The Devilish Mr. Danvers

by Vivienne Lorret

Of course, with Hedley’s name recognized in society, doubtless Mother wanted to save face. Nonetheless, now Hedley had her own property—one that would never revert to the Sinclairs.

  As for Ursa, she was on a ship with Mr. Cole and likely wouldn’t return for another six years or more. And for that, Hedley was grateful.

  “But what if it isn’t travel sickness at all,” Calliope said in a whisper, even though they were the only two in the room. “What if it’s another sickness altogether—”

  The door of the bedchamber opened, and Calliope stopped speaking.

  Celestine Danvers, Rafe’s mother, bustled in with a tea tray. Her vivid cerulean blue gown stood out in sharp contrast against the red, brown, and silver tones of her hair but matched the vibrancy of her character. She was a whirlwind of brightness.

  Without a word, she settled the tray on the foot of the bed, poured a splash of tea into a cup, added a generous amount of sugar, and then walked straight over to Hedley. “Drink this, my dear, and you’ll feel more like yourself again.”

  Hedley hated to refuse her, but the thought of putting anything in her mouth seemed like a dire mistake. “I’m not certain I should. At the moment, I’m rather . . . ” She dare not finish.

  “We Danverses have a bit of a sweet tooth.” Celestine smiled and reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind Hedley’s ear. “And I suspect that you are, now, even more of a Danvers than you are aware.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you—” Hedley’s words cut off when her mother-in-law’s gaze drifted down as her brows went up. Oh. Then, over Celestine’s shoulder, Hedley saw Calliope press her lips together and nod eagerly.

  The soaring of her heart made her lightheaded. Hedley sank down onto the window seat and gulped her tea. The brew was shockingly sweet and yet . . . comforting. She took another sip, and before she knew it, she felt remarkably better.

  “Very much a Danvers.” Celestine smiled, her eyes misting over as she brushed her fingers against Hedley’s cheek. “I can’t wait to put this face in clay.”

  Then, with those parting words, she whisked out of the bedchamber, leaving the door ajar.

  “If I didn’t know that your mother-in-law was a sculptor, that statement might have given rise to my overactive imagination.” Calliope laughed.

  “Do you think it’s true?” Hedley asked dreamily, her hand straying to her middle.

  “If it is, then Fallow Hall will require a new name, don’t you think?”

  Hedley grinned. “Fruitful Hall?”

  “Abundant Hall,” Calliope added with plenty of cheek. And by the time they arrived at Virile Hall, they were both breathless with laughter.

  “Feeling better, sweeting?” Rafe stood outside the door, his expression at once fierce and worried. Hedley’s heart went slushy. He looked quite handsome in his fine gray coat, and the pristine white of his cravat made his features darker. She grew warmer just looking at him, imagining that soon they would be together. As if he sensed her thoughts, his gaze heated.

  Her stomach bobbled but not unpleasantly this time. “Much better now.”

  Calliope reached over and took the forgotten cup out of Hedley’s hand. “As much as the two of you would like to be alone . . . I’m afraid you still have a wedding breakfast to attend.”

  After picking up a hatbox from the hall, Rafe stepped into the room. “Surely, one moment more won’t be too long. A man has the right to give a present to his bride, doesn’t he?”

  Bride. Hedley felt the word wash through, warming her. So much had changed since he’d first called her armless girl. So much was about to change, if they truly were going to have a baby. Yet after seeing him hold his nephew when they’d visited his sister in London, she knew he would be the perfect father. And she would be the mother she wished she’d had.

  “I’ll take the tray out into the hall, but I’m leaving the door open,” Calliope warned with a grin.

  Rafe placed the box on the bed where the tray had been and then lifted the peach silk gown she’d laid out. He let it glide through his fingers as he looked at her hungrily, as if he were imagining the way it would feel and taste against her flesh. “Mmm . . . this is nice.”

  Hedley blushed. Then, unable to resist the urge, she drew closer to him. Her hands drifted naturally to his shoulders, and his to her waist. She inhaled his scent, feeling perfectly at home. Not to mention, eager to close the door—no matter how many people waited for them downstairs. “It’s uncanny how the gown and organdy sheath make it appear as if I’m wearing nothing at all. I was planning to wear it to dinner this evening.”

  Pulling her flush against him, he released a low growl. “Then we’ll be dining in our rooms.”

  “I was hoping you would say that,” she whispered, rising up on her toes for a kiss.

  “Don’t forget about your guests,” Calliope singsonged from the hallway.

  On an exhale, Rafe pressed his forehead to hers. “Our guests. Do you suppose they’ll notice our absence?”

  “Perhaps after the first hour,” Hedley teased. “Shall I open my gift, then?”

  “Yes. I think you’d better, or else I will find an excuse to lock the door.”

  Turning slightly—though with Rafe’s arm still draped around her waist—she untied the pink ribbon from the striped hatbox and lifted the lid. Her hand flew to her mouth on a gasp.

  There, on a swath of red silk, sat a pair of glass shoes. The morning light coming in from the window glanced off the surface, making them appear as clear as water.

  “Oh, Rafe. They’re . . . they’re absolutely beautiful.” She was in awe. Tentatively, she reached out to touch them and found them perfectly smooth and cool. “And they look just like my red shoes.”

  “I made a cast from those shoes,” he admitted. “Well, after I had a little help from Calliope to stitch them back together. I knew they were important to you. And . . . since they were the shoes that brought you into my life, they’re important to me as well.”

  A sob threatened to escape. But instead of falling apart into a soggy mess, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him in earnest. She would never forget the steps she’d taken to find happiness, friendship, and love.

  At the door, Calliope coughed, reminding them that they weren’t alone. Not yet.

  Regretfully, Hedley drew back. “I have a gift for you, dear husband, as well, but it will have to wait until we have more time . . . alone.”

  His brows lifted and a grin curled his lips. “You could tempt the very devil himself, sweeting. However, you have already given me a gift—the sole surviving window at Greyson Park.”

  Miraculously, the seraph window in the attic had survived. Montwood, Everhart, and even Mr. Tims had helped to rescue it from certain destruction. She glanced over at the crate sitting in the corner, prepared for a trip it never took.

  “Yet when I garnered an agreeable response from one of the fellows at the antiquarian society, you declined their visit,” she said, still puzzled by his decision.

  Rafe brushed a fingertip across her lips before lifting her chin to his gaze. “You helped me realize what’s truly important. The window’s rightful place is in Greyson Park, where the Danvers family—our family—will reside for the rest of their days. It doesn’t belong in a museum, for the sake of vanity.”

  She smiled up at him, loving him more with each passing moment. “Then perhaps, when we rebuild Greyson Park, the window could go in the parlor? And beside it, a glass-front cabinet . . . ”

  Her list continued as she threaded her fingers with his. Together, they walked to the hall and joined their patient friend.

  “As long as Montwood marries, and I don’t have to hand over five thousand pounds, then we can make Greyson Park as grand as you wish,” Rafe said with a wry laugh.

  Hedley knew he was teasing, because he’d already hired the laborers to clear away the rubble. Men and their wagers, she thought.

  Boris greeted them near the top of the stairs. One of Calliope’s
sisters—likely Tess—had fashioned a flower chain around his neck. He didn’t seem to mind the adornment. Or at least, he tolerated it with minimal fidgeting.

  “Poor fellow,” Rafe said, giving him a hearty scratch that soon earned happy tail thumps against the runner. “It’s a good thing you weren’t part of our wager, or I suspect you’d be married by now to those Pekingese.”

  Boris gave a woof of understanding.

  Hedley tsked. “Rafe Danvers, are you blaming the wager for your current married state?”

  “Of course not. I give you all the blame for that, sweeting.” He grinned and pressed a swift kiss to her frowning lips. “If not for you, I’d have been a lonely old bachelor all of my days—a doddering fool looking around for the other half of my heart, like a pair of spectacles I’d left in the other room.”

  Hedley forgave him in an instant. Calliope sniffed and surreptitiously dabbed her eyes while pretending she hadn’t overheard. Then with Boris’s escort, they walked down the stairs.

  “My parents have a wedding gift for you as well,” Rafe explained as they entered the drawing room. “Though I do not know what it is.”

  Everhart was standing in front of the sofa, blocking a large shape behind him. Cuthbert and Celestine Danvers were near the glass-front cabinet, admiring their son’s work. When they saw Rafe and Hedley’s arrival, they turned in unison.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better, my dear,” Celestine said with a secret smile.

  Cuthbert drew an unlit pipe from his mouth and pointed to Everhart. “Gabriel, if you please.”

  Everhart stepped to the side, revealing a rather large, gilt-framed portrait, propped up against the sofa.

  Hedley stared in disbelief. It was her . . . and yet, not quite her. The dimple in her chin was missing. But it was the same face, with wide blue eyes. The same widow’s peak of hair pulled into a chignon. The same figure, although the shimmering silken gown and heaps of lace were far more elegant than anything she would ever wear.

  “Uncanny likeness, isn’t it?” Cuthbert asked, shifting the pipe to his other hand.

  Rafe stepped closer, squinting. “This isn’t one of yours, Father.”

  “Right you are. It is not one of mine at all.”

  Hedley didn’t understand. Neither did Rafe, for that matter, because he asked, “Then how did you come by such a likeness of my wife?”

  “Artists are part of a small community. At the mention of your betrothal, an old friend shared with me a portrait from his gallery.” Rafe’s father shrugged as if it were a matter of happenstance. “Apparently, the subject of the portrait had a rather illustrious career as an opera singer. Caused quite the scandal, back in her day.”

  Then Cuthbert turned fully to her and bowed. “Hedley, my dear daughter-in-law, I would like to introduce you to your great-grandmother, Edwina Sinclair.”

  Hedley gaped, unable to form words. Her great-grandmother Sinclair? On her father’s side. “That means . . . she was my grandfather’s mother.”

  So then, Hedley was a Sinclair after all.

  “Perhaps that was why he gave you Greyson Park,” Rafe said softly. “He knew who you were all along.”

  She didn’t even realize she was crying until her husband lifted a handkerchief to dry her tears. When another thought occurred to her, she looked up with concern. “That means you married a Sinclair after all.”

  And he hated the Sinclairs.

  “This changes nothing. I already knew who you were.” His fiercely tender gaze returned, making her heart beat in that odd cadence. “From the very first moment, you were mine.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank Cindy C. for going to the ends of the earth to find the perfect books for me and for being the best librarian ever.

  Innumerable thanks go to Chelsey and the entire Avon Impulse team for another dream realized. I’m so grateful for the chance to tell Rafe’s story.

  Thank you to all the amazingly talented glass artists who’ve posted your videos to YouTube. You’ve provided me with valuable research, in addition to a lifelong appreciation of your craft.

  Thank you to Cyndi for being my first reader and my biggest fan. I love you.

  And most of all, I thank God for the blessings and lessons in my life.

  Vivienne Lorret’s steamy new series continues!

  Keep reading for a sneak peek at the final book in her Rakes of Fallow Hall series:

  THE MADDENING LORD MONTWOOD

  Coming July 2015 from Avon Impulse.

  An Excerpt From

  THE MADDENING LORD MONTWOOD

  Lucan Montwood is the last man Frances Thorne should ever trust. A gambler and a rake, he’s known for causing more trouble than he solves. So when he offers his protection after Frances’s home and job are taken from her, she’s more than a little wary. After all, she knows Lord Montwood’s clever smile can disarm even the most guarded heart. If she’s not mindful, Frances may fall prey to the most dangerous game of all—love.

  Frances moved closer to the desk. A blank page waited on the surface with a quill resting in a stand beside a pot of uncapped ink, as if prepared to attend to business matters. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow cross in front of the door and automatically turned, expecting to see Lord Whitelock.

  Yet, it wasn’t he at all. It was Lucan Montwood instead.

  She started. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, Miss Thorne.” He moved into the room and lifted one hand in an absent gesture, as if the matter were of little importance. Wearing a hunter green tailcoat over a gold waistcoat and a pair of snug buttery breeches buttoned at the knee above his boots, his self-assured gait bordered on brazen.

  She tried not to notice the way each step accentuated each shift and clench of his muscles. Her throat went dry. “You live here?”

  That hand—those long fingers—stroked the line of his jaw as one corner of his mouth curled up in a smirk. “I’m afraid that I must admit to subterfuge. You see, this is Fallow Hall, and not Whitelock’s residence. His estate is a few miles further north.”

  The words registered slowly. A pulse fluttered at her throat. “You’ve abducted me?”

  That grin remained unchanged. “Not at all. Rest assured, you are free to leave here at any time—”

  “Then I will leave at once.”

  “As soon as you’ve heard my warning.”

  It did not take long for a wave of exasperation to fill her and then exit her lungs on a sigh. “This is in regard to Lord Whitelock again. Will you ever tire of this subject? You have already said that you believe him to be a snake in disguise. I have already said that I don’t agree. Therefore, there is nothing more to say unless you have proof.”

  “I have the same proof against him that you hold against me,” he challenged with a lift of his brow. “You have damned me with the same swift judgment that you have elevated Whitelock to sainthood.”

  What rubbish. “I did not set out to find the good in his lordship. The fact of his goodness came to me naturally by way of his reputation. Even his servants cannot praise him enough. They are forever grateful for his benevolence.”

  “Perhaps he wants your gratitude,” he said, his tone edged with warning. “This entire series of events that has put you within reach of him reeks of manipulation. You are too sensible to ignore how conveniently these circumstances turned out for him.”

  “Yet, I suppose, I’m meant to ignore the convenience in which you abducted me?”

  He laughed. The low, alluring sound had no place in the light of day. It belonged to the shadows that lurked in dark alcoves and to the secret desires that a woman of seven and twenty never dare reveal.

  “It was damnably hard to get you here,” he said with such arrogance that she was assured her desires would remain secret forever. “You have no idea how much liquor Whitelock’s driver can hold. It took an age for him to pass out.”

  Incredulous, she shook her head. “Are you blind t
o your own manipulations?”

  “You are putting your faith in the wrong man.” His charmer’s grin was absent now and something akin to irritation flashed in his gaze. “Perhaps those spectacles require new lenses. They certainly aren’t aiding your sight.”

  “I wear these spectacles for reading, I’ll have you know. Otherwise, my vision is fine,” she countered. “I prefer to wear them instead of risking their misplacement.”

  He gave a small cough of disbelief that irked her to no end. “You wear them like a shield of armor.”

  “Preposterous. I’ve no need for a shield of any sort. I cannot help it if you are intimidated by my spectacles, and by my ability to see right through you.” She narrowed her eyes as he stepped closer, watching him as he slid the blank parchment toward him and withdrew the quill from the stand.

  Ignoring her, he dipped the end into the ink and wrote something on the page.

  Undeterred, she continued her harangue. “Though you may doubt it, I can easily spot those snakes—as you like to refer to members of your own sex—quite easily. I come to an understanding of a man’s character in moments of introduction. I am even able to anticipate his actions.”

  He handed the parchment to her.

  “As soon as you’ve finished reading this, I am going to kiss you.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  USA Today best-selling author VIVIENNE LORRET loves romance novels, her pink laptop, her husband, and her two sons (not necessarily in that order . . . but there are days). Transforming copious amounts of tea into words, she is proud to be an Avon Impulse author of works including Tempting Mr. Weatherstone, The Wallflower Wedding Series, and the Rakes of Fallow Hall Series.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  BY VIVIENNE LORRET

  The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series

  The Elusive Lord Everhart

  The Devilish Mr. Danvers

  The Wallflower Wedding Series