London's Last True Scoundrel

by Christina Brooke

  Then he stopped.

  She couldn’t help it. Her head whipped around. She stared up at him, her eyes widened at the intent expression on his face.

  A flush scalded her cheeks. She’d been determined not to react to his teasing and succeeded for the most part. But the serious look disarmed her. She bit her lip.

  “Stop that,” he ordered, startling her. Gently, he traced her lower lip with his fingertip, freeing it from the anxious clutch of her teeth.

  He took her chin in a decided grip, tilted her face upward.

  She let him do it, entranced by the compelling power of those serious dark eyes. Her heart beat frantically, but her brain had packed its bags and gone on holiday. She couldn’t have strung two thoughts together if her life depended upon it.

  On a muttered oath, his mouth descended to hers and took command. His lips were hot and she was so very, very cold. His heat radiated outward, down her body, flowing through her, right to her toes.

  He lifted her, pressed her more firmly against his body, warming her twice over. His arms, tight around her, his lips searching, drinking her in.

  And his tongue. Oh, goodness, his tongue traced her lower lip, soothing, teasing. A gasp of shock made her lips part. Accepting an invitation she’d no notion of issuing, he licked inside, a languid, lascivious slide of his tongue that only seemed to make her heart pound harder and her knees go weak.

  Finally, he raised his head. “Honey.” He said it on a ragged laugh. “I shall call you Honey, because you taste so very sweet.”

  That made her shove away from him so hard she almost fell off his horse. “Put me down. Set me down this instant.”

  His arm merely tightened around her. Heat glazed his eyes.

  “No.”

  A thrill of fearful excitement speared through her, and wasn’t that the opposite reaction to the one she ought to have? She’d always known her deVere blood would get her into trouble one day. If she’d resisted him as soon as he’d tried to kiss her, she’d be free now.

  To her relief—or disappointment, she didn’t know which—he didn’t try it again but merely urged the horse forward.

  After a few moments, he asked, “Who lives in this house?”

  “My brothers,” she said shakily, not knowing whether to be glad or sorry for his change of subject. “They are large and ferocious. I daresay they would delight in adding a few extra bruises to your collection when I tell them what you’ve done.”

  He brightened. Not the reaction she’d hoped for. “Really? Who are they, your brothers?”

  “Thomas and Benedict deVere,” she said, hoping their reputations preceded them. “So you see—”

  He laughed. “But I know them. At least, I know Tom. Well, well,” he said, eyeing her in a way that did not bode well at all. “So you’re a deVere.”

  He seemed to find the circumstance vastly entertaining.

  She was not amused.

  “This does not constitute an introduction,” she said.

  “Honey, I’d say we’re well past the introduction stage, wouldn’t you? But that’s all right. I like calling you Honey.”

  Casually, as if the matter wasn’t anything of particular interest, he said, “I’m the Earl of Davenport, you know.”

  “Davenport?” She frowned. “But I thought the earl was an older man.”

  His lips twisted in a parody of a smile. “What? You haven’t heard? Where have you been these past few months, in a convent? No, no, you are thinking of my cousin Bertram. He succeeded me.”

  “Succeeded you?” Now she was thoroughly confused.

  “I was dead, you see,” he explained, as if that were the most reasonable thing in the world. “My cousin inherited. But then they found I wasn’t dead after all, so I am now the earl. And he is not.”

  “But…” Oh, dear Heaven, it couldn’t be.

  Her body went hot, then cold, then hot again. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she might faint. Hilary closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, then opened them again.

  “What is your first name, my lord?”

  “Jonathon,” he said. Then he flashed a genuine smile. “I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking. My dear Honey, this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  He bent toward her, with that teasing lilt to his lips she utterly abhorred. He meant to kiss her again? He actually meant to—

  “Ooh!”

  For the first time in her polite, faultless life, Hilary drew back her hand and slapped her irritating companion’s face.

  * * *

  His reflexes were nothing short of spectacular, for he dodged her flying palm, making the blow glance past him rather than connect. But Hilary had put her full force into the slap; when her palm mostly met air, there was nothing to stop her momentum. She pitched forward and tumbled off the horse.

  And somehow, he was falling with her, wrapping his arms about her, shielding her body but not completely saving her from the teeth-jarring impact of the ground rushing up to meet them.

  “Ooph!”

  Winded, she gasped for air, sprawled out on top of the big, bruised brute. Then she laid into him with her fists, pummeling that rock-hard chest.

  He chose to let her hit him this time; even through the haze of rage she knew he could subdue her easily if he wished. The confounded man didn’t even flinch.

  “Enough.” He gripped her wrists, and a steely glint in those dark eyes told her she’d ignited his temper, too.

  She tried to lift her knee to his privates, but with a buck of the hips he rolled so he was on top of her, his own knees pinning her down by her skirts, his body crushing her. She felt the wet mud squish beneath her back. Her pelisse would be ruined, but what did the Earl of Davenport care for that? Or for anything about her.

  “What is wrong with you?” Davenport shouted down at her.

  “You don’t know, do you?” she fumed. “You truly do not know. The name deVere does not ring any bells with you, does it, my lord?”

  “Bells?” He shook his head, and she could see his astonishment was genuine.

  “Wedding bells, to be precise,” she bit off. “You oaf! We were betrothed, you and I. You cannot have forgotten.”

  He looked first thunderstruck, then appalled. “Nonsense. I’ve never been betrothed in my life. We’ve never even met.”

  “Our parents arranged it, and I—I—” Her throat worked. “All these years, I thought you were dead.”

  “It was a mistake,” he muttered, watching her warily. “Oh, no, no, don’t do that. Don’t cry. I’m back, you see? You needn’t pine for a dead man anymore. You can go and get yourself shackled to someone else.”

  That cleared up any urge to weep. She freed her wrist from his slackened grasp and struck him again on the chest. “Pine for you? Pine for you? I was doing very well without you.”

  But she realized now that she had not done so very well without him. She’d marked time, waiting for … what? Had she known, deep down, that he’d come back from the dead? What a foolish thought.

  He’d been her own private tragedy, bravely borne, a secret she’d hugged to herself.

  She’d never met him, that much was true, so she hadn’t felt his loss on a personal level. But she’d built up the Earl of Davenport in her head to such a god-like creature that no mere mortal could replace him. She’d grieved for him. Prayed for his soul.

  The dastard.

  He’d asked if she’d lived in a convent. She might as well have; Miss Tollington’s was so cut off from the world that Hilary hadn’t heard of Davenport’s return. That must have been quite an event.

  “You and I are not betrothed,” asserted Davenport. “That I would remember.”

  “They never told you.” She spoke the thought out loud.

  “I’m not the marrying kind, actually,” he said, watching her with distinct unease. “Deeply sorry if my parents raised expectations. They had a habit of doing that, I believe. But there it is.”

  The id
iot thought she wanted to marry him now?

  “Get off me!” she told him.

  “Oh, right.” He removed himself and stood. Then he held out a hand to help her up.

  There was a great sucking sound as he hauled her out of the mire. The clothes were plastered to her back, wet, horridly uncomfortable. Could this day get any worse?

  She stalked over to his horse, which had been standing, quiescent, while all of this went on.

  Wrestling with the ties holding her bandbox in place, she said crossly, “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive.”

  “Now that shows excellent judgment on your part,” he said in an approving tone that made her want to hit him again.

  Suddenly it occurred to her that she’d behaved abominably. No matter what the provocation, a lady should never hit a gentleman, for he could not fight back.

  That was one of the many precepts she’d instilled into her young charges at Miss Tollington’s. Yet here she was, covered in mud, with stinging knuckles. And she’d brought all of that on herself.

  She bit her lip.

  It behooved her, as a lady, to apologize.

  She still wanted to scream at him, but she made herself turn and look the Earl of Davenport in the eye. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, girded her loins—oh, dear, ladies were not supposed to think of their loins.…

  She thought of his loins instead, the ones that had been pressed against her most intimately a few seconds ago.

  A sizzle of heat passed through her. She tamped it down.

  Stiffly, she said, “I apologize for hitting you, my lord.”

  “Oh, think nothing of it.” He waved her away. “People are always hitting me. I don’t regard it, I assure you.”

  She gritted her teeth. “It was conduct unbefitting a lady.”

  “But the provocation was severe,” he said in a soothing tone that made her want to fly at him again.

  Hilary felt a growl rumble low in her throat. How did he bring out this violent streak in her? She had never, not once, raised a hand to her brothers, and they could try the patience of a saint.

  Lord Davenport would turn a saint homicidal, she thought resentfully.

  “Still, I should not have done it,” she said. “I am sorry.”

  She made herself hold out her hand. “Now I must thank you for seeing me safely home.”

  She realized that the rain had all but stopped, though one could see from the black clouds on the horizon that the storm had not passed.

  He grasped her hand. The wary look in his eyes had vanished. A wicked gleam took its place.

  “Good-bye.” She gave his hand a decided shake and tried to get free.

  He held on. “But I shall see you to your door, of course. As a gentleman should.”

  “It’s not necessary,” she said.

  “I insist.”

  “I am not getting on that horse again.”

  “Of course not. You’ll muddy the saddle.”

  He smiled at her, his charm returning in full force now that the imminent danger of matrimony was past. “We’ll walk.”

  * * *

  Davenport had never heard sweeter music than Honey’s voice telling him she wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on earth. For a few minutes there, she’d had him terrified.

  But now that nightmare prospect had vanished, he intended to stay around and annoy her as much as possible. Annoying Honey was proving to be the best entertainment he’d had in years.

  She insisted on scurrying away to change, so he left her bandboxes in the care of a manservant and took the farmer’s nag around to the stables.

  Grooming horses was a way to keep one’s hands occupied while one cogitated on serious conundrums. He’d lived in his head most of the time as a younger man, and something about the rhythmic, mindless activity of rubbing a horse down had always assisted the thought processes.

  He’d come up with his best insights not in his laboratory, but in the stables.

  That was all done with now, of course. He had neither the resources nor the inclination to embark on further scientific study. That belonged to another lifetime.

  Only after it had been taken away from him did he realize how greatly his work had isolated him. Only when he couldn’t go back to see his family and friends did he realize how much he’d taken them for granted while he’d been in their midst.

  Well, he was back now, and look what his nearest and dearest had done to him. Drugged him, beaten him, shipped him off to the country.

  And all of that had led to a most entertaining afternoon.

  He thought of Miss Primness forcing herself to apologize to him over her outburst and chuckled. Hadn’t that just about stuck in her throat?

  Worth almost breaking his neck and his leg to fall with her into the mud. He could still feel the soft roundness of her petite body beneath him, the enticing V at the juncture of her thighs …

  Given his injuries, he ought to be crippled with agony, but when he’d stared into those fuming, sizzling golden brown eyes of hers, he’d felt no pain.

  He finished with the big gelding and flipped a coin to one of the stable hands. “This horse belongs at Pruett’s farm. Take him back there, will you, with the Earl of Davenport’s compliments and thanks.”

  All but rubbing his hands in anticipation, he strode back to the house.

  Wrotham Grange was a ramshackle establishment, whose primary form of decoration was moth-eaten tapestries, dark medieval-looking furniture, and dog hair. The place smelled only a few degrees better than a kennel.

  There did not seem to be any female servants, which probably accounted for the pervasive sense of neglect.

  How did a delicate morsel of propriety like Honey live in such a place? He was not exactly famed for his fastidiousness, but he balked at this level of slovenliness.

  He heard voices coming from a room behind closed doors. Not all of them were masculine.

  His brows drawing together, Davenport knocked.

  A rough, slurring voice bade him enter.

  The sight that met his eyes would send poor Honey into a fit of convulsions.

  He’d seen more refined orgies in a brothel. A fire roared in the hearth, no doubt to warm the many acres of bare flesh that quivered and jounced about the place in wild abandon.

  At second glance, he realized there were fewer present than he’d thought. Four females and two men. The men, mercifully, were still fully clothed. The women appeared to be performing some sort of peep show for their entertainment and cavorted about in various states of undress.

  He recognized Tom deVere from their time together at Eton. DeVere was a big man, stockier than he’d been at school, a hard rider to hounds with dirty blond hair and a broken nose. His younger brother, Benedict, was even larger. Both of them sprawled in overstuffed chairs in their shirtsleeves, guzzling wine straight from the bottle and calling out lewd instructions to their female companions.

  Ah, yes. Brothers who whore together …

  “Good God! ’S Davenport,” said Tom, peering up at him owlishly.

  “Who?” grunted Benedict, without taking his gaze from the tarts.

  Davenport felt something cold and wet nudge his hand. He turned to see a spaniel gazing up at him imploringly. He held the door open and the canine shot out of the drawing room, as if released from prison.

  One of the girls, a dark-haired plump and rosy morsel with enormous breasts, sashayed toward him.

  “Hello, lover,” she purred in a husky, low voice. “Fancy a bit of the other, then?”

  Lord Davenport looked down at her and smiled.

  * * *

  A chorus of high-pitched, excited barks greeted Hilary as she walked into the hall. The muted thunder of dog paws grew louder. Hilary braced herself to be mobbed by a multitude of furry bodies that wriggled in delight.

  Laughing, Hilary pushed inquisitive muzzles from her skirts, distributing pats and ear scratches among her brothers’ many hunting dogs and
receiving slobbery licks and a liberal covering of dog hair into the bargain.

  She ought to have more care for her clothing, but her pelisse was so dirty and disheveled, the dog hair scarcely mattered. Besides, this was all the welcome home she was likely to get.

  “There you are, Lucy.” Her favorite pointer was too old to go hunting now and leaned against Hilary’s thigh, waiting patiently for her turn. Hilary gently pulled on the pointer’s velvety ear.

  Their grizzled old manservant emerged from the dark corridor, glaring at her balefully. His sharp, “Out!” sent the dogs careering off again, Lucy loping gently at the rear.

  “Hello, Hodgins,” said Hilary, peeling off her wet gloves. “Are my brothers at home?”

  “Uh, yes, miss. In a manner of speaking.” He took her gloves and received the sodden mass of bonnet gingerly.

  “I fear you will have to dispose of the hat. I, er, met with an accident.”

  An accident by the name of Davenport.

  She pressed fingertips to her lips, remembering the kiss that had preceded her fall into the mud. Thinking of it made her hot and uncomfortable, even a little dizzy, as if she were falling from that big horse all over again.

  Heavens, she needed to get hold of herself. “Ask Trixie to look at the gloves and see what she can do, will you?” she said to Hodgins. “Perhaps they might be saved. I shall go up and change. Would you have a bath drawn for me, please?”

  “Aye, miss.”

  Hodgins’s grizzled head jerked up, as if he heard a noise. His beetling brows lowered in dudgeon.

  “Carriage,” he grunted.

  He nodded toward the potholed drive, where a smart barouche drew up outside the open front door. Hodgins was never happy about visitors. They meant more work.

  “Good gracious,” said Hilary, peering out. “Who on earth could be calling when I’ve only just returned?” Her brothers rarely entertained company at this hour of the day.

  A fashionably dressed lady of middling years alighted from the vehicle. Hilary frowned. A lady who looked like that would not be calling on her brothers. She must be here to see Hilary. But how could that be?

  Before Hilary could collect her wits enough to scuttle out of sight, a dazzlingly liveried footman appeared at the door. With a bow, he handed Hodgins a snowy white card.