London's Last True Scoundrel (40 page)

In closing, let me remind you, my dear, of our family motto:

“To a valiant heart, nothing is impossible.”

Be valiant, dearest Hilary.…

Yours, etc.

Cecily

P.S. Rosamund says she will not speak to you ever again if you do not return to us this season.

P.P.S. Beckenham desires me to add that only your presence can make Davenport the least bit bearable, so would you please come at once.

Something inside Hilary burst open and she laughed and cried with the heady relief of it, blotching Cecily’s letter, until she was wrung out and spent. She hadn’t realized the true weight of the anxiety that had built and built inside her over her damaged reputation and the place she had lost among the affections of the Westruthers.

And Davenport! The greatest rogue in London had gone cap in hand to the Almack’s patronesses and won his way into their good graces once more.

She wondered what he’d done to demonstrate his change of heart.

Hilary bit her lip. Had he done it for the right reasons, though? She hoped he didn’t see it as some sort of test he must pass to win her. She trusted that by the end of the process he’d understood she wanted him to reclaim his place in society for his own sake, not for hers.

Almack’s
.

She’d finally achieved her dream. Or part of it, anyway.

Smiling, and without even a twinge of regret, she took the voucher with her name on it, gave it a quick, smacking kiss, and threw it on the fire.

*   *   *

Davenport took out his timepiece and gazed at it for the hundredth time.

Five minutes to eleven and still no sign of her. Everyone knew that even the Duke of Wellington could not enter Almack’s after eleven o’clock.

Where the hell was she?

He’d moved Heaven and earth and everything in between to secure those vouchers for himself. He’d matched wits with Lady Jersey, played the prodigal son with Lady Sefton, dallied innocently with Countess Lieven, waltzed with Princess Esterhazy. He’d even expressed humble contrition for his misdeeds to Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, which had been a tricky business as he truly had no recollection of what they were.

He’d worn knee breeches this evening, for God’s sake!

He couldn’t even go inside to drown his sorrows in the piss-weak claret cup they served because Cecily had persuaded him to send his voucher to Honey as proof of his sincerity.

She’d probably laughed herself sick and tossed it in the fire.

He’d waited almost an hour for her to come, feeling like a damned fool holding the little posy of violets Rosamund had insisted he bring to pin to her gown.

Hilary hadn’t even arrived in London when last he’d checked today. Mrs. Walker had no expectation of seeing her, and her brothers were as close as oysters on the subject.

A nearby clock began to strike the hour.

A sick feeling of dread flowed over him. He crushed the posy between his palms, rendering the air sweet with its scent, then let it fall. Then he leaned against the rail in front of the most exclusive club in London and rubbed his face with the heel of one hand.

On what must have been the fifth strike of the clock, someone tapped him on the shoulder, then thrust some sort of card under his nose.

“Sorry I’m late,” a feminine voice—
her
voice—said, “If you want to go inside, you’ll have to hurry, I expect.”

He looked up, hope breaking over him like spring sunshine after a bleak, endless winter. He seized Honey, swung her around and around, then crushed her to him, kissing her as if he might never stop.

“I love you,” he said to her in the shadow of Almack’s as the clock struck the ninth chime. “Quick, if we hurry we can make it through the doors in time.”

She was smiling, her eyes glimmering with tears. “I don’t want to go in there, Jonathon. Not tonight.”

For a bare, crazed instant he couldn’t decide whether to shake her or howl. All the trouble he’d gone to for those vouchers over the past month—for nothing! The calls he’d paid, the endless cups of tea he had drunk. At Beckenham’s behest, he’d sat in the House of Lords again, and wasn’t that just a barrel of laughs?

He’d even taken the first, tentative steps toward reestablishing himself as a chemist, assisting Gerald in his work.

But with sudden, belated insight he realized what he ought to have known all along. That dear, fey face with the harlot’s mouth stared up at him, willed him to understand it, to understand her.

Ever since they’d met, her sole ambition had been to attend Almack’s. What woman didn’t want to go there?—as Xavier had cynically remarked.

But for Honey, the frills and furbelows and fancy parties were not important for their own sake. To Hilary deVere, Almack’s meant acceptance. All she’d ever wanted was to belong.

He stared down at her, suddenly serious. “You belong with me, Honey. Tell me you know that it’s true.”

Her face lit like the fireworks at Vauxhall. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, Jonathon. I know it. I do.”

He hugged her to him and held her tight and kissed her lips, her eyelids, her nose, her brow. He buried his face in that silky, glorious hair and inhaled her unique, dear scent.

“Violets,” he murmured shakily, making her laugh.

Then he drew back to look at her with a mix of tenderness and awe and humble gratitude for his good fortune. “I’m a fool, Honey. It was never about Almack’s, was it?”

Shaking her head, smiling through her tears, she reached up to touch his cheek. “I love you, Jonathon. Take me home.”

Read on for an excerpt from Christina Brooke’s next novel

The Greatest Lover Ever

Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

Georgie rattled the doorknob, knowing it would be hopeless. What in Heaven’s name was the wretched man up to now? A quick glance around showed no other possible means of escape. She had better search the room for weapons.

She discovered nothing of practical use in the sparsely furnished chamber—not even a fire iron with which to brain her host should he try to ravish her.

The minutes dragged by; she realized how foolish it had been to suppose she could rescue her sister from this kind of peril. Ten to one, Violet enjoyed the festivities, happy as a lark, watched over by her companions. While Georgie was imprisoned in a boudoir by a lecherous marquis with a grossly overblown opinion of his charms.

Fools rush in,
indeed. Hadn’t Marcus always complained of her impetuousness? It seemed she still hadn’t learned her lesson.

The key turning in the lock made her stiffen, her heart bounding into her throat.

She moved as far from the bed as she could manage. Not that it would make any difference to Steyne, but it made her feel better. She snatched up the Chinese vase from the mantel, tested its weight. Too delicate to do any damage and probably priceless into the bargain. She set it down again.

But the tall, dark-haired figure who entered was not Lord Steyne.

It was his cousin, her former fiancé. Marcus Westruther, Earl of Beckenham.

He stood there for what seemed an age, silhouetted against the doorway. She couldn’t see his features clearly in the shadows but she didn’t have to. They were as sharp and clear in her mind’s eye as they had ever been in the flesh.

For several moments, the shock of seeing him again suspended her faculties. Her lips parted but no sound came out.

Emotion flooded her chest, a swirling mass of reactions that could not be separated into constituent parts. The strength of it made her light-headed.

What could she say to him? She’d avoided a meeting between them for years, and now, to see him in such fantastical circumstances … Could anything be more disastrous?

Ought she simply tell him the real reason she was here?

Could she trust him? Instinct told her yes. But why on earth should he help her, even if she told him her troubles? He’d washed his hands of her years ago.

She’d rejected him as a husband, dealt a severe blow to his pride. As far as Beckenham was concerned, there could not be a more unforgivable crime than that. Particularly for a man who prized honor and loyalty above all other qualities.

So she waited in the silence. She would follow his lead. He was the injured party, after all.

Her awareness of him was so heightened that the mere tilt of his head as he studied her made her heart zing about her chest like a firework. She heard nothing but her own breathing. The unruly hitch in it seemed to echo in the silence.

He moved into the room, then closed the door. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

His deep voice resonated through her body, stirring the embers of a fire that had long lain dormant.
Yes, but never in my wildest dreams did I think you’d be here.

She didn’t answer. Oh, God, it was awful and humiliating and … and
wonderful
to see him. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since that dreadful night when she’d released him from the engagement. Almost by tacit agreement, she’d lived in Town while he’d largely kept to his estate. She’d heard he’d attended Lady Cecily Westruther’s come-out ball in London last season, but of course she hadn’t been invited to that auspicious event. Most pointedly not invited.

And now here he was, with her. In a quiet bedchamber in the midst of a raucous, licentious party. But it didn’t feel as if they stood in any kind of oasis here. It felt like the eye of a storm.

Her mouth dried as he reached up a hand to loosen his cravat, flick it open, and pull the long strip of linen from around his throat. Then he walked over to the washstand, where a pitcher of water and a basin stood as if ready for guests.

“Take your clothes off,” he said to her over his shoulder. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Also by Christina Brooke

Heiress in Love

Mad About the Earl

A Duchess to Remember

Praise for Christina Brooke’s Ministry of Marriage series

A DUCHESS TO REMEMBER

“Christina Brooke is a bright new star.”

—RT Book Reviews

“
A Duchess to Remember
surpasses all expectations, leaving you longing for the next installment.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A delightful, attention-grabbing, sweetly romantic historical read you won’t want to miss.”

—Night Owl Romance

“This is a two-night, preferably one, book. Cecily and Rand’s romance is a fun, deceptive, quickstep of a dance.”

—Romance Reviews Today

MAD ABOUT THE EARL

“A true historical gem.”

—Romance Junkies

“[A] version of Beauty and the Beast … that readers will take to their hearts.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Captivating!”

—Night Owl Romance

“A sweet and sexy romance.”

—Dear Author

HEIRESS IN LOVE

“Each scene is more sensual and passionate than the last.”

—Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Riveting tale of life, loss, convenience, and heart-wrenching love! Superbly written!”

—Fresh Fiction

“With this delightful debut Brooke demonstrates her ability for creating a charming cast of characters who are the perfect players in the first of the Ministry of Marriage series. Marriage-of-convenience fans will rejoice and take pleasure in this enchanting read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Clever, lush, and lovely—an amazing debut!”

—Suzanne Enoch,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A delightful confection of secrets and seduction,
Heiress in Love
will have readers craving more!”

—Tracy Anne Warren

“One of the most compelling heroes I’ve read in years.”

—Anna Campbell

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christina Brooke is a former lawyer who staged a brilliant escape from the corporate world and landed squarely in Regency England. She lives in Australia with her husband, two sons, and an ancient Great Dane cross called Monty. Christina loves travel, window-shopping in antique stores, pink champagne, and fine Swiss chocolate. She especially loves hearing from readers. You can find Christine on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, or “at home” on
www.christina-brooke.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

LONDON’S LAST TRUE SCOUNDREL

Copyright © 2013 by Christina Brooke.

Excerpt from
The Greatest Lover Ever
copyright © 2013 by Christina Brooke.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

www.stmartins.com