The Earl of Davenport: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club)

by Maggie Dallen

  It hurt more than she cared to let on.

  So instead, she did what she’d always done when her family was the subject of derision. She lifted her chin with pride. She might not be able to defend her father’s actions or her eldest brother’s, but there was at least one member of her family who was above reproach. “My eldest sister, Claire, is the perfect lady, she—”

  “Which one is Claire?” he interrupted.

  Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared as a surge of annoyance swept over her, and this time she failed to contain it. “You know very well who she is,” she snapped.

  His brows shot up and his eyes filled with laughter as he stood and walked toward her. “Ah, there she is. I’d been wondering who this meek, demure young lady in my drawing room was, but now I recognize you clearly, my little hellion.”

  Her cheeks warmed again, but this time with something close to pleasure. So he did remember. He’d been teasing her, after all. Little hellion was what he’d called her when she was young and chased after him and her eldest brother. He and Jed had terrorized the villagers with their pranks and hijinks and she’d done her very best to tag along.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, my lord. The little hellion is in your midst, I’m afraid.”

  His lips tilted up in a grin that made her heart race.

  “If you remember me, then surely you must remember Claire. She’s the eldest daughter, and the loveliest by far.”

  “Says who?” he interrupted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What powerful deity declared Claire the fairest Cleveland of them all?”

  She scowled at his teasing and carried on. “As I was saying, not only is she lovely, but she is the perfect lady. Genteel and polished, she is beloved by the ton.”

  He gave an exaggerated yawn.

  When she blinked up at him, he waved a hand for her to continue. “Do go on. Genteel, polished, etcetera, etcetera….”

  He was mocking her. As he walked away she squelched the urge to stomp her foot to regain his attention. She settled for letting out an exhale that was louder than necessary. Then, when he still did not turn around, she blurted out her request. “I’d like you to consider Claire for a wife, my lord.”

  That made him turn around to face her, at least, though his expression was one of droll amusement.

  She hated that look—it reeked of condescension and entitlement. She was used to seeing that expression on the faces of the ton, but she expected more from this man.

  Which was ironic, really, since the rest of society expected so little of him.

  “Tell me, little hellion, are you really asking me to marry your sister as an act of charity?”

  Her eyes widened and her hands clenched at her sides. It was through gritted teeth that she finally managed to answer. “Not at all, my lord. Any man would be lucky to have Claire as his bride.”

  His smirk had her taking deep breaths to remain calm. Lord, he could be infuriating when he wanted to be. “Yes, it would benefit my family as well,” she conceded. “But just think what this marriage could do for you.”

  He fell back onto the settee once more, looking as though his patience was reaching an end. “And what exactly would Claire provide for me that all the other demure, genteel debutantes could not?”

  “Honesty, respectability—”

  His brows arched. “You cannot be serious. Respectability from the Clevelands?”

  She rose to her full height, tilting her chin up once more. “Say what you will about me, but Claire is as respectable as they come.”

  “And by that you mean, there’s no suspicion that she’s a bastard.”

  His words were spoken so casually it made their impact that much more dramatic.

  She gaped at him, speechless. No one used that word around her. She was certain it was used behind their backs regularly, but no one had the gall to say it to her face. For a moment she was offended, then horrified, and then… amused.

  She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle an entirely inappropriate laugh, emitting a rather unladylike choking noise instead.

  His eyes laughed at her, those dark gray eyes filled with knowing amusement.

  She sobered instantly. It had been shock, that was all. And perhaps just a bit of relief that for once someone in society said what they meant. After a lifetime of being spoken about in whispers, it was almost refreshing to hear the insult aloud and to one’s face.

  He’d been hoping to shock her, that much was clear. Looking at him now, it was also clear there was only one way to proceed, and that was to be as honest as he was being now.

  “That is correct, my lord,” she said, casting her eyes downward. “Unlike myself and the other younger Clevelands, there is no tarnish on Claire’s name.”

  His lips turned up in genuine amusement and he leaned back further in his seat. She got the distinct impression that he was pleased by her candor.

  Well, if he wanted candor he would get it. “Claire is well known for her even temper and generosity. She has the education and upbringing to make her an exceptional countess.”

  He didn’t look impressed.

  She took a deep breath. She’d come this far, there was no turning back. “You must know what they say about you, my lord—”

  “Enough with the formalities,” he said, waving his hand as if brushing them aside. “If you’re going to lecture me on my poor reputation, you might as well refer to me by my name.”

  She straightened her spine, refusing to drop her gaze despite the open mockery in his eyes. “Very well. You must know what they say about you, Davenport.”

  His lips turned up on one side. “Better.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, what is it they say?”

  He was trying to fluster her further, but it would not work. If he could use the word bastard to her face, surely she could muster up the courage to call him by his nickname. “They call you devil, my lor—er, Davenport.”

  “Do they now?”

  She scowled at his teasing tone. “More than that, they say that you’re losing the confidence of your tenants and that your lands and properties are suffering from a lack of guidance.”

  He opened his mouth but she kept talking before he could throw out another amused barb. “You might not want a wife, my lord, but it certainly seems as though you need one.”

  His brows shot up at that, and behind the mockery she thought she sensed a new interest. Encouraged by the shift in him, she hurried on. “Whatever they might say about you, I believe that you’d do what’s best. For your tenants and….” She swallowed down emotions that threatened to choke her. “And for your neighbors.”

  His eyes moved over her face, down her throat and to the edge of her bodice. She grasped her skirts to keep her hands from fluttering up to self-consciously hide herself from his gaze. She was dressed perfectly modestly—she had nothing to hide.

  So why did she feel so exposed?

  His silence lasted so long that she started to wonder if perhaps he was waiting on her. “Would you like to hear more about my sister, my lord?” she offered tentatively.

  His brows drew together. “Good God, no. And what happened to you using my name?”

  She bit her lip to keep from pestering him. It didn’t work. “Well?” she asked, desperation overcoming any hope she had to leave here with her dignity intact. “What do you think?”

  He let out a laugh—an honest to goodness laugh, not one filled with mockery or cynicism. “Impatient, are we?”

  She nodded. There was no use denying it. For a moment she thought about telling him the extent of their bad fortune. Explaining to him that they were mere moments away from losing everything. But something held her back. There was a line, she supposed, that separated concern from pity and she was loath to see the latter in his eyes.

  Another few seconds passed and she was certain that he would never answer. Finally, however, he stood from the settee and headed toward the door. As he left, she heard him call out, “I’ll
think about it.”

  Chapter Two

  Davenport’s great aunt peeked up at him over the rim of her spectacles the following morning as she considered her next move on the chess board and absorbed this latest bit of gossip. “You’re not really going to consider it.”

  Eleanor said it as a statement, not a question, because she knew him well. Well enough to know that the insipid Claire Cleveland would never be a fit wife for him. Not merely because she was so proper and respectable that the mere thought of her being paired with the Devil of Davenport was laughable, but because she was far too weak, too soft, too refined.

  “No, of course not,” he said. He sighed with impatience as his great aunt took her sweet time studying her pieces on the board, most likely analyzing his future with the same critical eye.

  It seemed everywhere he turned, his marital status—or lack thereof—was of interest to someone. In each case, said person would not be tied to a woman for the rest of his or her life so their opinion mattered little. Though he respected Eleanor immensely and, more importantly, he valued her contribution to the Earldom these past ten years after he’d taken over the title from his deceased father. She’d taken on the duties of a countess as his mother had died in the same carriage accident as his father, and he had been too young to marry.

  And then he’d been too busy to marry, not to mention too unmotivated. His great aunt ran an efficient household and saw to all the other duties of a countess, and it wasn’t as though he required a bride’s dowry or title. So really, there had never been a need to marry. Besides, what single young gentleman actually wanted to be tied down by the noose of marriage? Not him, and not his friends.

  Until recently, that was. Over the past few months matrimony had spread like a taffeta-covered epidemic among his peers. Most notably, his friends at the club. The Wicked Earls’ Club was a place of refuge—a sanctuary in London’s societal jungle. For years it had been the place he could escape to when the persistent mamas and their eager daughters grew to be too much. Most of the other earls at the club had felt the same until recently. One by one he’d watched them fall prey to title-seeking young ladies.

  Now it seemed that he would be next, whether he liked it or not. Early yesterday morning when he’d been leaving the club after yet another debaucherous night within the club’s hallowed halls, his old friend Coventry had stopped him, asking for a chat. The Earl of Coventry ran the Wicked Earls’ Club and seemed to have a keen intuition when it came to his club members’ lives. The man was old enough to be his father and in many ways he’d been better than one—at least better than the one he’d been born to. Coventry, for all his secretive ways, seemed to truly care about him, unlike the man who’d raised him.

  If nothing else, it was impossible to disappoint Coventry and the others as he’d long ago established himself as an ill-tempered rake. They neither expected nor demanded anything different.

  Coventry had taken him aside and asked after Eleanor’s health. In doing so he’d managed to slip more than a few hints into the conversation that it was about time he wed. Cornered in his own club by a man he admired and reminded of his duties—it had been an unpleasant reminder of what he ought to do.

  And then to come home to Anne, of all people, demanding that he take a wife. No, not just any wife. To take her sister as his wife.

  He shook his head as he toyed with one of the white pawns he’d won from his great aunt. A full day had passed and yet he still marveled at her gall. It shouldn’t have surprised him, perhaps; her straightforwardness and her strong will had always been apparent. Yet it had been years since he’d seen her and Anne was no longer a willful child, but a grown woman.

  A beautiful woman. That detail was impossible to ignore.

  A beautiful woman who all but begged him to marry her sister. He shook his head again at her audacity as well as the impossibility of such a match. Whether he intended to or not, he’d surely run roughshod over poor Claire in their first week of marriage. His temperament was far too abrasive for someone like that, even if he did find her of interest. Which he did not. Though he’d teased Anne by pretending not to remember who she was, he’d honestly needed help remembering which sister was Claire.

  Aside from Anne, all the other Cleveland girls had always blended together in his mind to form one pretty, yet utterly boring blonde. He still couldn’t quite picture Claire though his family’s country estate neighbored hers his entire life. In his defense, he hadn’t been back to the Davenport Estate in years, preferring the slightly less haunted surroundings of his London home, as well as the diverting pastimes and brotherly friendships that the club provided.

  His great aunt finally made her move and he leaned forward, his attention turning to his rook and how to block her latest attack against his queen. His focus was so fixed on the game in front of him, he was nearly blindsided by Eleanor’s next statement.

  “You do need to marry, Frederick. It’s well past time,” she said.

  He scowled at the board. “Indeed.” Though he hated to do anything that would please the ton, the fact of the matter was—he was in need of a bride.

  Purely for practical reasons, of course.

  Though he’d spent a lifetime perfecting the image of the Devil of Davenport, he took his role as earl seriously. Not for society’s sake, but for his tenants’. As a peer he was incorrigible, as a landowner, on the other hand, he was as responsible as they came.

  His property needed a countess, whether he liked it or not. His great aunt was getting too old to visit with tenants and ensure their comfort. While he and his steward dealt with the finances, Eleanor had managed the manor and other properties, making sure the staff was content, the housekeeping running smoothly, and the kitchen efficient and of the highest caliber.

  But after her latest bout of illness, he’d had to face facts. Eleanor could no longer run his estates and mind his tenants, much as she might wish to, and he could never ask it of her. Her health was degrading with each passing month, and every doctor advised rest and relaxation.

  Running several households hardly qualified as relaxation.

  “What is the matter with this Claire woman?” Eleanor asked. Her grey eyes were identical to his and filled with mirth. “From the sounds of it, this Anne girl did a fine job of selling her.”

  His lips curved up despite himself at the memory of Anne pleading her sister’s case. To Eleanor, he said, “What kind of proper young lady sends her younger sister to beg for an offer of marriage? Alone and unchaperoned, mind you.”

  He shook his head, but he couldn’t seem to stop smiling at the memory. It was the first time in a long time that someone had surprised him and he was delighted. But delighted or not, he would have to disappoint her by rejecting her proffered sister. There was no other way around it.

  A pang of something uncomfortably similar to guilt had him hesitating before finally moving his rook forward. He’d known that her brother had gotten into financial trouble after their father died—it was no secret in the gaming hells that Jed was drowning in debts. He was one of those unfathomable fellows who never seemed to know when to walk away. He and Jed had parted ways long ago, partly because they began to run with different circles, but also because he’d grown disgusted with Jed’s carelessness when it came to his family’s estate.

  In particular, he’d grown tired of watching his childhood friend piss away his inheritance because he was too weak to say no—to another drink, a pretty face, or one more game of cards. Like Claire, Jed was weak. Soft. Malleable.

  But not Anne. He was struck by another memory of her standing there before him, her posture stiff and her chin held high. Still just as willful and stubborn as ever. Still honest to a fault and startlingly straightforward.

  She didn’t deserve to suffer for Jed’s faults. That was what made his gut churn with that unfamiliar, and quite unwanted, sensation of guilt. But that was ridiculous. Anne and her siblings were not his concern. Despite what she might remember from t
heir childhood, he was not some knight in shining armor as she seemed to hope.

  Once again he saw those eyes, looking at him as though certain that he would come to her aid. To her family’s aid. The churning guilt quickly made him feel irritable as he scowled at the chess board. He was the bloody Devil of Davenport, damn it. Hadn’t she heard?

  Eleanor leaned back, having moved one of her pawns. “My guess is Claire had no notion that her younger sister had arrived on your doorstep pleading her case.”

  He let out a sharp bark of laughter, his irritation ebbing as quickly as it had arisen at his aunt’s perceptive comment. “You’re probably right. No doubt Anne took it upon herself to save the family home.” He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Little hellion.”

  But she no longer resembled the young girl who’d taken to tagging along with him and Jed. She had the same red hair and the same soft blue eyes—but there was nothing girlish about her luscious body. Her features had gone from youthful and rounded to delicate and refined. She looked like a proper young lady—until she opened her mouth. And then he was reminded of the stubborn, headstrong girl he’d known. The one who’d been unafraid to speak her mind or laugh loudly at any joke.

  She’d always been quick to laugh and even quicker to cry. Oh, not like other girls he’d known. She hadn’t mooned over boys or cried over a skinned knee. No, she’d been more prone to weep inconsolably over a bird that had fallen out of its tree or a rabbit swept up by a hawk.

  His hand hovered over the board as another memory surfaced. A little redhead with impossibly kind eyes shedding tears because of the lashes on his back—a punishment for having missed a lesson in something or other.

  His governess hadn’t tattled on him, but his father had found out anyway and taken it upon himself to “beat the devil out of the boy.”