London's Last True Scoundrel (24 page)

The last thing a sensible woman wanted was to be married to a profligate, no matter how handsome and charming he might be. Why, he was probably visiting some woman even now, doing with her what he’d wanted to do with Hilary.

Denial beat within her, but she must face the truth about him. Jonathon, Lord Davenport, was every bit as black as he was painted.

Even his loving family—and they did love him; that much was evident—did not believe him capable of honorable conduct or fidelity.

A strange ache settled in her chest.

He’d said he’d call on her but the hours ticked by with no sign of him. Mrs. Walker bade her farewell and rustled out to an engagement, trailing a cloud of pungent perfume behind her. Hilary dined alone on cold meat and cheese.

Waiting for Davenport to come, she felt jumpy, impatient, frustrated. She needed to have a private conversation with him, to assure him she did not intend to make him honor his engagement, to reassure herself that they both understood the rules of this mad-brained scheme.

If only she might send for him to attend her now. But a proper lady did not receive a gentleman alone, and certainly not at this hour.

“There you are, miss.” Trixie bustled in. “What a job I’ve had getting here. His lordship said as how I must come to you directly. Did you have to stop on the road? Did you get your hands on his—”

“Oh, Trixie!” Hilary put her arms around the girl and hugged her, hot tears springing to her eyes.

The maid rubbed her shoulder, then drew back to look into her face. “Why, Miss Hilary, whatever is the matter? Ain’t you in London about to have your debut, just like you always wanted?”

“You haven’t met our hostess,” said Hilary darkly. She turned away to dash the salty liquid from her eyes.

“Oh, she’s all right,” said Trixie. “No better than she should be, according to her servants, but that’s no surprise. Most of the highborn ladies in London change lovers faster’n’ they change their linen, mark my words.”

“Yes, but, she’s so … so … vulgar,” said Hilary, wringing her hands. “I know it doesn’t become me to speak of her that way when she has been so kind as to sponsor me, but I did hope…”

She plumped down on the bed, watching Trixie rearrange the clothing Mrs. Walker’s maid had put away to her own liking. “Oh, Trix. You should have seen the bedchamber they gave me at Tregarth House. And Lady Tregarth is so very beautiful and elegant and … and everything I’ve ever dreamed—”

She broke off, as a thought occurred to her. “Your ankle. You’re not limping anymore.”

Trixie widened her eyes. “My ankle’s ever so much better now, miss, thank you kindly for asking.”

“You went from being unable to walk at all to this in one day?” Hilary narrowed her eyes. She set her hands on her hips. “You weren’t hurt at all, were you?”

The maid turned away to fuss with Hilary’s underthings, as if unable to hold her gaze.

Hilary’s ire grew. “Davenport put you up to it!”

Trixie sniffed, unrepentant. “I did it for you, if you must know, Miss Hilary. You deserve a bit of fun and his lordship is just about the best fun there is, if I’m any judge of the matter.”

“Then please, do me no more favors,” said Hilary bitterly. “My guardian says I’ve been compromised. I am now engaged to Lord Davenport. It’s temporary,” she said hurriedly, before Trixie could speak. “It’s also a secret, so don’t go telling all and sundry.”

“Lawks,” breathed Trixie, her jaw dropping. “Never say he proposed.”

“Of course not.”

The maid’s brow furrowed. “Then how—”

“Well, he had to say something, didn’t he?” said Hilary, throwing up her hands. “Lord deVere painted me as the veriest trollop, and they were all staring down their noses at me as if I were a—a smudge on the carpet. It was awful, Trix. So when he told them we were engaged, I agreed,” she added lamely.

“Bless my soul,” breathed Trixie. “And how did his family take it?”

Hilary swallowed. “Not well.”

Trixie sat down next to her on the bed and sighed. “You’re in the suds now, Miss Hilary, and no mistake.”

Hilary nodded. “I know. But if we can only keep the betrothal secret, we might brush through it all right.”

A faint hope. Too many people knew of the engagement already, and deVere had every reason to make it public. However, coming to London at all had been but a faint hope three weeks ago.

Now that she was here with those prized Almack’s vouchers dancing just beyond her grasp, she was even more determined to achieve the dream she’d harbored secretly all her life.

It wasn’t as if she asked for a palace or a prince, or even a wealthy, fashionable existence. All she’d ever wanted was security, stability. A kind, calm man she might settle down with and be happy.

She merely needed a way to be rid of her gorgeous, rakish, infuriating secret fiancé first. Her only consolation was that he would be equally eager to be rid of her.

Ignoring the hollow feeling in her chest, Hilary lifted her chin. There was no cause for despair. Davenport might not want her, but perhaps some other gentleman might.

She smiled warmly at her maid. “I’m so glad you’re here, Trix. You cannot imagine how your presence has lifted my spirits.”

“It was a near-run thing, miss, I don’t mind telling you,” said Trixie, shaking out clothes and folding them, as if the maids in Mrs. Walker’s establishment didn’t know their work. “We was coming back from the smithy, John the coachman and Billy and me, when who should rumble out of the inn, fuming and swearing, but the master and Mr. Benedict?”

Hilary feigned shock. “Do you mean my brothers followed us?”

“That they did, miss. They’d got into a fight, goodness knows how, and then there they were, bleeding and cursing and staggering about. If they hadn’t been so worse for wear, they would have tanned Billy’s hide for running out on them like that.”

“Oh, no,” said Hilary, stricken. “How thoughtless of me. I expected them to blame me. Are you all right, Trixie?”

“Of course,” she scoffed. “If I don’t know how to handle the master by now, you can call me a ninny.”

“They must have been furious about the carriage,” said Hilary.

“Not a bit. They never use it anyway, do they? And Lord Davenport ordered the repairs to be done at his expense, so that’s all right.”

“Are—are they coming after me?” She didn’t know whether to hope for it or pray they’d turn around and go home.

“Bless you, no,” said Trixie. “All they cared about was getting their horses back. And John and Billy, too. Only, somewhere along the line they decided a spree in London would be a fine idea. But they told me to tell you they wash their hands of you and if you expect them to squire you about to parties and such, you can think again.”

Hilary digested this and tried to identify her reaction. Relief, certainly. She wasn’t disappointed or even saddened by this evidence of her brothers’ priorities. Her brothers had never cared a button for her. She’d known that for many years.

She only very occasionally wished they’d prove her wrong.

“What about you, Trixie?” she said. “Did they try to force you to return to the Grange?”

Trixie avoided her gaze. “Oh, no, miss. Besides, Lord Davenport offered me a handsome sum if I came with you to London, so I’m sticking to my side of the bargain.”

Her gaze flickered to Hilary and away again. “I’m doing it for the money o’course. A girl has to look out for herself, you know.”

Hilary flew up to hug her maid, startling her so much she dropped the petticoat she held.

“Thank you,” whispered Hilary. “I shall never forget it.”

Trixie had no sooner left for the night when Hilary heard a soft tapping. She rose from her dressing table to open the door.

No one there.

The tapping grew more insistent, and went for longer this time. Hilary whirled around to see a figure at the window. A muffled shriek escaped her before she realized who it was.

Davenport.

She hurried over and threw up the sash. “How on earth did you get up here? Come inside, before someone sees you.”

He climbed over the sill, ducking his head as he folded his big body almost double to fit through the open window. As soon as he’d cleared the sill, Hilary darted forward to pull down the window and yank the curtains shut.

“Fortunately, I’m adept at climbing into ladies’ windows,” said Davenport, brushing a cobweb off his shoulder. He cast a glance around him. “Good God!”

He prowled around the room, inspecting it, curling his lip with aristocratic disdain at the mishmash of exotic styles.

“What are you
doing
here?” she whispered.

She’d waited forever for him to come, but now it was far too late for him to be paying calls and most improper to do it in her bedchamber, of all places.

If he was found here, there would be hell to pay. Thank goodness Mrs. Walker had gone out for the evening or they’d be forced to marry as soon as the special license could be fetched.

He went to the door and closed it with a soft click. Then he turned and regarded her. “I’ve come to visit my betrothed, as I promised I would.”

The heat in his usually merry dark eyes made Hilary nervous. She retreated behind a spindly little chair. As if
that
would stop him, but still, she had to do something.

“I—I must express my gratitude for your chivalry today,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “Needless to say, I wouldn’t dream of holding you to the arrangement.”

“Gratitude is unnecessary,” he told her. “I had my reasons for giving them the lie, and those reasons had nothing to do with chivalry.”

So, it was all meant to be a fabrication. Good. Excellent. At least she knew for certain now where she stood.

Her brow furrowed. “Why, what do you have to gain by it?”

He opened his mouth as if he would tell her, then shut it. “Never mind. But don’t go casting me as some prince in a fairy tale. My motives are rarely pure.”

She thought he protested too much, but she didn’t argue the point.

A sudden smile lit his features. “That’s a fetching ensemble you’re barely wearing.”

She glanced down at herself. In the heat of the moment, she hadn’t even grabbed a wrapper.

He crossed the floor to her, picked up the chair behind which she’d retreated, and set it aside.

Then he stood looking down at her, a smiling question in his eyes.

Hilary swallowed. He crowded her vision with those wide shoulders and that deep, muscular chest. She inhaled his scent, clean and somehow spicy.

Something deeply feminine within her responded to all this patent masculinity. In spite of every precept she held dear, a yearning unfurled within her, wrapped its fine tendrils around her vitals, and tugged.

Nervously she faltered, “We might be betrothed, but it’s a sham, as you said. It certainly doesn’t give you the right to enter my bedchamber, or—or, take liberties.…” She trailed off.

He remained silent, looking down at her. She felt his heat. He was so close, she could smell the starch in his cravat.

“Of
course
I won’t hold you to the engagement,” she faltered. “I don’t want to marry you any more than you want me.”

“But I
do
want you,” he said, swiftly capitalizing on her slip of the tongue. He reached out to brush the backs of his fingers down her cheek. In a low, soft tone he added, “I thought I made that clear at the outset.”

Resisting the urge to lean into his stroking like a cat being petted, she pleated her fingers together. “You said that to tease me. I know it is difficult for you when people insist on believing the worst, but—”

“You see, when it comes to me,” he said, reaching out to set his hand on her waist, “
people
are so often right.”

He drew her toward him so that their torsos almost touched.

Hilary was breathing hard now, almost whimpering with the effort of restraint. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, to seek shelter and comfort after the trials of the day. How strange that in a world she’d longed for since she was seventeen her only ally should be this man, this scoundrel.

She didn’t believe his denial of chivalry. He’d saved her, hadn’t he? She’d been trapped like a fox surrounded by baying hounds, and he’d come to her rescue in the nick of time.

Her insides melted at the recollection. The relief of his intervention had threatened to overwhelm her.

There it was again, that intent, searching look, glazed with heat. It burned into her, made her insides clench and her hand tremble in his.

“I am going to prove them right about us,” he said. “I want you, Honey. I want to be inside you, to pleasure you.”

Sinful words, but they made her shudder a little in places she rarely thought about. In the pit of her belly, between her legs.

His arm stole around her while one fingertip traced her mouth. So gentle, so beguiling, she lost the thread of her thoughts. Though his breath came as easily as his smile, she sensed tension in him, too, as if he held himself on a tight rein.

Yet all he did was brush the slightly rough pad of one finger over her lower lip, over and over.

Her lips parted on a gasp.

He dipped the fingertip inside a small way, moistening it on her tongue. Then he gave a soft groan, as if restraining himself was too much agony to bear.

“By Jupiter, Honey, you’ll be the death of me.”

*   *   *

The urgency hadn’t left Davenport’s body, much as he’d willed it away. When the wetness of her mouth surrounded the tip of his finger, the hot thrill of it jolted like lightning, straight down to his cock.

And then he was reversing their positions, pushing her up against the wall, leaning in, palms against the silk hangings either side of her head.

Her beautiful breasts rose and fell rapidly, drawing his attention. It was a dilemma to know which part of her to feast on first.

He must remember that she was new to lovemaking. He must not rush her.

Damn, but that was going to be difficult.

“My lord, you must stop this,” she breathed, but her tone lacked conviction. Her breathing was ragged with desire.

“I know. But I can’t.”