London's Last True Scoundrel (12 page)

Cravenly she longed for Davenport to return. He might be an unprincipled oaf, but he’d dispatch these fellows in the blink of an eye.

She lowered her gaze again, staring at the men’s boots, doing her best to ignore their jibes, until one of the men muttered, “Toplofty bit o’ muslin, ain’t she?” and came several steps closer.

She was about to spring up when another set of feet—these clad in battered evening shoes—fetched up in front of her gaze and Davenport’s rich voice accosted her.

“Here you are, Honey. Just where I left you,” he said cheerfully, having no notion of her predicament or how her stomach churned.

She lifted her gaze to his impossibly handsome, lividly marked face and relief broke over her like a king tide. She shot out of her seat and only the good breeding she had drummed into herself restrained her from casting herself upon his broad, manly chest.

I could kiss you,
she thought recklessly.
I could throw my arms around those big shoulders and …

But of course she didn’t, because well-bred ladies never kissed a man to whom they were not related, married, or betrothed. And certainly not in a crowded inn.

A big hand clapped Davenport on the shoulder. “’Ere, I was talkin’ ter the lady first.”

A diamond-bright hardness entered Davenport’s eyes. He turned, shrugging off the meaty paw. Ranging himself beside Hilary, he faced the two men.

“The lady is with me,” he said in a mild voice that belied his expression. “Now, if you two gentlemen will step aside, we’ll be on our way.”

Hilary glanced at Davenport, impressed with how civilized he sounded.

The look on his face was anything but civilized, however. She’d never seen him like this before. When he’d fought her brothers, there’d been a hard light of excitement, enjoyment, in his eyes. Now there was cold fury.

The other men scented a fight. Ignoring his request, they stood their ground, alert and ready. The bearded man went so far as to cross his arms over his barrel chest, making it clear he wasn’t going to budge.

Davenport sighed and turned to her. “Would you mind stepping aside, my dear?”

She needed no further persuasion, scuttling back into her corner like a mouse. She knew from bitter experience she’d be in the way if she stayed and that Davenport might be distracted if she tried to help.

Davenport’s elbow shot out, clipping the bearded man on his furry chin, sending him reeling back. A swift strike of his heel connected with the other man’s knee.

With a howl, the fellow crumpled on the spot.

The bearded man recovered quickly, boring in again.

Davenport leaned forward, picked up a chair, pivoted, and crashed it down on the bearded man’s head. The chair was flimsy. It splintered and cracked and flew into pieces. The big man shook himself like a dog and kept coming.

“Honey,” Davenport panted, “I’m doing my best not to use my fists, but it’s getting damned difficult.”

That stupid promise! How could he think she would hold him to it?

“Never mind that,” cried Hilary. “Hit him!”

The florid man had screamed with pain over his knee, but he was even now staggering to his feet with murder in his face.

It was two against one, but without his hands tied by his promise to her, Davenport fought like a god, with strength, power, and a strange fluid beauty. Other men, drawn by the commotion, took sides and came in swinging.

From what Hilary could see from her place flattened against the wall, things turned riotous from there. More men piled into the fray and soon these respectable farmers and merchants were a teeming melee, rolling and crashing about and punching one another with no earthly idea why.

Davenport fought on, all the while wading through the roiling mass of bodies toward the yard entrance. Hilary abandoned her post and darted to the doorway, ready to escape with him into the yard.

Then she saw them. Her brothers, Tom and Benedict, entering the inn from the other door. They’d followed her. Not only that, they’d very nearly caught her, too.

“Davenport!” she yelled over the din. “Look!”

He ducked a flying fist, then glanced around. When he saw her brothers, who were even now piling onto the fight with their customary gusto, he muscled through the mass of flailing limbs to her.

“Hurry!” Gripping her hand, he pulled her out to the stable yard.

She stumbled a little as she tried to keep up with him. That cold, hard look had not left his face.

“Did you have any luck in the taproom?” she asked, belatedly recalling the reason he’d left her alone in the first place.

He shook his head. “They probably went to the smithy. No time to find out. We have to get out of here before your brothers see us.”

“I can’t believe they’ve followed me,” said Hilary, running to keep up. They wouldn’t have troubled themselves just for her. There must be some other reason.

Davenport practically threw her into the seat of the gig that stood, ready and waiting for them. Climbing up beside her, he flipped a coin to the ostler who held the horse’s head. “I’ll need someone to find a broken-down coach about two miles from here on the north road, repair the broken axle, and return the coach to Wrotham Grange, hard by Stamford.”

If the ostler thought this an odd request, he didn’t dare argue, just tipped his hat and said, “Aye, your lordship.”

“What about Trixie?” Hilary clutched his arm as he set off at a spanking pace, weaving around other carriages and pedestrians in the yard.

He waved off that objection. “I’ll send someone for her when we get to London.”

“But—”

“Do you want your brothers to catch up with us and drag you home?” he demanded.

“Of course not. Only—”

He glanced at the enormous stable yard clock. “And you want to be in town tonight, don’t you?”

“Well, ye—”

“Then we must be off. We’ve lost far too much time.”

She didn’t know what to do. “But I feel awful leaving Trixie with her sore ankle.”

“Well, it’s either look for her and risk running into your brothers or press on.” He shot her a glance that was full of challenge. “What’s it to be?”

Her desperation to get away from the Grange overcame her fears for Trixie. The other servants were with her, after all. Besides, Trixie, of all people, would understand the urgency of Hilary’s flight. “Yes. All right, let’s go.”

But Davenport treated her answer as a foregone conclusion. They left the inn and her brothers in their dust.

Or at least, that’s what she hoped. They’d traveled many miles before Hilary stopped casting wary glances over her shoulder.

As the immediacy of her fear faded, Hilary became acutely aware of Davenport. The gig was no slender sporting vehicle. It could seat three people quite easily. Yet Davenport’s muscular thigh continually pressed against Hilary’s as he drove the equipage as fast as the hired horse could go.

Davenport’s touch made her edgy and hot. She didn’t like it one bit.

“I wish you would stop doing that,” she said crossly, drawing herself farther to the edge of the seat. “Really, this is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to guard against when I insisted on bringing Trixie.”

He grinned. “You’re not afraid of being alone with me in an open carriage in broad daylight, are you? Honey, even my superior skills with the ribbons wouldn’t permit me to make love to you and drive at the same time.
Although…”
He trailed off, tilting his head as if imagining ways of accomplishing both tasks at once.

Her stifled gasp made his smile broaden.

“Besides,” he added, lowering his voice, “when I make love to you, I intend to give it my full, undivided attention.”

Why did she keep blushing like this? She ought to be accustomed to his outrageous remarks by now.

She managed a
humph
of disapproval. “You are not chivalrous.”

“This is what I keep telling you,” he said. “I am London’s most notorious scoundrel. As such, it is my job to seduce you. As a virtuous lady bent on establishing her pristine reputation, it is
your
job to stop me.”

He looked down at her and shook his head. The wicked gleam in his eyes invited her to share the joke. “I should not have to explain these things to you.”

He was right, she realized. Clearly, she’d lost her grip on reality if she trusted this cheerful blackguard to do the honorable thing. He might protect her from
other
wolves, but she must not forget that Jonathon, Lord Davenport, was the most dangerous predator of them all.

Only one thing bothered her. Would a true scoundrel keep reminding her of the fact?

“It is not proper for me to drive all this way alone with you, even if it is in an open carriage,” she managed stiffly. “How shall I look Lady Tregarth in the eye, arriving in such a state?”

“You needn’t worry. I’ll think of some explanation to satisfy her.” He returned his attention to his horse. “Rosamund might be a countess, but she’s not nearly as high in the instep as you are.”

“I daresay,” she said tartly, “that being a Westruther, your cousin might walk down St. James’s stark naked and no one would turn a hair. Whereas
I
—”

“Whereas if
you
walked down St. James’s stark naked, Honey, you would cause a riot.”

The gleam in his eye made her all too conscious of his intentions to see her stark naked as soon as possible. As if she’d needed reminding.

Her fault for mentioning that “naked” word. What devil prompted her to invite these lewd speculations? Perhaps there was more deVere in her than she’d thought.

No. She was forced to admit that her companion addled her wits with his handsome looks and his audacious swagger. Few women could resist the Earl of Davenport, she was sure.

Well,
she
would resist him. Everything depended upon her doing so. She must show the world a deVere could behave with the utmost taste and propriety. She must convince a good, respectable man that a deVere lady could be a good, respectable wife.

“What I am trying to say,” she continued with forced patience, “is that as a deVere, I cannot be too careful of my reputation. I am at a disadvantage to begin with, thanks to my rotten family.”

“You know,” he said after a while, “I shouldn’t think your family matters as much as you expect. The best strategy with society is to act as if you don’t care what people think.”

“I suppose that works for someone like you,” she muttered, feeling waspish.

He rubbed his stubbled jaw with the flat of his hand as he considered that. “No, I cannot truly say anything much works for me, or that I’ve ever cared to win the ton’s good opinion. I am beyond the pale. Or I would be if I wasn’t an earl and disgustingly rich into the bargain. Of course, I
don’t
care what people think. Being dead for nigh on six years puts such stuff into perspective.”

Hilary had wondered about that extraordinary circumstance before, but so much had happened since their first, inauspicious meeting that the question had gone clear out of her head.

She would have probed further, but he added, “No, this is what I’ve observed among ladies of the ton. Even the greatest scandal can be overcome if only one has the brass to face down the gossip.”

Hilary didn’t believe it. As a deVere, she couldn’t let one tiny chink in her armor show. Look what had happened to her at Miss Tollington’s. Even when she’d behaved impeccably, her family had weighed against her. Ultimately, the deVere reputation had tipped the scales.

The utter shock of the moment Miss Tollington had dismissed her still resonated through her soul like the after-tremors of an earthquake. More than two weeks had passed since that fateful decision had rocked her to her foundations and she was yet to recover.

When she’d let fly at Davenport in front of Mrs. Farrington … She shuddered to think of it. That had been more than a chink in her armor. She’d stripped herself bare.

The provocation had been impossible to withstand, of course. But now that she had Davenport’s measure, she could deal with his audacity. Or at least, she could deflect his attempts to seduce and embarrass her with her temper and her virtue intact.

Davenport looped a rein to slow the horse when they rounded a bend. His hands were bare, she noticed. If he’d ever worn gloves with his evening rig, they would have been white, and quite ruined by now.

For some reason, those naked hands held her spellbound. The backs of them were slightly more tanned than the rest, with a sprinkling of dark hair that caught the light as they moved. Large hands, capable and strong. They tempted a lady to place her trust in them.

She remembered the feel of those hands gripping her shoulders when he’d kissed her and barely suppressed a shiver.

From there, her thoughts skipped to the sight of him, forever emblazoned on her memory, standing like a statue of Apollo among the ruins of his bedchamber ceiling.

Naked.

She yanked the check string on that runaway thought.

What was wrong with her? One minute, she solemnly vowed to follow the path of rectitude; the next, she was picturing the worst libertine in the country without his clothes.

It was Davenport.
He
was what ailed her. No other man had ever incited such violent and conflicting emotions in her breast. It was his fault and his alone that she now appreciated the joys of a perfect pair of male buttocks.

Oh, dear. She recalled many instances of her delicate mama attempting to wash her brothers’ mouths out with soap. Hilary wished she could do the same to her mind.

“Penny for them,” said Davenport idly, interrupting her brain’s wild meandering.

She started. “What?”

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said on a deep chuckle. “Although I daresay I could be persuaded to pay a lot more for thoughts that make your color fluctuate so delightfully. You really do have the most exquisite skin, you know. Translucent, like my sister’s finest Chinese porcelain. Like a white rose with the faintest blush of pink at the center.”

The soulful way he uttered the last sentence made her laugh in spite of herself. “You are the most complete hand, Lord Davenport. Why can you not be serious, even when you are trying to flatter a lady into your … er … arms?”