Scandalized by a Scoundrel (10 page)

Flirting with Fortune

“So this is the lady who belongs to the scent of lilacs. How lovely of you to come out and join me.”

He was amused. 

She was not.

Never mind that the almost musical lilt of his Scottish-tinged accent sent a shiver down the back of Bea’s already chilled neck. If he knew she was there, he should have had the decency to say as much. Embarrassment stiffened her spine—Lord she must look a fool. With as much dignity as one in her position could muster, she extracted herself from the heavy drapes and shook out her skirts. “Yes, well, since you wouldn’t leave like a proper gentleman, it seems as though I had little choice.”

He lifted a dark eyebrow, tilting his head just enough so that a lock of midnight black hair fell across his temple. “I do beg your pardon. I should have left the moment I realized there was a debutant-shaped lump behind the curtains.”

Well, when he said it like that. She lifted her chin regally. “Pardon granted, Mr…?”

She waited, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he pushed away from the wall, closing the distance between them with measured, unhurried steps. He wasn’t overly tall, but he had a certain presence about him, as if he could command an army, if so inclined. She couldn’t have taken her eyes from him if she wanted to.

With every step he took, her heart beat seemed to increase, until it fluttered like a caged bird beneath her breast.  He wasn’t traditionally handsome, not like her brother or even her brother-in-law.  His appeal was much more intense than that. His jaw looked as sharp as if it were carved from granite, and already possessed the slightest hint of dark stubble. His cheeks angled high, almost like a woman’s, but his bold, masculine brow provided exactly enough counterbalance to give his features exquisite symmetry and depth.  Such unique beauty made her fingers itch to take up her brushes and commit his visage to canvas. 

Her gaze was too bold by half, but he didn’t seem to mind her inspection. In fact, he watched her right back, his flint-colored eyes seeming to take in everything about her, leaving her feeling quite exposed. “Now, now, we haven’a been introduced. I wouldn’a want to break protocol at my very first ball.  Unless, of course, it is your wish, Miss…?”

Beatrice almost smiled. She’d as soon walk naked through the ballroom than tell him who she was. A lady did
not
get caught hiding behind curtains.  “Yes, well…I suppose rules are rules.” 

She realized then the importance of what he had said: This was his first ball.  There was no doubt in her mind that he was the mystery guest Lady Churly was so eager to present. Who
was
this man? He was five-and-twenty if he was a day, so why had he never been to a ball? Beatrice’s curiosity rebelled with an almost physical force, but she firmly tamped it down. She was dying to know who he was, this man with the lyrical voice, compelling features, and the unmistakable air of mystery, but not at the price of revealing her own identity.

“Indeed.” He paused at exactly the proper distance away and folded his arms, considering her. “Although I suspect that you doona always play by the rules.” He nodded to the curtains behind her.

This time she did smile. “My character exposed in two minutes or less.  Alas, I cannot deny it. Following the rules will gain you naught but a stellar reputation and a tremendously boring life.” Her older siblings, Evie and Richard, had taught her that much.

His answering smile was nearly as delicious as his accent, his perfectly bowed upper lip curving to reveal beautiful white teeth. Beatrice pressed her lips together.  She hated the crooked front tooth that marred her own smile.

“Then you’d think me very tedious, indeed, I’m afraid,” he said, mock regret weighting his tone. “I must admit, I am a rule follower to a fault.”

She very nearly rolled her eyes. Any man with a face like that couldn’t possibly be boring. “I don’t believe you. If you were a rule follower, you would never have waited for me to emerge. Speaking alone with a strange female in a darkened gallery is not exactly perfect protocol.”

Lifting a shoulder in a sort of half shrug, his grin widened. “Then it is a very good thing that you doona know my name. I’d hate to have it bandied about that I was anything less than a perfect gentleman upon my entrance into society.”

“And if we encounter each other by chance?”

“Then I’ll throw myself upon your mercy to protect my reputation. In fact, perhaps I should do so now. Preemptively, so as I know I’m safe.”

She crossed her arms and nodded, unable to resist playing along.  There was something about the anonymity of the moment that was almost intoxicating, like a first sip of champagne.  “Very well—you may commence groveling.”

He dipped his head gravely. “As you wish. Though I wonder, how should I address you?” He took in her elegant gown and the emeralds decorating her ears and neck. “Princess, perhaps?”

“I should think not,” she said, wrinkling her nose. That was the very last thing she would wish to be called. Though she was the daughter of a marquis, she was no overly privileged, dreadfully coddled princess. “I value my freedom much too fervently for that.”

“Clearly.” Even in the low light, she could see the irony in his gaze. Which was a good thing, since it was deuced hard to detect it in the lilt of his accent. “
A stór
,
then. It suits you, I think.”

“A story? How on earth does that suit me?”

“Not ‘
a story’
,” he said, pantomiming opening a book. “
A stór
.
My treasure.”

She sucked in a surprised breath, warmth infusing her whole body before flooding her face. His
treasure
? Her heart shuddered within her. There was something shockingly intimate about being called such a thing by a near complete stranger. 

Before she could think of a response, he chuckled.  “As in
buried
treasure. Unearthed from the depths of the curtains. I didna mean to imply anything else.”

“Of course not,” she replied, nodding as though her mind hadn’t gone directly to that ‘something else’.  “You may call me whatever you wish. Now, on with the groveling, if you please—I’ll be missed if I remain much longer.” Hopefully, the soft strains of music from the ballroom disguised the breathlessness of her voice.

He stepped forward, bringing them closer than even the most liberal of hosts would have deemed proper.  He put a hand to his heart and dipped his head to hers. Mischief lit his eyes, subtly challenging her. She blinked—why did he suddenly look so familiar?

“I beg you,
a stór
,
from the very depths of me—could you find it in your heart to have mercy on my depraved soul? Could you carry this encounter close to your breast, not to be revealed under threat of death, or worse—gossip?”

Good heavens, he was positively mesmerizing when he put his mind to it. The soft, lilting tones of his voice washed over her skin like warm silk, and she only just suppressed the shiver that flitted down her spine. Doing her best to sound lightly amused, she said, “Very well, you have my mercy. It was a pleasure
not
to meet you, sir.  I do hope you enjoy the ball.”

With a reluctance that surprised her, she started to turn.

“Perhaps,” he said, drawing her attention to him once more, “you’d save a dance for me.”

She lifted her brow. “Ah, but that would require an introduction, would it not?” Even so, the offer was absurdly tempting. The idea of being pulled into his arms was almost enough to make her forget that dancing wasn’t her forte.

“An excellent point, to which I offer this solution: If by the end of the night, you wish to take me up on my offer, then I leave it to you to seek an introduction to me. Seeing how I now have assurance of your mercy, of course.”

Beatrice drew back in surprise. “Seek an introduction to
you
? I do hate to disabuse you of whatever opinion you have formed of me in these past few minutes, but I am
not
a desperate woman. I assure you, I will be seeking an introduction to no one.”

He didn’t look the least bit disappointed, or the slightest bit offended.  Instead, the corners of his eyes crinkled in an almost imperceptible smile. Dipping his head in the approximation of a bow, he said, “Your prerogative.  However, I do feel it prudent to clarify that I was giving you the option of
not
being introduced, should you wish to remain anonymous. I assure you it was not meant to disparage your prospects. I of course shall respect your decision.”

He certainly had a way with words. Was it the accent or his sentiment that muddled her brain and had her leaning the slightest bit forward? “Er, thank you.” Already she was feeling like a ninny for having reacted as she did.

“You’re welcome. And just so you know,” he said, slipping a gloved hand beneath hers and lifting her fingers to his lips for a feather soft kiss that had her holding her breath all over again. “I’ll be keeping the last dance free.”

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A Taste for Scandal

“Buy an apple, guv? Best in London, they is.”

Richard paused as a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a kerchief over her dark hair stepped in his way. Offering his most charming smile, he said, “The best in London, you say? Well, I have no doubt they are, madam. However, I am quite set for apples. If only you had said scones. I do so adore a great scone.” He winked at her, and was pleased to see a blush rise up her tanned cheeks. “I will, however, buy one for your next customer.”

He flipped her a coin, and she giggled as she caught it. “That’s right decent of you, guv. Sure I can’t offer you nothin’ else?” She gave her ample bosom a shake, and he chuckled and shook his head.

“Tempting, madam, but alas, I fear you are just too young for me.” She laughed out loud at this, and he sketched a shallow bow. “I bid you good day.”

“Cor, ’tis sure to be, now!”

He grinned and walked on, dodging a gangly young man as he darted past. Everyone seemed to move with great purpose, shouting to be heard above the clanking wagons and clomping of horse hooves. It had a rather—he searched for the right word—bustle-ly charm to it.

What was that
?

Richard came up short, glancing around. He would have sworn he’d heard a woman scream. Around him, harried vendors continued to call out their wares as vehicles rumbled noisily up and down the cobblestone street. No one showed any sign that they had heard a cry of distress, too.

Still, he was certain he had heard it. He squinted past the glaring sunlight reflecting off the surrounding shop windows to peer at the interiors. Nothing amiss in the spice store or the candle maker’s shop. Striding forward, Richard looked into the small bakery past the spice shop just in time to see a large man in dark clothing advance on a young woman who stood behind the waist-high counter. Her eyes were wide with shock as she pressed her hands over her mouth.

Damn it all—the bounder was going to attack her!

Without a second thought, Richard pushed through the door and leapt at the man, slamming against a back that was every bit as solid as a stable door. Richard had the advantage of a running start, and his momentum knocked them both over the counter in a cloud of powdered sugar and curses. Together they crashed to the wood floor with a bone rattling thud, pastries raining down on them as glass and pottery shattered nearby. Good God, the man was an ox—easily twice the size of the dainty young woman who yelped and scrambled out of the way as they flailed about on the floor.

Jamming his elbow between the man’s shoulder blades, Richard landed a solid punch to the attacker’s lower back. Pain erupted in his knuckles and Richard cursed and shook his hand. Bloody hell, perhaps the man was made of wood after all. Barn Door grunted and squirmed, calling out hoarsely for him to get off.

As if Richard would have mercy on the moralless man—and if that wasn’t a word, it bloody well should be. Attacking a defenseless woman in broad daylight was utterly unconscionable.
For good measure, Richard ground his elbow harder into his opponent’s spine. It wasn’t every day one had the opportunity to rescue a lady and thrash the scurrilous villain
.

“I’m going for help!” the woman shouted, and he looked over his shoulder in time to see her dash for the door and disappear. Barn Door took the opportunity to twist around and land a meaty fist against Richard’s temple, slamming him into the purple cabinets lining the wall. The screech of more breaking dishes clashed with the ringing in Richard’s ears as he fought back, grappling with the larger man to maintain his position.

Richard finally got his arms hooked around the bounder’s elbows and locked them into place behind the criminal’s back. Panting, his hair hanging limply in his eyes, Richard secured his hold on the struggling man beneath him. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“What the bloody ’ell do you think you’re doing? Get your filthy hands off me, you betwattled fool.”

Instead of responding, Richard simply tightened his hold, drawing his opponent’s arms back even farther behind him. He adjusted his position so he was more or less sitting on the man. Barn Door tensed and sputtered beneath him, grunting with pain as Richard tugged sharply upward. Served the blackguard right; Richard’s left eye hurt like the devil. He tsked and said, “I wouldn’t struggle, were I you. It will only make me pull harder, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Richard chuckled as the rotter growled in frustration. He hadn’t had this much fun since university. Things were always so damned civilized at Gentleman Jackson’s, it had been ages since he had really been able to let loose. He was no bruiser, but he could certainly hold his own. As he had just proved. He grinned to himself, tossing his head in an attempt to get the hair from his eyes.

The front door burst open, causing the bell situated above it to jangle violently at the intrusion as the woman and two men stumbled into the room. She was smaller than he’d realized, dwarfed by the two brutes beside her. She was damn lucky he had shown up when he did.

“That’s him, right there!” she panted, pointing to where Richard and his prisoner lay on the floor. Rather obvious, in his opinion. Who else, exactly, would they think was the perpetrator? The mouse in the corner?

Now that assistance had arrived, Richard eased his grip and jumped to his feet. The cavalry rushed forward, each one grabbing one of the intruder’s arms and yanking him none too gently to his feet. It was no less than he deserved. One couldn’t go around terrorizing innocent women, for God’s sake.

“Not him,” the shopgirl yelped. She thrust her arm in Richard’s direction, her finger extended accusingly. “Him!”

Him?
Me
?

Jane watched with satisfaction as Mr. Black and the watchman released Emerson and tackled the crazed man to the floor. He grunted sharply as one of the men jabbed a knee in his back. Good. She hoped it hurt. How dare he burst into her store and attack her cousin like that. She’d never been so happy to see someone in her life, and she hadn’t even been able to properly greet him.

With her heart still pounding painfully in her chest, she turned her attention to poor Emerson, who was shaking out his arms and moving his neck from side to side. He was covered from the top of his short, sun-kissed hair to the bottom of his massive brown leather work boots with the precious sugar that had moments earlier topped her beautiful treats. “Heavens above, Emerson, are you quite all right?” She wasn’t willing to move closer to him, since he was still standing next to the lunatic attacker.

He threw a disgusted look to where the men scuffled with the protesting intruder before skirting around them, glass and porcelain crunching beneath his boots as he walked. The sight of her mother’s china shattered on the floor was nearly enough to bring her to tears, but Jane willed herself not to cry. She would not give the criminal the satisfaction of seeing her upset like that. The delicate periwinkle pattern winked up at her from the broken shards littering the wood planks, and she clenched her jaw against the memory of Mama offering her a sample of fresh baked ginger biscuits from the now destroyed platter.

She noted with approval that the crazed man, who was still sprawled on the floor with his cheek pressed into a cream-filled pastry, had yet to recover his breath. She hoped he would be
very
sore in the morning when he woke up in Newgate.

Looking away from the source of all the upheaval in her shop, she glanced to the damaged cabinet and breathed a sigh of relief. At least
some
of the cherished china survived, including her favorite piece, the large vase in the place of honor at the top shelf of the cabinet. Thank the Lord for small favors.

Emerson wrapped her into a warm embrace, his surprisingly solid chest a comfort to her jangled nerves. Pulling away he offered her a reassuring grin. “I’ll live, to be sure. Are
you
all right? That must have given you quite a scare. I’m just glad I was here, so you didn’t have to face him alone.”

He looked so different, with his lean frame now padded with muscles and his deeply tanned skin. He had certainly grown into himself since shipping out so many years ago. But his easy grin and clear green eyes were exactly as she remembered them. She could have cried with relief at having him home.

“I am not so much scared as angry. I haven’t seen you in ages and you are ambushed before I even get to say hello. I’m so sorry.”

“You
know
him?”

The strangled, rasping question came from the man on the floor, and Jane and Emerson turned in unison to look at him. He looked a fright, his blond hair—and the pastry crumbs—plastered to his red face. Powdered sugar coated his surprisingly well-fitting clothes. Apparently, a life of crime paid rather nicely.

“I
thought
he was attacking you,” he ground out, then craned his head to look up at his captors. “I thought he was attacking her, I was trying to
help
, for the love of God.”

Ignoring his blasphemy, Jane couldn’t stop the inelegant snort of disbelief. “Right, my dear cousin, fresh from years at sea, came all the way here to London to assault me.”

“I didn’t know you bloody well knew him!”

She scowled at his vile language as Mr. Black thumped his side with the toe of his boot in warning. Who did he think he was, saying something like that in her own shop? Besides, what did it matter if it was her cousin or a customer—attacking an innocent person was inexcusable. “So you chose to attack first and ask questions later?” She was not about to let the man snake his way out of the punishment he was due. In her experience, that happened all too often. She clenched her teeth, pushing away the powerful emotions that the injustices of her past evoked. Lifting her chin, she addressed her two rescuers. “Sirs, this man is a nuisance and a lunatic. Please take him away.”

None too gently, they dragged the horrible man to his feet. He was quite a bit taller than she had realized, and she took a few involuntary steps backward. Despite his fancy clothes, he looked strong and powerful, and she wanted nothing to do with the man. Especially with the look of fury darkening his bloodshot eyes. He looked as though he would gladly throw her into the Thames if given even an inch of leeway.

“I am
not
a lunatic,” he growled, jerking his arms against the hands that held him. “I’m the bloody Earl of Raleigh!”

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