and she lowered her hands in her lap. “No, actually I was thinking about how strange it is to feel as if I already know you.”

  “I feel it, too. You’re . . . familiar to me.” He nodded sagely, continuing to play.

  She attempted to mimic the quick work of his ring finger to the black key.

  Noticing her struggle, he lifted his hand to the top of the piano and spread his fingers wide. Then, one by one, he lifted each finger. “This is a good exercise to practice wherever you are.”

 
She pressed her hands to the top and mimicked him. Or tried to. She could barely lift her ring finger. Never before had she noticed how little strength that finger possessed. It was as if an unseen weight pressed down on it. Concentrating, she managed an almost imperceptible jump and found herself breathing heavily from the effort.

  “Ah, there you are, Hedley,” Calliope said from the doorway, arm in arm with her husband. The pair of them possessed a rosy glow and bright eyes, as if both were suffering the same affliction.

  Hedley wondered if that was what love felt like—an illness that one doesn’t mind catching. After all, both Calliope and Everhart appeared to endure it quite well. Thinking of Rafe, she wondered if the contagion was already inside her.

  “Good morning. Montwood was just now teaching me the piano.” She played a few notes of a melody that her tutor had deemed rudimentary but which she’d found rather charming.

  Calliope gasped. “That is delightful. I didn’t know you played.”

  “Neither did I.” Hedley beamed with untapped pleasure.

  “Our new friend had this locked inside, and all the while none of us even knew. Not even her.” Montwood’s expression darkened for a single instant before he masked it with a charming smile.

  Quite abruptly, Hedley’s borrowed boots gave her feet a little pinch. A reminder that she didn’t truly fit in with her new friends. They’d all had full lives up until this point, while she was stumbling around like a newborn foal.

  “I find that the later the talent is discovered and developed, the higher chance of success,” Everhart said in the easy manner he possessed. There wasn’t an ounce of pity in either his expression or his tone. And for that, Hedley was immensely grateful.

  “And what latent talent have you discovered?” Montwood asked with a cheeky grin. “An affinity for making wagers and then losing them in record time?”

  Everhart bit down on a smile, flashing his teeth.

  “He has an affinity for being the best husband on earth,” Calliope offered, a wealth of pride ringing in her tone. “Far better than you lot will ever be.”