London's Last True Scoundrel (36 page)

He caught her hand and pressed his lips to her palm in a passionate kiss that scintillated down to her toes. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he said.

No, it was more than that, but his lips cruised down her forearm to the sensitive skin inside her elbow and she almost lost her train of thought.

Oh, dear Heaven, how could she tempt his confidences if he did this every time they were alone?

“Something is troubling you,” she whispered.” I want to know what it is.”

He was drawing down the puffed sleeve at her shoulder, tracing a sinuous path with his tongue. “Honey, we’ll talk about it later.” He kissed along her clavicle. “Right now, I’ll go up in flames if I don’t have you. Talking can wait.”

And when he pressed a burning trail of kisses across her décolletage she knew that neither of them was in a fit state to discuss anything sensibly now.

“We have to be quick,” he muttered, taking her mouth as he maneuvered her backward, toward the chaise longue.

Before she knew it, she lay down on the slender couch with her skirts pushed up to her waist. Davenport stretched over her, one knee planted between her body and the chair back, one foot on the floor.

She could not well imagine a more compromising position. “What if someone comes?” she whispered with a quick glance at the unlocked door.

“They won’t,” he said. He kissed her urgently, freeing himself from his pantaloons, sliding inside her.

He let out a groan of need, but he paused and seemed to brace himself, holding the urgency of his desire at bay. Jaw clenched, he slid inside her, set up a steady, tantalizing rhythm that made her whimper softly and lift her hips to urge him on.

He reached down between them and with a rustle of fabric found the most sensitive part of her, teasing it, stroking it in exquisite counterpoint to his thrusts.

She met her peak with a sharp cry.

“Shh.” He covered her mouth with his and gave her what she’d craved all along, a strong, deep stroke that made her stifle a moan of pleasure in her throat.

When he reached his own crisis he gave a sharp, guttural groan in the side of her neck. Shudders rippled through his body, violent and wrenching.

They were still joined together when his breathing finally calmed. They stayed like that for some time, his face nuzzled into her neck, the weight of his big body pressing on her in a way she found immensely satisfying.

“Ah, I’m a deadweight. Sorry, Honey.” Slowly, he withdrew from her and took care of them both with a handkerchief.

She didn’t know how she would right her appearance so as to return to the ballroom. This had been a reckless, wanton act, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

He took her hand and helped her to a sitting position, then sat beside her with his arm around her waist. Turning, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. This time, it wasn’t patronizing or a careless gesture. His kiss told her she was cherished.

“What happened tonight, Jonathon?”

He blew out a ragged breath. “A man died because of me.”

Her stomach churned. No wonder he’d looked like death himself when he’d walked into the ballroom.

“Tell me.”

So he did. He told her all of it, and if she hadn’t already been crazed with worry for him, this incident brought home the full gravity of his situation, the immediacy of his danger.

“You came to the ball anyway,” she said, in wonder.

“I needed you,” he said. “Being with you was the only thing I could think of that would keep me sane.”

He took her hand and pressed a passionate kiss to her palm.

She put her arms around him and kissed him with a poignant sense of desperation and a tiny tinge of hope.

“I didn’t mean all of the things I said in the rose arbor,” she whispered.

He bent his head to press his brow to hers. “I know.”

“Jonathon, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I never thought love would feel like this.”

He drew back to search her face, the strangest expression on his own. She read denial in those dark eyes, repudiation in the twist of his mouth.

The expression swiftly vanished, to be replaced by … what? Pity? Compassion? Oh, dear Heaven, that was even worse.

Hilary felt as if her heart had caved in, like a derelict house receiving its death blow. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast as everything crumbled to dust inside her.

“Wait. Honey, I—”

The door flung open, to reveal the unmistakable figure of a woman.

Lady Maria Shand.

“Damnation!” muttered Davenport. He released Hilary as if she were made of live coals. Even while she acknowledged the wisdom of his action, the alacrity with which he made it struck another blow.

Despite his quickness in disentangling himself, there was no way to make this rendezvous appear innocent. Only a simpleton would have failed to understand what had just transpired between them. Whatever else she might be, Hilary suspected Lady Maria was not a simpleton.

Their unwelcome guest stepped into the candlelight. “Davenport, you are so predictable. You always pick the music room. I wonder why that is.”

“What are you doing here?” Hilary had never heard Davenport sound so cold.

Lady Maria’s clear blue gaze flicked over them. “So it is true. My father said it was, but I didn’t believe him. You
are
entangled with this deVere female.”

“What does your father know of it?” Davenport’s voice was sharp.

“Oh, merely that you escorted Miss deVere all the way from Lincolnshire to London without a chaperone. That you spent a night on the road as husband and wife.”

A feline smile spread across her features. “I have enough ammunition against you to create a scandal that will sully Miss deVere’s good name from here to Edinburgh.”

All the blood drained from Hilary’s head. She was ruined. Her recklessness had finally caught up with her. She was guilty as charged and could offer no excuse except love. Love did not qualify as a defense in the court of the ton.

She waited for Davenport to speak, to find the way out of this mess. She could only think of one.

Davenport sucked in a breath. He didn’t so much as glance at Hilary.

“Miss deVere has done me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage.” The words came out smoothly, but without any inflection of happiness or warmth.

“So she’s the one,” said Lady Maria. She gave a scornful laugh. “Good God, Davenport, are you mad? A country mouse without style or beauty to wed a Westruther heir? And a deVere into the bargain.”

Hilary stood and drew herself up. She was shaking with hurt and fury, but she’d die before she allowed this spiteful wretch to see it. “I may be a deVere, but at least no one has ever accused me of vulgarity, Lady Maria.”

“Oh!”
The astonished affront in those ice blue eyes made Hilary want to laugh, despite the ache in her heart. “Davenport, are you going to let her speak to me like this?”

“Yes,” said Davenport simply. “You cannot conceive how much I enjoyed that.”

He made a sweeping bow. “And now, if you have quite finished being vulgar, my lady, I have to inform you that you are also de trop.”

“Oh, I’m going,” said Lady Maria, her cheeks flying spots of color. “You, Miss deVere, are about to be ruined. I shall tell the world what I’ve seen tonight, the things my father knows about you. Let’s see who will be called vulgar then.”

Lady Maria swept from the room, leaving Hilary in a state of shock. The house of cards she’d built with such painstaking care was about to be set aflame.

Davenport stayed only to take her hands in his. “It will be all right, Honey,” he said. “I’ll make it right. She won’t talk. You will not have to marry me.”

It was as if he spoke to her through a wall of ice. Cold flooded Hilary until she wasn’t sure if she could move or speak. She felt herself nod in acknowledgment when she really wanted to scream denials, to cling to him and never let him go.

He lifted her freezing hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to them. Then he bolted after Lady Maria.

Fingers shaking, Hilary tried her best to put herself to rights. It was all she could do at this moment, when planning one step beyond the present seemed a feat too taxing for her frozen brain.

Her hands dropped to her sides. What was the use? Her gown was crushed, hair a messy tumble, shouting her disgrace to the world. Even if she were adept at arranging her hair, there was no looking glass in the music room to assist her.

Trixie was in the retiring room with the other maids. If only Hilary had thought to ask Davenport to send the girl up to her, she could at least get herself out of this place without appearing to the world as the fallen woman Lady Maria called her.

Suddenly she knew she couldn’t wait for Davenport’s return. She didn’t have the courage to sit here and listen to him explain to her that he didn’t love her, that he’d always said he wouldn’t marry her, that he didn’t intend to do so now.

Lady Maria would spread the news of her ruin far and wide. Davenport had no power to stop her. By now, everyone at the ball downstairs would have heard of her disgrace. She thought of Lady Arden’s excited anticipation of procuring her vouchers for Almack’s and a bitter smile twisted her mouth. There would be no Almack’s for her now.

She regretted that her behavior would embarrass Lady Arden and the Westruthers, who had accepted her and vouched for her. They’d have no choice now but to turn their backs.

When he discovered she’d rather be ruined than wed Davenport, Lord deVere would wash his hands of her, throw her to the wolves. He was only interested in his dependants if he could use them as pawns in his bid for power and wealth. She was damaged goods now. Her brothers had never bothered with her. She could only hope they wouldn’t eject her from their household altogether when the gossip began to fly.

Trixie might help her, but she was a trained lady’s maid now. It would be selfish to make her return to the Grange and step back into the role of housemaid.

The only person Hilary deVere could depend on was herself.

The old loneliness yawned ahead, more frightening now because it seemed utterly final. But she couldn’t think of that now. She must not think of it.

She’d have to escape the house without anyone seeing her, leave London as quietly and swiftly as she could. Without her presence to fuel it, the gossip about her liaison with London’s most infamous rogue would die a quick death. In a matter of twenty-four hours, she would be gone.

In a month, a fortnight, even, Hilary deVere might never have been in London at all.

*   *   *

Davenport caught up with his quarry on the staircase, gripped her upper arm without hesitation or apology, and drew her into the shadows on the landing.

“Take your hands off me,” she hissed. “If I screamed you would be in a pretty mess, would you not?”

“But you won’t scream, Lady Maria, will you? Because I know your secret.”

That made her chin jerk up. “Secret?” She essayed an unconcerned laugh. “Whatever can you mean?”

“I mean the babe you carry in your belly,” he said grimly. “The one you were so desperate to pass off as mine.”

She turned white to the lips and he knew he’d guessed right.

In that moment, he understood. All of the determined pursuit, the attempts to seduce and entrap him. She’d been desperate, and she’d seen him as an easy mark. The newly resurrected Earl of Davenport. Reckless, foolhardy, randy as hell, without too many scruples left. Certainly ready to take what she’d offered.

She’d have succeeded, too, if she hadn’t shown her hand too soon. He shuddered to think of their future together if they’d been forced to wed. And he
would
have married her if society had demanded it. He would never have abandoned her to her fate.

Now that he understood the sheer panic that had driven her to such devious lengths, he could find compassion in his soul. Perhaps he might help her if she’d let him.

“Who is the father?” he asked gently.

She covered her face with her hands. “I cannot tell you. I cannot! And anyway, he would never marry me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “He
cannot
marry me. He is already married, a fact he told me
afterward
, mind you.”

He sucked in a breath. “The man ought to be horsewhipped. Does your papa know?”

Vehemently she shook her head. “Oh, dear Heaven, of course not! He’d turn me out of doors. Why do you think I did what I did?”

This was a problem she’d faced alone. He had to admire the steel in her, even if he resented the solution she’d found to her problem.

He thought of Gerald and the longing looks he cast Lady Maria when she wasn’t aware. “There is one who I think would count himself honored to wed you.”

Indeed, he wondered why she hadn’t sought the easier target. Had Davenport’s wealth and status been sufficient lure to turn her back on one who truly cared for her?

“You mean Gerald.” Her voice shook on a sob. “Oh, but how could I deceive him so? He is a good man. I—I couldn’t do it.”

Davenport couldn’t fail to draw the obvious conclusion. That she’d chosen him precisely because he
wasn’t
a good man. Well, she’d been correct on that score, hadn’t she? He’d come very close to obliging her.

“You made a mistake,” said Davenport, gently now. “If you tell him the truth, perhaps Gerald will be more understanding than you know.”

“He loves me,” she said, her whole frame trembling. “He might marry me. But how could I do that to him? How could he accept a child that wasn’t his?”

Remembering the stark longing on Gerald’s face, Davenport thought the poor fellow might take her on any terms. In fact, he rather thought confession would be good for Lady Maria’s soul and place the pair on a more even footing. That she’d balked at treating Gerald the way she’d treated Davenport meant there might be hope for them yet.

He said, “Perhaps that is a chance you must take. But whatever happens, Lady Maria, you may rest assured that I’m at your service. If Gerald can’t find it in his heart to marry you after you tell him the truth, then I’m sure something can be arranged.”