The Devilish Mr. Danvers: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (2 page)

“If you’re going to be out of doors in weather like this, you should tread more carefully. Ice can be tricky,” Rafe said, his mouth curling up on one side. Clearly, he was trying not to laugh at her—and
not
doing a very good job.

Her warmth abruptly vanished. Incredulous, Hedley glared at him. “Ice? You don’t say.”

Then, just when the sound of his laugh began, the dog barreled into Rafe too.

He slipped. His amusement—and that smirk—slipped as well. Hedley would have felt immense satisfaction to see him land flat on his back. Yet the more he tried to right himself, the closer he came to taking her down with him.

T
he soles of Rafe Danvers’s boots slid on the path. His left leg shot out from beneath him, stretching him farther than any man dare. And when his foot collided with the stranger’s, he catapulted her into the air.

Still holding her hand, he tried to save her. Arms locked, outstretched, he caught her—or more so, she crashed into him. Sideways. Her elbow glanced off his nose. Her bottom collided with his stomach. Wind barreled from his lungs. And before he knew it, he was flat on his back.

The woman landed hard on top of him. A curvy bit of baggage. Sprawled over him, she was soft and plump in all the places that a man enjoyed.

“Your dog is an idiot,” she grumbled, shifting her body to disentangle their limbs. Her arm—the one that had struck his nose—was above his shoulder. One of her legs moved between his, her hip nestling into his groin. Her lush breasts pressed against his chest.

Rafe tried not to notice.
But
. . . being a man, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“I cannot argue that point.” Boris, the dog in question, gave the side of his face a sloppy lick before proceeding to prance around, tail wagging, clearly pleased by what he’d done.

Lifting up, the stranger looked around as if to assess the damage. In the fall, she’d lost the shawl tied around her head, revealing a widow’s peak of golden hair with threads of copper woven throughout and knotted at her crown. Her wide forehead was smooth, marked only by wispy brows. With her gaze down at her limbs, a thick fan of dark brown lashes rested on her cheeks. And beneath a rather pert nose, plump, berry-stained lips drew his attention. Against her pale flesh, those lips stood out in sharp contrast. Even more because of the unforgiving dimple in her small chin.

It wasn’t necessarily a beautiful face. In a family of artists, he knew how to recognize beauty. Hers was an appealing sort of . . . odd face. Odd, but pretty all the same. It intrigued him. With that wide forehead and narrow jaw, it formed the shape of a heart. Her mouth did too. A tiny, berry-stained heart inside a pale moon heart.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, lifting that heart-shaped face.

Cloudy, cornflower blue eyes alighted on his gaze. Peculiarly, he felt as if she’d crashed into him all over again. He
knew
those eyes. Yet the memory wouldn’t form. He’d seen her before, but whatever recollection he might have didn’t match up with the lush woman on top of him.

“Hurt,” he parroted, dumbstruck for the moment. Who
was
she?

Those lips parted. Then she raked her bottom teeth over her top lip in a way that turned his blood molten, like the glass he used in his art. A flame of lust ignited.

Suddenly, almost too soon—and yet, too late—she scrambled off him, taking away her pleasant soft weight and warmth.

She struggled to get to her feet but slipped again.
“Lucifer’s talons!”

At the sound of her oath, he went still. Paralyzed. The flame within him was extinguished. There was only one person he knew who’d ever used that oath and that person had been a
Sinclair
.

In Rafe’s opinion, that surname was the vilest oath any man could swear.

The cold seeped into his bones, making him shudder. He hated the Sinclairs. Every . . . last . . . one.

Yet the woman before him didn’t look like a Sinclair. Both Ursa and her mother, Lady Claudia Sinclair, had been renowned beauties, willowy and dark featured, with eyes that tilted up at the corners.

This woman looked nothing like them. So then, perhaps she was a distant relative. A cousin? But to his mind, a Sinclair was a Sinclair, and therefore the enemy.

Boris sidled up to the stranger, standing tall and nearly reaching her elbow. It was as if the dog were offering support without taking one iota of responsibility for what he’d done.

“Fool dog,” Rafe said with a glare into those ghostly yellow canine eyes. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped drizzling, but ice covered the ground nonetheless. How long had he lain there with her on top of him?

He sat up, propping a hand behind his back. His nose throbbed, and he lifted a hand to assess the damage. Not broken. No blood.

“First he blames me for not knowing how to walk on the ice, and then he blames you,” the woman said to Boris, giving him a scratch behind the ears. “It isn’t quite fair, is it?”

Apparently approving, Boris licked her hand, his tail wagging.
“Woof.”
Which translated into, “Not fair at all.”

This close, Rafe could see that the hem of her dress was torn. Fine threads fringed at the edge in a way that suggested the damage had been done a long while ago. The pink muslin was nearly transparent, like gauze, and lacked any luster of new cloth. Bending down, she snatched her errant shawl from the ground beside him. He took note of the holes in her gloves and the red stain across one of her knuckles.

The Sinclair women he knew were too vain to don such rags.

Perhaps he was mistaken. The thought offered him a modicum of relief over his purely male response to her.

Rafe stood and brushed the ice from his greatcoat. The black wool was already damp. Thankfully, the rest of him was dry, aside from his hair. He couldn’t say the same for her, though.

Just then, Boris nabbed an end of her shawl with his teeth and began a slow backward march, likely thinking that this was his favorite game.

“Oh no, you don’t,” the stranger said. Wrapping the wool around her wrist, she gave it a sharp tug. This only encouraged Boris.

Rafe moved forward to aid her. When she turned and bent at the waist, however, his step faltered. Her dress was drenched on one side. Wet and plastered to the enticing curves of her hips, thighs, and calves. The delineation of her form, from the round swell of her bottom to the lean musculature of her legs, suggested she enjoyed a bit of exercise. He did as well. And since he considered himself a connoisseur of the female leg, he readily declared hers very fine indeed.

Admiring the view for a second longer, he nearly forgot that his purpose of walking here this morning was to remove this trespasser from
his
house. She didn’t belong here.

Although, graciously, he was willing to offer her the benefit of the doubt. It was possible that she’d been walking near Greyson Park when the weather had turned cold. She may have drifted close to the house and, seeing that no one was here, merely sought shelter for the night.

He couldn’t fault her for that, especially if she truly did have an ailing grandmother and four older brothers. Although instinct told him that she didn’t. Her brothers, if she had any, would have seen to the firewood.

Yesterday, when Rafe had seen smoke rising from the chimneys, he’d felt compelled to check things out, just in case. Now, he was glad he had. Cold or not—and luscious curves not withstanding—he couldn’t allow her to stay.

Greyson Park and the treasure it held belonged to him.

CHAPTER TWO

H
edley pulled harder on the fringed brown wool and glared at the dog. Normally, she would love to continue playing his game of tug-of-war but not with her warmest shawl. She was tired of mending every bit of clothing she possessed. This was the very last item still fully intact—

In the same instant, an unmistakable ripping sound destroyed that dream. She released the shawl on a gasp.

“Boris,”
Rafe scolded. “That was ungentlemanly of you.” The low authoritative tone gained the dog’s attention, and he dropped the shawl immediately. Boris lowered his head but lifted his eyes in a way that made her almost want to forgive him. Almost. His tail ceased thumping and instead curled around his back leg.

Rafe bent to retrieve her next mending project and handed it to her with his apologies.

Disappointed with all aspects of her morning—the broken flint, the cut on her hand, the lack of firewood, the man standing before her having no idea who she was, and now
this
—Hedley took the shawl in her fist and left it to hang at her side. “Thank you.”

Her curtness must have amused him, because one corner of his kissable pout lifted. “Gratitude with a razor’s edge.”

“I’m certain I don’t need to point out the fact that if you’d acted sooner,
this
”—she shook her wounded shawl at him—“wouldn’t have happened. He is your dog, after all.”

“Actually, he isn’t my dog.” Rafe lifted one shoulder in an absent shrug before he reached into his greatcoat and withdrew a silver case. Without a care, he flicked open the latch to expose a row of thin cheroots nestled together. “He merely wandered into Fallow Hall one evening and never left.”

Fallow Hall?
So then, Rafe is one of the three tenants
, she thought distractedly.

Absorbed by his every action, she watched him clench the cheroot between his teeth. When his lips pressed against the slim brown paper, it made her want to do the same. “Then how do you know his name?”

“I don’t.” He snapped the case closed and tucked it away. “None of us have managed to pin it down to something that will make him heel.”

Reluctantly, she tore her gaze away from Rafe’s mouth when he used the cheroot to point toward the dog.

“He looks like a Boris, don’t you think?” Rafe didn’t seem concerned that there was no fire nearby to light the cheroot.

This, of course, reminded her of her lack of fire. Already, she felt colder. The truth was, she’d been feeling decidedly colder since she forced herself to move from on top of him. Even with his coat covered in rain droplets, he’d been impossibly warm. “Regardless, I should like both of you to leave. As I said, I’m taking care of my ailing grandmother.”

His mouth curled at both ends, his dark brows faintly arched. It was a decidedly devilish grin. “Then I should be glad to see you home.”

“This”
—she gestured with her free hand to the manor—“is my home.”

“At the risk of behaving rather ungentlemanly myself, I must disagree. Greyson Park is
my
home. In fact, I recently paid an exorbitant sum for this ramshackle manor.”

He had?
A terrible, sinking suspicion settled inside her heart, weighing it down.

Hedley had known that it was Rafe who’d wanted this estate added to Ursa’s dowry. She’d even heard whispers that he’d approached Grandfather on a few occasions to buy it outright, even after Ursa had left him at the altar. Each attempt had been refused, however.

While Grandfather had simply said he would not sell it, her mother was a different matter altogether. Mother’s greed knew no bounds. Only Grandfather had managed to keep her in check. Now that he was gone, her mother was capable of anything.

Hedley hated to admit it, but she didn’t doubt that Lady Claudia Sinclair would resort to thievery to get what she wanted. And promising to sell a property when it was no longer hers sounded exactly like Mother.

Oh, Mother, what have you done?
“I am sorry to inform you that you were cheated,” Hedley said, awash in shame. “You see,
I
inherited Greyson Park upon my grandfather’s recent death.”

It still surprised her. Grandfather had never been particularly warm to her. He’d been gruff whenever she’d crossed his path, the same way he was with everyone. But at least he’d seen her.

Rafe’s grin faded. “Your grandfather . . . ” he murmured, slowly catching on. “So then you
are
a Sinclair.”

In name only, but she needn’t get into the particulars. “Quite.”

His dark eyes hardened, puckering the flesh above his nose. “No. It isn’t possible. I have a signed contract.”

“I have a contract as well.” The greed of her family exhausted her. She nearly felt sorry for Rafe. But
really
, he should have known better by now than to make any sort of deal with the Sinclairs. “It is called
the deed
, and it resides with the family solicitor.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, Mr. Danvers. Though I am surprised that you would want Greyson Park or any association with my family. Especially when it was to be yours upon your marriage to my sister . . . before she ran off with another man.”

“Sister?”
Rafe recoiled. Glancing down at his greatcoat, he brushed at the dark wool as if to remove any trace of her from his person. “I didn’t know she had a sister. She never once mentioned a sister, and I don’t recall you attending the family dinners.”

Because she’d never been allowed to attend. “I am a well-kept family secret.”

“I don’t believe it.” He shook his head. Reaching inside his greatcoat, he put the unlit cheroot back inside the case with a firm snap. “You’re inventing all this in order to fabricate ownership of Greyson Park.”

“You don’t remember me at all.” Why was she surprised? Her own parents barely remembered her and then only to point out a flaw.
Yet one more lovely advantage of being completely invisible
. She tucked her hands behind her back so that the thin, damp shawl draped over her shoulders. “Perhaps this will spark a memory. You once said that I appeared
armless
when I walked the garden this way.”

His gaze drifted down to her bosom and lingered for a fraction of time. Long enough for her to blush. Long enough for her to wonder if . . . perhaps . . . she wasn’t entirely invisible after all. In fact, Hedley had never felt so noticed in all her life.

His brow furrowed as his gaze homed in on hers. “You.
You’re
Ursa’s sister?”

Well, he certainly didn’t need to put it that way. She knew she was no great beauty, but she didn’t have warts all over her face either.

“I was seventeen when you last saw me and rather gangly at the time.” Her breasts hadn’t begun to show until she was past her eighteenth birthday. Then, all at once, her body had transformed. Her mother, who’d typically ignored her, had been disgusted by the change and referred to it as
cowish
. All of the women in her mother’s family were slender, tall, and graceful. While Hedley wasn’t short, her plump curves made her appear frumpy.

She recalled a time, many years ago, when her mother had been kind to her. At least, until Ursa had started asking why Hedley didn’t look like her.
“You said her eyes would turn dark like mine, but they never did
,” a younger but no-less-terrifying Ursa had remarked.
“And you said her hair would darken too, but it doesn’t look anything like mine, or yours, or even father’s.”

Soon after, Ursa’s doll collection had multiplied.

Rafe squinted as though still in shock over her announcement. “When I saw you at the house, I assumed you were one of the servant’s daughters.”

A hollow laugh escaped her. That was what her father had thought as well before he’d left to live with his mistress. “Yes, well, none of that matters now. Greyson Park is mine, and I would appreciate it if you would leave. I have much to do today, in addition to a shawl to mend.”

“Wait a moment.” He took a step toward her. “You claimed to have four older brothers and an ailing grandmother in there. Ursa had no brothers, and both her grandmothers had passed away before she ever knew them.”

Rafe had hung upon Ursa’s every word. Of course, he would recall the minutest detail, once he started to compare the two of them. Hedley wondered what it would be like to hold a man’s heart and soul captive. She felt an annoying jolt of envy. “After all she has done, you still remember everything about her. Everything . . .
except
for her younger sister.”

Rafe crossed his arms over his chest. “What is your name?”

“Hedley Sinclair.” Earlier he’d said that introductions weren’t made directly. Therefore, she concluded that he must have determined she was not part of society. Since she wasn’t, she didn’t allow herself to be bothered. Not much anyway.

“Hedley is a man’s name.”

She crossed her arms as well. “My father wanted a son.”

“Who is your mother?” he asked, testing her with an accusatory arch of a brow.

“Lady Claudia Sinclair, daughter of the Earl of Linford. My father is Sir Richard Sinclair, who has lived in Brighton for the past twelve years. You already know who my sister is . . . and apparently you are still pining for her.”

His dark gaze narrowed. “Hold your tongue.”

“Stop asking questions.”

Rafe shook his head. Turning away, he unfolded his arms. “I cannot believe this. I refuse! If what you say is true then I have just handed over two thousand pounds to your mother—along with a promise to pay an additional sum of eight thousand pounds by year’s end—for an estate that no longer belongs to her.”

“It’s vulgar to speak of money,” she chided, knowing that much at least. “But why ever would you pay so much for Greyson Park?” Even the solicitor had informed her grandfather that it wasn’t worth more than seven hundred pounds.

“That is my concern. Not yours,” he said, gritting his teeth. “The vulgarity in all of this is the fact that I actually trusted a
Sinclair
to keep her word. Yet all the while—and looking straight into my eyes without flinching—she set out to rob me.”

Then he dared to glare at her—
her!
—as if she was to blame.

Hedley opened her mouth to tell him what he could do with his accusation, but just then a pained howl rolled through the fog. She looked around for the dog, but didn’t see him.

The sound came again. From
inside
the house. She’d left the kitchen door ajar. Before she could blink, Rafe Danvers ran inside Greyson Park.

R
ushing through the kitchen, up the stairs, and down a narrow hall, Rafe spotted Boris through the parlor doorway. He looked none the worse for wear. In fact, the beast appeared content, sitting in front of the hearth, head tilted, tongue lolling.

If Rafe didn’t know any better, he’d almost believe that Boris’s disappearance and falsely pained howl was a trick. Perhaps even an excuse to get out of the cold. But of course, the dog was not that clever.

Rafe crossed his arms. “Proud of yourself, are you?”

“Woof.”
Boris panted, his tail thumping against the fieldstone ledge surrounding the hearth.

Behind him, Rafe heard the interloper’s footsteps stop abruptly. Then, she released an exasperated sigh. She too must have determined that their companion had played them both for fools. “Now that you have found the trickster, please leave.”

Instead of doing as she bade, Rafe stepped into the parlor. “Wouldn’t you like to introduce me to your
four
brothers?”

“You know very well that I only said that because I didn’t want you to know that I am here alone. However, now you know everything. Most important of all, that Greyson Park belongs to me.”

He wasn’t certain of that fact. Such confirmation required a trip to London to inquire with the family’s solicitor. It would be only a matter of a few days before he would return with sufficient proof to remove this unwanted bit of baggage from
his
house.

“You mean,” he clarified, examining the layer of dust coating the mantel, “that you are alone but with your maid.”

“I have no maid, Mr. Danvers.”

The
Mr. Danvers
grated on his nerves, clawing up his back. Ursa Sinclair had always called him
Mr. Danvers
, even after they were betrothed. Just as he had been permitted to call her
Miss Sinclair
and nothing else.

Lady Sinclair, her mother, had encouraged the match soon after his family acquired wealth through inheritance and at the height of his father’s popularity as an artist. Now, he realized Ursa had always thought him as beneath her, because he would never hold a title. She’d been ashamed of the familiarity of his address. Ashamed of him and his family—especially when scandal had removed his parents from society during their betrothal. He should have known she’d never intended to marry him.

Casting aside his distaste for the moment, he studied Hedley to see if this was another fabrication, like the mention of her four brothers. “No maid? Surely you do not expect me to believe that as well.”

“Oh, how right you are.” She gestured with a wave toward the rear of the house. “We passed my maid by way of the kitchen. As we speak, she is preparing my breakfast on the piping hot stove. Can you not smell the porridge from here? Buttery eggs? Currant scones from the oven?”

He smelled none of that, though his stomach gave a mournful grumble all the same. He hadn’t had a decent breakfast since he’d moved to Fallow Hall. As for Greyson Park, there had been no person standing at the stove in the kitchen. And no fire in the oven, for that matter. There wasn’t one in here, either. Just a pile of ash beneath the grate.

Rafe remembered her well enough. Those haunting eyes and that pale face. She used to walk in the garden, as she’d mentioned, with her arms clasped behind her back. He also remembered giving her a nickname on one of the many days he’d spent at Sinclair House.