Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (23 page)

“For God’s sake, Edward, halt your fidgeting before I have you tied to the bedpost,” Lord Bidwell groused.

Edward Sinclair, Fifth Earl of Harrington, smiled with rueful amusement. He was a large gentleman with the thick muscles of a person accustomed to hard labor and chestnut curls that were brushed toward a countenance too bronzed for fashion and features too forceful for beauty. He was, however, blessed with warm hazel eyes and an unexpected pair of charming dimples.

Thankfully, he was also blessed with a rare good humor and patient nature. A stroke of fortune, considering most would have bolted after a fortnight of enduring Biddles’s wretched notions of how to mold a proper gentleman.

“I defy any gentleman not to do a measure of fidgeting after three tedious hours of being brutally bathed, brushed, and bedeviled. I can assure you that I have been more kindly handled during taproom brawls.”

“Halt your complaining. You are fortunate that your form is such that I had no need to order a corset. They are damnably uncomfortable, according to most,” Biddles retorted with a supreme lack of sympathy. “Of course, they are all the rage since the prince has taken to wearing them. Perhaps we may yet consider one.”

Edward lifted one warning brow. “You would not dare.”

The slender, flamboyantly attired dandy with a narrow countenance and piercing eyes smiled with a bland superiority.

“Not only would I dare, my dear Edward, but I would twist, tuck, and squeeze you into it myself if I thought it necessary.” With a flourish the gentleman produced a lacy fan to wave before his pointed nose. “I have warned you that all of society will be anxious to cast their judgment upon the new Earl of Harrington. Especially since they are already titillated by your elevation from farmer to earl in one fell stroke. Do not doubt that every eye will be searching for some exposure of your rustic manners and lack of worldly experience.”

“Meaning that they will expect me to arrive at their soirées complete with mud on my boots and a cow in tow?”

“That is precisely what they will expect.”

Edward smiled wryly. “It is not that I doubt your judgment, Biddles, which is always quite beyond question,” he murmured. “But I must admit that I have yet to comprehend how being scrubbed until I am raw and then strangled by my valet, who by the way is taking inordinate pleasure in my torture, is to assure the
ton
that I do not reek of the country.”

The ebony fan was abruptly snapped shut as Biddies advanced across the hideous paisley carpet. During his rigorous training in manners, deportment, and dancing since arriving in London, Edward had not yet had the opportunity to do more than make a cursory inspection of the enormous townhouse. Certainly there had been no time to renovate the opulent grandeur to a more simple style suitable to a bachelor of modest taste.

“Egads, Edward, how often must I remind you? A gentleman can always be distinguished by his attire, and most importantly by the tie of his cravat. It is what sets apart a true nobleman from those of lesser Quality.”

Edward could not help but chuckle at the absurdity of his friend’s words. It was precisely the sort of logic he would never comprehend, regardless of the number of titles that were dumped upon his unwilling shoulders.

“Do you mean to tell me, my dear Biddles, that among a nation with the greatest minds, the most progressive scientists, highly respected philosophers, poets, and warriors, all we have to set us above the savages is the perfection of a knot in a length of linen?”

There was a cough from one of the numerous uniformed servants who were crowded into the room until Lord Bidwell’s unnerving gaze fell upon the hapless man.

“Leave us,” he commanded. “I will speak with his lordship alone.”

As one the servants anxiously filed out of the room, all too pleased to be away from the dandy’s sharp tongue and habit of flaying those who dared to interfere in his torturous lessons. Only the well-trained valet was daring enough to linger a rebellious moment to pluck a tiny thread from the shoulder of Edward’s mulberry jacket before he too joined the mass retreat.

Once alone with his friend, Edward strolled to glance at his form in the floor-length mirror. He grimaced at the satin white pantaloons and silver waistcoat. Such elegance might be
de rigueur
for an evening in London, but he felt a dashed fool.

Gads, he had seen trained monkeys who looked more comfortable in satin and diamonds than he did.

What did he know of society? He had not been raised to take his place among the upper ten thousand. Indeed, during most of his eight-and-twenty years he had been only vaguely aware of any connection to the aristocracy. The knowledge that he had become heir upon the death of the old earl, followed swiftly by the deaths of his son and two nephews, came as much as a shock to him as to the horrified Harrington family that viewed him as little better than a puffed-up encroacher.

The sudden slap of the fan upon his shoulder had Edward reluctantly turning to meet the glittering gaze of the elegant gentleman.

“Edward, there are few who are as well versed in traversing society as I,” Biddles warned in stern tones. “Which, I flatter myself, is precisely the reason that you requested that I be the one to introduce you to society. I am quite as cognizant of the ridiculousness of the
ton
as you. Perhaps more so. But while I might secretly find the shallowness and too-common lack of intelligence a source of amusement, I have never made the mistake of underestimating the power that society wields. Never.”

Edward heaved an inward sigh. His friend was right, of course. Even if he did not care a fig for the opinion of society for himself, he could not forget that he now possessed a far-flung family that depended upon him to maintain a certain dignity. One of the many burdens that had come with the title.

More important, however, was the knowledge that if he hoped to use his newfound position to help those he had left behind, he would have to win the confidence of his fellow noblemen. His seat in the House of Lords would be meaningless if he was seen as a bumbling simpleton without the necessary skills to move through society.

Or to demand entrance to the various gentlemen’s clubs, which of course, was where the true power was hoarded.

“Forgive me, Biddles.” He offered a faint bow of his head. “I do not mean to make light of my entrance to society. It is only that I feel awkward and not at all confident that I shall not make an utter ass of myself.”

The thin features abruptly settled back into the familiar sardonic amusement.

“Do not fear, Edward. You may not be the most dashing or elegant of gentlemen, but you are intelligent and you do possess a measure of charm when you choose to exert yourself.”

“Thank you . . . I think.”

The pale blue eyes glittered. “And with a bit of luck you will not be a complete ass.”

He tilted back his head to laugh at the tart compliment. Biddles would never be considered a comfortable companion. He could play the buffoon to perfection or suddenly reveal the razor-edged brilliance that had once made him the most successful spy the crown had ever possessed. But Edward did not regret his choice in seeking his help.

Despite the fact that Biddles was currently the proprietor of Hellion’s Den, an elegant gambling establishment, he was undoubtedly a leader of society and the perfect companion to introduce Edward to the more fastidious
ton
.

“Well, I may wound several maidens unfortunate enough to be my partner upon the dance floor, and forget which fork to use, but at least my cravat is glorious perfection and my coat cut so tightly I can barely breathe. I trust no one shall mistake me for the gardener.”

Biddles offered a condemning sniff. “As if any gardener could afford a coat cut by Weston.”

“Or would be ridiculous enough to want one.” Edward sucked in a deep breath. As much as he might long to remain in the dubious comfort of the drafty house, he knew that it was impossible. It was time to take his place as Earl of Harrington. Whether he desired the position or not. “Shall we be on our way?”

 

 

Lady Bianca, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Lockharte, was in a towering fury.

Not an uncommon event.

Despite the endless parade of governesses who had tried to coax, coerce, and downright bully her into becoming a properly modest lady, she possessed a fiery temper and habit of speaking first and thinking later. Often much later.

In her defense, however, she was always swift to admit when she was in the wrong, and never took her ill humor out upon servants or staff who were in no position to defend themselves.

Not that any servants willingly lingered when Lady Bianca pitted her will against her father. ’Twas said below stairs that it was preferable to stick a hand into a hornet’s nest as to stumble into a blue-blooded battle.

Even the butler, who was well known to consider himself just a step below royalty, was swift to scamper toward the servants’ quarters when he heard the first of the delicate Wedgwood plates launched against the door.

Unaware of the household exodus to safer grounds, Bianca stomped angrily from one end of the vast library to the other. She briefly considered hefting a few of the rare leather-bound books at the door. They would make a much nicer thud than the china she had tossed. But while she was furious enough to throttle something, or better yet someone, she had not plunged into utter stupidity.

The large, silver-haired duke with the powerful, handsome countenance could be astonishingly indulgent toward his only daughter. Most would say too indulgent. But he would have her head on a platter if she so much as touched one of his beloved books.

As if sensing her smoldering need for destruction, her father settled more comfortably upon the elegant damask sofa and waved his hand toward the shelves of painted china.

“I do believe that you missed one of your mother’s Wedgwood plates, Bianca, in case you are still in the mood to act like a petulant child,” he drawled.

Bianca came to an abrupt halt to glare at her father. She could actually feel the hair on the nape of her neck stand upright. Like a bristling cat.

“This is unacceptable. You had no right to refuse Lord Aldron’s offer of marriage,” she gritted between her clenched teeth.

A silver brow arched at her scathing words. “As a matter of fact, I had every right. Despite your ofttime belief that you are in charge of the world and everyone in it, I am still your father and I will not have you toss away your future upon a practiced rogue. Certainly not one who would make you miserable within a week.”

Bianca sucked in a sharp breath. She had known that the duke possessed no great fondness for Lord Aldron. How could she not? The two men had only to be in the same room for the ice to begin to form. But she had not thought he would sink to tossing about such slanderous insults.

“Lord Aldron is not a rogue.”

“Bah. Only an innocent such as you would not know of his infamous reputation.” Her father’s expression hardened with an unfamiliar disgust. “For God’s sake, he is a hardened rake, a gambler, and an adventurer who has been mired in scandal from the day he stepped foot into London.”

Bianca resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Innocent or not, she was perfectly aware of Stephen’s reputation. It was that hint of danger that had attracted her to him in the first place.

Well, that and his delicious blond hair and deep blue eyes, she acknowledged with a faint shiver.

For a young maiden who had been kept ruthlessly protected her entire life, what could be more fascinating than a gentleman who dared to ignore the tedious rules of society?

He was fiery, unpredictable, and most of all perfectly willing to teach her of the world outside her pampered existence.

Quite simply irresistible.

“You are hardly one to throw stones, Father,” she retorted, her dark eyes flashing fire. “From all I have heard, you indulged in your own share of scandals when you were young.”

“My scandals did not include fighting duels, hosting Cyprian Balls in my home, or leading innocent young females into danger.”

Her brows snapped together. “Danger? That is absurd.”

One of the very few who did not fear her temper, the duke rose to his feet and regarded her with a somber expression.

“I am not a fool, Bianca. I am well aware that the scoundrel has lured you from the house so you could attend boxing matches, horse races, as well as a bawdy pantomime that was not fit for the eyes of a harlot, let alone an unwed lady,” he said in stark tones.

Her breath caught in shock.

Oh . . .
cripes. So much for her carefully elaborate schemes to hide her exhilarating outings.

Obviously being a duke included knowing every damnable thing that happened in London.

It was with an effort that she met his accusing gaze. “Do not hold Stephen to blame. It was upon my urging that he escorted me to such places.”

“Which is the only reason I did not take a horsewhip to him, I assure you.”

“And I only urged him to do so because I am sick to death of being treated as if I am a witless idiot without the ability to think for myself or to make even the simplest of decisions.”

His eyes narrowed at her sharp words. “You are my daughter. It is my duty to protect you.”

Bianca nearly screamed in frustration. On how many occasions had she heard the familiar lecture?

A hundred? A thousand?

Certainly it was trotted out whenever she happened to be in danger of having a bit of fun.

“I am not your daughter, I am a pretty doll you put on display and then tuck away when I am not of use. At least Stephen realizes that I am a woman perfectly capable of knowing something of the world.”