London's Last True Scoundrel (8 page)

The bath seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to fill, with the sullen stable hand rubbing his eyes and slinking backward and forward with bucket after bucket of steaming water. They’d brought him to another bedchamber, this one more decrepit than the last.

Honey made up the bed with her own fair hands, shooing away his attempts to help.

He watched her, all wifely efficiency, and thought of the excellent meal she had conjured from nothing that evening. She would make some fellow a good helpmeet.

That led him to wonder what she looked like naked, a place all stray thoughts seemed to lead him at the moment, much as all roads led to Rome.

Sooner or later, he was going to find out. Sooner, rather than later, if he had his way.

Whether it was a scientific theorem or seducing a woman, when Davenport found a matter worthy of his attention and effort, he did not give up until he’d achieved his aim.

Honey thought the trip to London would be the end of their acquaintance. He knew it was only the beginning.

When all was ready, he took her aside and said in a low voice, “You go to a lot of trouble on my behalf. Thank you.”

“It is no trouble,” she said, addressing his left ear. “I must apolog—”

“Never mind that.” His mouth kicked up at the corner. “I’d have ten ceilings fall on my head for the privilege of seeing you in that night rail.”

Despite her icy demeanor, a delicious blush stole into her cheeks. She crossed her arms in front of her pretty bosom.

That was better. He’d prefer a blush of sexually aware embarrassment to one of painful mortification. She was a proud little thing. It was no easy matter for her to suffer the indignities her brothers inflicted on her.

One more reason to take her away from all of this.

“You’ll adore Rosamund, you know,” he said. “Everyone does.”

She bit her lip, and he endured a kind of sweet pain that he could not, at this moment, do anything about the way she mangled that poor feature when she was anxious.

“I hope she likes me,” she said in a quiet voice.

“Of course she will,” Davenport responded. “Now, much as I should wish to keep you here, that would be selfish. You must go to bed, my dear. We have a tiring journey ahead of us.”

He couldn’t stop himself. He chose a moment when the servants had temporarily left the room, grasped her by the shoulders, and swiftly, softly kissed her forehead.

He heard her gasp, felt her stiffen. He drew back and gazed down at her.

For an instant, her eyes remained closed. Then they fluttered open, gleaming pools of brandy lit by candle flame. Confusion warred with a smoky sensuality that sent hot blood rushing about in his body.

She came to herself and darted a quick look around.

“I wish you would not touch me,” she said, though her tone lacked all conviction.

“I can’t help it,” he said. “You have this dreadful effect on me. My brain closes down completely.”

“If I didn’t think I must be one of legions who have that effect on you, I might be flattered.”

He didn’t think it wise to explain to her just how different she was from those legions. He gave a helpless shrug.

Her gaze fixed on his chest with the movement and he laughed in silent enjoyment. She was endlessly entertaining. His delighted anticipation of their journey to London increased with every moment.

“Ought you not be going now?” he suggested. The final bucket of water had been disgorged into his bath. “Or would you like to stay and scrub my back?”

A series of expressions flitted across her face, all of them conflicting.

“Good night, my lord.”

The words were pronounced in her most withering tone.

By contrast, he remained quite alarmingly
un
withered long after she left. So unwithered, in fact, that he declined assistance from either servant with his bath. He’d be obliged to scrub his own back, for his genitals did not seem to be taking Honey’s no for an answer.

The silhouette of her lovely, lithe little body beneath that worn night rail had him worked up into a fine state.

When the servants departed, he dropped his makeshift covering. Sinking into the steaming water, he began to scrub vigorously at his chest.

Before he’d finished removing the plaster dust from his torso, the redoubtable Trixie popped her head around the door again. “Beg pardon, my lord, but I was wondering if you be needful of anything else.” She said it with a wink that left him in no doubt of her meaning.

His parts had withered quite nicely until her avid stare stirred them up again.

Davenport dropped a washcloth on top of his privates and sat up.

“Actually, Trixie my girl, there
is
something you can do for me.”

He smiled his most charming smile.

*   *   *

This was not a household in which servants were up before dawn, lighting fires, drawing curtains, dusting, and making ready for the day. Hilary was reasonably certain she and Davenport had another hour or so, at least, to be gone.

She dressed and ordered Trixie to pack her meager belongings, then lay and light the kitchen fire.

While Trixie tended to the kitchen hearth, Hilary raided the larder and packed a hamper for the journey, then hurried down to the stables. There she found Billy the stable hand already putting the horses to the ancient traveling coach.

“Do you think it will run?” she said, eyeing the vehicle dubiously.

“Should do, miss.” The boy showed not the slightest curiosity about where his mistress might be going at this hour and why she’d need to resurrect this ancient coach to do it.

She supposed she’d have to take his word for it. Really, there was no other alternative. Hiring a chaise in the village would cause gossip, and neither she nor Davenport had the funds to do it, in any event. If she could just get to London without anyone seeing her in Davenport’s company, she’d be safe.

Thus, the hamper. They must change horses, of course, and have this pair sent back to the Grange. But she need not alight from the carriage for that. She’d chosen a hat with a veil, and since she was not at all known on the road to London, she was reasonably certain of passing unnoticed. If only Lord Davenport kept to his promise not to punch anyone on the way.

She hurried back to the house, to find that her escort still had not risen. The fire burned brightly in the kitchen hearth, but Trixie hadn’t reappeared. Perhaps she was seeing to her own packing.

Impatience gnawed at Hilary. She glanced at the clock. If his lordship didn’t make haste, her plans to get to London within daylight hours might be ruined.

Unable to stand the delay, she raced upstairs to his bedchamber and scratched on the door.

No answer.

Unwilling to knock more loudly in case someone might hear, she turned the knob and slipped into the room.

He slept.

Thankfully, the big body that had kept her awake far into the wee hours was covered this time by sheet and coverlet. Only one arm, strong and muscular, was flung carelessly free.

He looked … sensual in repose. Abandoned, as if he’d thrown himself into the arms of sleep.

She supposed he’d had a rough time of it over the past twenty-four hours. A kind woman would let him slumber on.

But Hilary was not kind. She was desperate.

“My lord,” she said. “Lord Davenport. Wake up.”

He did not stir.

She took one step toward the bed.

“
Please
wake up.” She said it as loudly as she dared but got no response.

He was dead to the world.

Hilary ventured as far as the bedside. His hair was still damp from his bath. She noticed he had not managed to remove quite all of the bits of plaster from the dark tangle. Her fingers itched to do it for him, but she forced herself to hold back.

As if he were made of hot coals, she poked him, a quick jab to the shoulder with her index finger. His skin was smooth; the muscle beneath it, hard.

Still no response.

She glanced toward the tub by the fireplace and saw that the water in his bath was a cloudy gray. He ought to have had a change of water, but the lateness of the hour had made that impossible. Considerate of him to dismiss the servants as soon as the bath was drawn.

Her eye alighted on a ewer on the washstand. Upon peering inside, she saw that it contained clean water. A fresh towel hung over the washstand rail, ready for use. At least he could finish his ablutions before they set out.

She slid a quick glance at him in the looking glass.

And caught him watching her.

The gleam of dark irises was so quick, she might have missed it if her attention had not been so narrowly focused on him.

The blackguard had been feigning sleep.

“Lord Davenport,” she said imperiously. “You must get up. We must be away.”

Her only answer was a soft sigh. He rolled over, muttering something as if in the midst of slumber. The covers twisted, slipping down to reveal the solid, beautifully drawn line of his back, a hint of the crevice at the top of his backside. A strategic maneuver, she thought.

He rolled again, onto his back, the covers winding low around his hips.

Lord, but the man was a peacock!

Ire rose, crowding her chest. This was all a game to him, wasn’t it?

Well, it wasn’t to her.

With a grim set to her mouth, she picked up the ewer and marched over to the bed.

Without hesitation or mercy, she upended the ewer over his head.

Icy water gushed forth, splashing, soaking the pillow, all but drowning him.

He made a sound that was half gasp, half roar, and bolted upright, the covers pooling around his waist.

“You baggage!” he sputtered.

“You were awake the whole time.” She slammed the ewer down on the bedside table. “You were watching me.”

“If I’d thought you’d bloody well—,” he began, wiping water from his eyes. Suddenly he broke off as if struck by the absurd picture he must present. He began to laugh.

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed.

She saw too late, moved too slowly. One arm snaked out to catch her around the waist. He pulled her down with him on the bed, making her wet, too.

The next thing she knew, he’d flipped her to her back and was looming over her, the water from his sodden hair dripping in her face.

He brought up one hand to shove the wet tangle out of his face. The laughter died out of those dark eyes and the intent look that had so undone her on the road outside replaced it.

With his thumb, gently, he wiped a droplet of water that had settled, cool, against her lips.

Her breath caught. Her brain seized.

He lowered his mouth to kiss her.

“Stop!” She bucked and pushed at him, but it was like trying to move a solid wall.

He halted the downward swoop, his lips hovering a mere breath away from hers. But he didn’t move away.

Frantic, Hilary wriggled, trying to get out from beneath his big, beautiful body, desperately casting about for a reason to deny herself what she most longed for at this particular moment.

Almack’s …

Almack’s and all it stood for—respectability, opportunity—rose up to give her strength.

“Get off me,” she panted. “You oaf, get off!”

For a telling moment, he hesitated, dark eyes searching hers, as if to divine her true desire. She glared stonily up at him. He sighed and rolled away.

Hilary sprang up. “I told you I’ll have none of your boorish advances, my lord.”

“Sorry,” he said, not looking at all apologetic. “My memory does not function well at this hour. I forgot.”

She curled her lip. “I suppose the response is automatic. You would have done the same to any woman who happened to be here, I daresay.”

“Any
pretty
woman who happened to be here,” he corrected. “Well, why wouldn’t I? Pretty women are invariably in one’s bedchamber at this hour for precisely that reason.”

The notion of all the other pretty women—other pretty, accommodating women—he’d enjoyed in such a manner made her unaccountably furious.

Frostily, she said, “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear yesterday.”

He looked up at her, not a bit repentant. “My dear Honey, if you enter a man’s bedchamber for any reason other than that his ceiling has just fallen in, you must be prepared for the consequences.”

That arrested her righteous anger. “Ordinarily I would never do so,” she said, on the defensive. “But we need to leave, and we need to keep it a secret, and I couldn’t find Trixie to wake you.”

“I told you what I am,” he said, ignoring her justifications. “I told you I will do my level best to seduce you. In the face of those warnings, your presence in my bedchamber is clear provocation. Don’t come near me if you don’t want me to put my hands on you.”

Davenport sounded distinctly irritated now. He rearranged the bedclothes across his lap. Which of course drew her attention to that very area.

“Ah,” she said, nodding wisely. “I see that you are like most men, grumpy as a bear with a sore head in the morning.”

His jaw turned to granite. “My dear Miss deVere, I have an erection between my legs the approximate size and hardness of a flagpole. If you don’t want me to use it on you, go away.”

For a moment, Hilary actually thought it was possible that her head might explode. She choked, gasped, turned, and scampered for the door.

CHAPTER SIX

A
flagpole?

A giggle rose up in Hilary’s throat as she put the finishing touches to breakfast. She rather wished she had someone with whom she could share that tidbit.

Trixie would split her sides over it.… Hilary frowned. Where
was
Trixie? She should be down here by now.

Davenport sauntered in, seemingly recovered from his bad temper. “Ah,” he said, sniffing the air appreciatively. “An Englishman’s breakfast. Food of the gods.”

He strolled over to where she scrambled eggs in a skillet and stood behind her, peering over her shoulder. “You really can cook.”

He sounded surprised. Of course, most ladies of her station did not know how to boil an egg.