Sinfully Yours (11 page)

“Novels.” Devlin nodded. “Yes, what young lady doesn’t enjoy an entertaining tale?”

And yet, something didn’t feel quite right about the reply, though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was because Miss Anna Sloane was not at all like the silly, simpering misses who paraded through the drawing rooms of Mayfair. For the most part, they were colorless pasteboard cut-outs, each one indistinguishable from the others.

Whereas Anna was unique.
Interesting. Intriguing. Unpredictable…

Unlike Caro, he did not feel compelled to choose his adjectives for alliteration.

“Indeed, sir,” responded Caro brightly. “We ladies do tend to be passionate about writing. That is to say,” she hastily added, “the written word, and how authors can, if they are talented, transport us to a different world for a certain interlude.”

“Because for ladies the real world is so very limited compared with the world of the imagination?”

She now looked utterly flustered. “I…I…” Caro heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, look, I see that Anna has finally come down.”

Devlin turned.

And his heart leaped into his throat.

Thump, thump.

In that single, pulsing moment, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

The dark colored silk of her gown seemed to ripple over her body like a puff of exotic smoke. Several gold-sparked tendrils capered free of her upswept tresses, as if a lover had caught her in a quick caress. They danced down the arch of her neck, curling and kissing up against the bare skin.

That fabric and a few finespun wisps of hair could be so exquisitely erotic was a revelation.

His gaze then slid from her throat and his lungs had no choice but to suck in a much-needed gulp of air. That hitch of movement seemed to kick his brain back into working order.

How in the name of Lucifer had her mother allowed her to appear with such a plunging décolletage?

The answer was of course obvious. Lady Trumbull was determined to hook an impressive title and fortune for her second daughter. And the baroness wasn’t above using Anna’s considerable charms as bait.

All the gentlemen in the room had turned to stare as she passed through the portal, and now they were whispering among themselves. That was to say, Devlin saw their lips moving, and yet the only sound he heard was the thrum of his own blood rushing through his veins.

Anna, seemingly oblivious to the effect she was having on half the guests, made her way around the display of flowers and came to stand by her sister.

As they exchanged a quick greeting, Devlin quaffed a swallow of champagne to lubricate his throat. “Perhaps you ought to consider hiring a new lady’s maid,” he said when they were finished. “She seems to be a trifle careless.”

Anna turned and fixed him with a challenging stare. “You don’t like the way I look?”

Actually I would rather remove every stitch of clothing from your body.

“She forgot a few hairpins.” His gaze slid back to her breasts. “And a lace fichu to keep men from letting their eyes rove to places where they should not stray.”

“Some men,” she said slowly, “rove past all boundaries of propriety.” With that, Anna turned to Caro. “What do you think of Josette’s creative efforts with brush and comb?”

Her sister studied the casual creation. “Well, as Lord Davenport hinted, you do look a little rumpled. But strangely enough I think it suits you.”

Rumpled.
Caro’s choice of word was all too fitting. Anna looked like she had just risen from bed. There was a heavy-lidded languor to her eyes—a touch of kohl, perhaps, wielded by a hand skilled in seduction.

“As Josette says,” mused Caro. “A lady with nary a hair out of place is awfully bland.”

This French maid was highly dangerous, decided Devlin. Highly dangerous to a man’s peace of mind. But even more dangerous was Anna’s sudden transformation from her usual self to a sultry Siren. He considered himself a savvy judge of woman, but she had him off balance.

“Um, do you think she could do something different with my coiffeur tomorrow night?” continued Caro. She had lowered her voice, but not quite enough.

McClellan’s rough-cut voice rumbled in a low laugh as he moved out from the shadow of the curio cabinet. “Aye, I daresay one of those towering designs from the previous century would look very fetching. You know, the ones that feature things like real fruit and stuffed songbirds woven into an elaborate nest.”

“Ah, it appears that you do possess a sense of humor after all, McClellan,” said Devlin lightly.

The baron’s mouth curled up ever so slightly at the corners. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.”

“No,” said Caro tightly. “It was meant to be beastly.” Setting her wine glass on the display pedestal, she turned on her heel. “If you will excuse me, I had better go see what’s keeping Mama.”

“Is your sister always so excitable, Miss Sloane?” asked McClellan, after watching Caro storm off. “This afternoon I overheard her reciting poetry in one of the side parlors. Not bad poetry, though I didn’t recognize the author, however her emotions do tend to become enflamed.

“Only when provoked.”

“Quite deliberately provoked,” murmured Devlin.

“That,” said Anna, turning her frown on him, “is rather like the pot calling the kettle black, sir.”

“On the contrary. When I choose to wield my tongue like a rapier, I do so only against opponents who know how to defend themselves,” he replied.

McClellan’s eyes darkened to a shade of gunmetal grey. “Just what, precisely, are you accusing me of, Lord Davenport?”

“Bad manners,” answered Devlin. “I don’t know you well enough to say for sure whether you are a cowardly cur.”

“I should call you out for that insult,” snarled McClellan through his clenched teeth.

“It would be a waste of breath. As I told you, I consider duels to be a nonsensical waste of energy as well as sleep.”

“There are other ways of settling a matter of honor,” growled McClellan. But before he could elaborate, Lady Dunbar approached with Count Rupert and Colonel Polianov in tow.

“Alec, might I draw you away from your present company to answer a few shooting questions these gentlemen have?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he muttered. Inclining a curt bow to Anna, he moved off to join his cousin.

“Well, well,” remarked Devlin, as the Russian envoy began to argue loudly with McClellan over what type of gunpowder performed best in the damp conditions of the Scottish moors. “What a jovial group of guests have been assembled here. It will be a miracle if the only blood shed this month is that of the game birds.”

Y
ou appear to have made an enemy of the baron,” said Anna.

Devlin shrugged. “I assure you, he is not the first.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Despite McClellan’s boorish behavior, a part of her was grateful to him for the distraction. The exchange of heated words had kept her from feeling unspeakably awkward in her first meeting with the marquess since…

“But I find it curious that you went out of your way to defend Caro,” Anna went on. Or perhaps she had only imagined the spark of real anger in his eyes. At the moment, her usually solid judgment was subject to question. “You keep insisting that you have no sense of gentlemanly honor.”

“Don’t mistake my needling for nobility,” shot back Devlin. “McClellan takes himself too seriously. I merely felt his pride needed a prick or two.”

“You are not concerned that he possesses a volatile temper and a dislike of English aristocrats?” asked Anna.

“Not particularly.”

“And yet,” she replied, “it seems to me that he has a great deal of anger seething inside him.”

“Oh, yes, he is angry.” A sardonic twitch pulled at his mouth. “Mostly at himself because he is attracted to your sister and doesn’t wish to be.”

Anna wanted to dismiss the statement as absurd, but a momentary reflection on the baron’s behavior around her sister compelled her to admit that the marquess raised an interesting point. “You think he’s deliberately seeking to make her dislike him, so that there’s no chance of an acquaintance developing?”

“Something like that,” said Devlin, looking rather smug.

“You have a devious mind, Lord Davenport.”

“Well, apparently we think alike.”

For someone who took pains to appear a frivolous wastrel, he had a very clever wit.

To go along with his very clever imagination. And his very clever hands.

At the thought of his skilled fingers, and how adept they were at manipulating the most delicate of mechanisms, Anna felt her flesh begin to prickle with heat.

Don’t
, she warned herself.
Don’t blush.
Don’t betray how much his maddeningly masculine presence affected her rebellious body. Forcing her thoughts back to the baron, Anna suddenly recalled the list she had found in his work room.

“Speaking of devious, McClellan was one of the names you had marked with an ‘X’ on the paper hidden in your book. Why the interest in him?”

“Miss Sloane, as I’ve said before, you really ought to cease poking your nose in places it doesn’t belong.”

The condescending comment made her forget any lingering feelings of embarrassment. “Oh? And just how do you propose to stop me?” she challenged. “Here, in the drawing room, you can’t resort to the same sort of distraction you used earlier today.”

Devlin leaned in, a fraction closer than was proper in polite company. “You call what went on between us a
distraction
?”

“What would
you
call it?” demanded Anna, then immediately decided she had made a tactical mistake. “No, no, don’t answer that,” she muttered.

A devilish glint hung for an instant on the dark curl of his lashes…

The small valley between her breasts suddenly began to bead with sweat. Really, it was most unfair of the Almighty. No man ought to be blessed with such sensuous eyes.

And then he smiled.

Had he noticed her involuntary reaction? The dratted man seemed to have a sixth sense for Sin.

“Miss Sloane, there are a number of words I could use to describe our encounter. But no matter how softly I whisper”—his breath was now tickling her cheek—“none of them ought to be uttered in public.”

She edged back a step, hoping he couldn’t hear the quickening
thump-thump
of her heart.

“Miss Sloane, Lord Davenport, might I join you?” Prince Gunther paused politely by the display of roses. “Or am I interrupting a private conversation?”

“Not at all,” responded Anna.

“Excellent.” He came to stand by Devlin, who had assumed a bored slouch. “I wanted to tell you that I found a lovely fourteenth-century illuminated Book of Hours in the manuscript section of the library. The colors and gold leaf detailings are exquisite, and I thought you might like to see it tomorrow when I return from the moors.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t plan any leisure activities,” drawled Devlin. “Our Scottish Huntmaster has made it known—with fiendish delight, I might add—that he intends on driving us into the ground. To begin with, he demands that we assemble in the Gun Room at the God-benighted hour of five in the morning.”

“Oh, I am quite used to early hours and vigorous exercise during a hunting excursion,” replied the prince. “It’s quite bracing.”

“You are clearly a better fellow than I am.” Devlin gave an exaggerated shudder. “I had better go find another drink to fortify myself for the coming ordeal.”

Anna deliberately avoided meeting his gaze. “Retiring at an early hour after supper might be a better option, Lord Davenport.”

“Sleep? What a tiresome thought,” replied Devlin. “Especially when a house party presents so many more enjoyable activities to engage in.” With that he sketched a bow and sauntered off.

“An interesting fellow,” observed Prince Gunther.

Anna expelled an exasperated sigh. “That is a very charitable description.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “I had assumed the two of you were good friends, given how often Lord Davenport seeks out your company.”

“Not exactly.” She wasn’t quite sure how explain their relationship. “As you have noticed, the marquess finds it diverting to needle people. That I react to his barbs seems to amuse him, so perhaps that’s the reason.”

The prince raised a brow. “That sounds rather ungentlemanly.”

“Yes,” agreed Anna. “So it does.”

“Have you finally tired of young innocent girls?”

Devlin looked up from the amber-dark depth of his whisky.

“They are so naïve,
non
?” went on Lady de Blois. “I confess, it surprised me that you paid them any attention.” With a graceful little flourish—a gesture that had likely been perfected in front of a looking glass, he thought cynically—she tapped her fan lightly against his shoulder. “Until I heard that the elder one has recently been gifted with a very generous dowry.”

He smiled, though his hand tightened around his glass. “Yes, money is very seductive.”

A low, trilling laugh rippled through the air. “Yes, indeed.” Sidling closer, she toyed with the fringe of her shawl, shifting its folds just enough to expose a better view of her gown’s low-cut bodice. “But so are other things.”

“Like baubles?” he suggested.

Another laugh. “
Oui
. I like things of beauty, like precious gems, gleaming gold.” A pause. “And handsome men.”

It was a blatant invitation to strike up a more heated flirtation, which fitted perfectly with his duties for Thorncroft. And yet, he found himself ignoring the opportunity.

“Has your missing emerald been found?” he asked.

Her mouth pursed to a pout. “Not yet. The servant quarters have been thoroughly checked, however Lord Dunbar is reluctant to offend his other guests by ordering a search of their rooms. He has, however, offered to reimburse me for its loss at the end of the house party if it hasn’t been found.”

“Most likely it has simply rolled into some hidden nook or cranny and will turn up before then.”

“Perhaps.” A Gallic sniff expressed quite the opposite sentiment. “Though I think it far more probable that it’s tucked in someone’s reticule or pocket.” Lady de Blois flicked a gloved finger over the folds of his cravat. “Maybe I should demand to run my hands over your coat and waistcoat, Lord Davenport.”

“Alas, you would be greatly disappointed, Lady de Blois.”

“Oh, I think not.” Her lashes fluttered. “And do call me Marie-Helene. After all, country house parties are notorious for their informality.”

Notorious.
Her understanding of the English language was either mediocre or superb.

“I am called—”

“
Le Diable
,” she said. “The Devil. But surely your parents gave you a more proper Christian name.”

“Devlin,” he supplied. “Though I’ve been told they considered Lucifer, as I put my mother through hell in birthing me.”

“Ah, so you were trouble from the start.”

“So it would seem.” As he spoke, the supper bell rang, signaling it was time to move into the dining salon.

“Since we are seated at opposite ends of the table, it seems we must continue this fascinating conversation at a later time,” said Lady de Blois. “Midnight is a charming hour, don’t you think?”

“An interlude of black velvet skies and diamond-bright stars, cloaked in the mystery of moonlight.”

“La, you are a poet as well as a rogue,” she intoned.

“Merely parroting the words of one,” replied Devlin.

She regarded him with a faintly quizzical look before saying, “I am quartered on the third floor of the west wing. My door is the first one on your left as you enter the corridor. I shall not linger over tea with the ladies while you gentlemen enjoy your postprandial port and cigars. So don’t dally too long.”

The assignation should have stirred some enthusiasm in his thoughts—not to speak of his privy parts. However, the prospect of dallying with the lady no longer seemed quite so attractive.

Perhaps the combination of Scottish malt and French champagne was setting off an adverse chemical reaction.

Mayhap I should switch to Spanish brandy or German wine.

“
A bientôt
, Devlin,” she said in a throaty whisper.

“Yes, until later,” he murmured.

“Drat it.” Freeing the tangled pin from her topknot, Anna tossed it on the dressing table. Several more
pings
followed.

“Was your evening’s ensemble not a success?”

Anna whirled around as her maid emerged from the dressing alcove. “You really need not wait up for me in the evenings, Josette. I am quite capable of undressing myself.”

“Forgive me if I am disturbing you. I was just putting away some freshly laundered nightrails. Things have been slow in the scullery because of all the extra work.”

“I did not mean to sound snappish,” apologized Anna. “I seem to be a little out of sorts tonight.”

“Your gown…”

“Earned effusive compliments from most of the men present,” she said, turning back to the looking glass to unknot the ribbon in her hair.

Josette carefully plumped the pillows on the bed. “But not from the dark-haired one they call the Devil?”

A harried exhale momentarily fogged her reflection. “W-what makes you say that?”

“Very little goes on upstairs that isn’t discussed downstairs, mademoiselle,” replied her maid.

“But of course. What a buffle-headed question.” Anna loosened the last of the pins. “My wits don’t seem to seem to be working very well of late.”

Josette maintained a tactful silence as she retrieved the ribbon from the carpet and twined it into a neat coil.

Biting her lip, Anna watched the slowly undulating flame of her candle as she started to brush out her hair, hoping its soft sway might help soothe her unsettled emotions. With a pang of longing, she realized how much she missed the company of her older sister. Olivia’s steady good sense and sage wisdom could always be counted on to help untangle any problem.

Despite the flicker of firegold light, Anna felt her spirits sink deeper into darkness. It was dreadfully hard having no one to confide in. Caro was not yet experienced enough to give advice about men, and as for her mother…

Mama and I are as different as chalk and cheese.

A sniff slipped out of its own accord, causing the candleflame to waver.

“Is there a reason you are feeling…I think you English call it blue-deviled?” asked Josette softly.

“Oh, please.” Anna forced a smile. “I would rather not hear the word ‘devil’ any more tonight.”

“Ah.” Her maid perched a hip on the edge of the dressing table and tucked her skirts around her legs. “Men.”

“Men,” she echoed. If anyone had experience in the vagaries of life, and all its hard-edged realities, it was Josette. Drawing a deep breath, she ventured to add, “They can be awfully confusing.”

“
Oui
,” agreed her maid. “At times, one is tempted to strangle them—or rather him.”

“Oh, I can’t tell you how comforting it is to hear that,” quipped Anna. “I thought perhaps it was just me.”

“Trust me, if there is one sentiment all women share, it is that.” Josette folded her hands in her lap. “If there is anything you wish to talk about, I am happy to listen.” A pause. “Be assured that I don’t gossip, mademoiselle.”

Anna hesitated, but somehow felt that her maid could be taken at her word. “I ought to be able to ignore him. And yet, the Devil—that is, Lord Davenport—has the infuriating ability to make me lose my temper. And I
never
lose my temper.” She frowned. “It’s very puzzling.”

“You wish for me to offer an answer?”

“Very much so.”

“It’s because you are very attracted to the man. Perhaps you are even a tiny bit in love with him.”

“But that makes no sense,” said Anna.

Josette’s low laugh caused the pale curl of candle smoke to dissolve in the darkness. “That is the first thing you must understand about love, mademoiselle—it makes no sense. It comes from the heart, not the brain, and the heart can be very stupid about these things.”

“I see there is much I have to learn on the subject.” Anna was acutely aware of the
thump, thump
inside her chest. “I wish there were a book on the subject that, you know, spelled out the rules.”

“There are a great many that claim to know the secrets. But I daresay they wouldn’t do you much good. Love is not like a recipe for pigeon pie. There is no list of ingredients that can be mixed together to create a perfect result. It is different for every individual. You simply have to trust your instincts.” Josette’s mouth tweaked up at the corners. “Trust your passions.”

“But passion can lead a lady into trouble,” mused Anna.

“Yes, yes, I know. You English are cautious. Perhaps too cautious. We French believe that—”