Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage]

Andersen Hall,
London Summer 1811

B
arely taking in the birds chirping in the trees, the squirrels darting about, or the sun riding on the pine-scented breeze, Prescott Devane strode down the path to the orphanage’s guesthouse, his irritation at full boil.

He growled under his breath as his eyes fixed on the liveried footman standing on the small wooden porch. He didn’t recognize the uniform, but suspected that Mrs. Nagel, Andersen Hall’s crusty matron, was right about his visitor being female; only a woman would choose to dress her servant in purple with marigold lapels.

Ever since he’d saved little orphan Evie from the fire, he’d practically had to fend off the ladies. Despite
his every effort to avoid Society, the ladies came to him at his childhood home, the only haven he’d ever known, making a nuisance of themselves. He’d had enough doe-eyed, overeager females fawning over him as if he’d trounced Napoleon himself! And the offers! He couldn’t quite believe their…generosity. If one could use that word.

And, blast him, he wanted none of them.

The wretched truth was, he’d changed. He traced the start of this alteration to a very small incident only eleven months before. It was at a birthday fete for his then paramour, Lillith, Lady Willis, held in Hyde Park. Upon returning with her requested glass of lemonade, Prescott had overheard her speaking with one of her friends.

“It’s his very commonness that drew me to Devane,” Lillith had drawled. “Anticipating that his beastliness would reveal itself between the sheets,
if you know what I mean.
” The friend had giggled. “The problem is, his hearty appetites aren’t limited to the bedroom. Who would have thought he would be such a
bon vivant
? For a lowly orphan, the man certainly enjoys his champagne and caviar. He eats enough for three men and consumes every morsel as if it’s to be his last crumb. But I suppose such loutishness is to be expected from an—”

It was at that moment that she’d become aware of his presence. Her cheeks had flushed pink and her gaze had skirted away, but other than that, she’d acted as if she’d done nothing wrong. And blast him, so had he.

To his ultimate shame, he’d remained at the fete, his mask of charming escort firmly in place. But underneath the mask, he’d seethed. It was one thing to know
on an intellectual level that he would never be a member of the club. But it was entirely another to feel the humiliating slash of the ladies’ scorn as it staked his heart. Especially since he’d thought that Lillith cared about him.

Throughout the rest of the picnic he’d reflected on his experiences in Polite Society. The small slights he’d ignored, the references to his birth hidden behind a thin veneer of contempt, the absolute conviction that Prescott was there to
serve
and was around
by their leave.

He’d ended it with Lillith later that day, and she hadn’t had one word of apology. Things hadn’t been the same for him since. Yet he’d continued his charade as the charming escort to ladies in Society. Oh, he’d been more selective about whom he’d chosen to escort, and from among them, with whom he might share a bed. Habits were hard to break, it seemed.

Then Headmaster Dunn had been murdered and Prescott’s transformation had been complete. The head of the orphanage had been the only real father Prescott had ever known. Prescott had felt more than a little lost, alone in a way he hadn’t been in ages, except of course for Cat…

Then she’d upped and married another man.

Prescott could no longer be the rakish
cicisbeo
looking for the next grand ball to grace, or sumptuous feast to relish or stunning lady to charm. Boisterous crowds raked his nerves. Fine food held no flavor. Boldly sensual ladies held no appeal. It was the life he’d once loved, and yet now, it all seemed so…superfluous. The farce that had become his life left him feeling hollow and suddenly very old for his seven-and-twenty years.

Annoyed with his pitiful musings, Prescott pushed away the heartache, instead stoking the fires of his anger against his unwelcome visitor. Better to be cross with an inconsiderate Society dame than act like the miserable sod he’d been the last few weeks.

Not bothering to pretend nonchalance, Prescott marched up the short staircase and nodded to the apple-cheeked, soot-haired footman, saving his animosity for the employer inside.

He stormed through the door. A lady he did not know sat on the sofa, rifling through the account ledger detailing Prescott’s new business venture that would make his life as a
cicisbeo
ancient history.

A small snarl escaped from his lips.

“Oh!” The unknown lady jumped up from her seat and the book dropped from her lap to the floor with a thud. Shoving her plum-colored bonnet back from her face, she gushed, “Beg pardon! I didn’t mean to pry! I sat on the sofa to wait for you, and well, it was so lumpy, and I looked underneath, and well, I didn’t mean to be so appallingly rude…I just…I just…I’m sorry!”

Judging by the lack of lines on her pale skin and absence of gray in her ebony hair, she seemed to be recently past twenty. Her oval face might have been pretty, except her hair was constricted more tightly than even Mrs. Nagel’s. The decidedly unflattering chignon did nothing to detract from her pointy chin or generous nose that, albeit straight, overwhelmed her thin face.

Her best feature was her eyes, so dark as to appear almost black, and shining with the gleam of intelligence. His heart skipped a beat.

How long had she been reading? How much did she deduce? Did it matter? Members of Polite Society disdained trade, treating it as if it was akin to the plague. She certainly wouldn’t try to undercut his new business. So why did he care?

Because his dream was so fresh, so fragile, and every last pence of his funds was sunk into it. If something caused his venture to fold even before it had begun…

Leaning over, the lady brushed aside her brown woolen skirts, retrieved the book and held it out with outstretched arms. “I apologize, Mr. Devane. I had no business looking at this. I am so sorry for my inexcusable rudeness. I barely had opened it when you arrived.”

Her voice sounded sincere, if a bit breathless. Her moon-pale cheeks bloomed rosy with color, ostensibly from embarrassment. And those velvet black eyes
appeared
contrite. But he, of all people, knew that appearances could be deceiving. Moreover, she could’ve simply been upset that she’d been
caught.

Not giving any indication of his anxiety, he feigned nonchalance, jerking his chin and motioning for her to set the ledger on the table. He’d learned long ago not to give away any indication of vulnerability; it only drew the sharks to the scent of blood.

“Oh, dear, yes, your hands…I’d heard about the burns you’d sustained while saving that little girl’s life.” In a flutter, she spun and set down the volume. Turning to face him, she raised a brow. “I assume that you’re still wearing bandages beneath your gloves?”

He glowered, not bothering a reply.

She frowned. “I see that I’ve made an absolute mess
of things. And I was so hoping for a pleasant start to our acquaintance.”

“We have no acquaintance.” His words were clipped and he didn’t bother to keep the anger from his tone.

“Of course not. We haven’t been properly intro—”

“Which makes it unseemly for you to be alone in my company.” Stepping aside, he motioned to the open door. “If you will.”

She blinked. “But you haven’t even heard—”

“I’m not receiving visitors.”

“But Lady Pomfry’s been to see you. And Mrs. Bright. Mrs. Haymarket…”

What? Had she been spying on him? No matter. Once more, he motioned to the door. “I am not receiving visitors
any longer.
Now go.”

Her mouth opened and then closed as if she couldn’t sort out what he was saying. After an annoyingly long moment, her head tilted. “Is it because I’m not pretty enough?”

“Yes, that’s it. Whatever you say. Now, if you’ll please just go.”

She stilled, immobilized like one of Lady Pomfry’s porcelain dolls. The only sign of life in her was the suspiciously bright gleam in her gaze.

Suddenly he realized what he’d just said. He bit back a groan.
Oh, dear Lord.
Even
he
was not so callous as to intentionally harm a woman’s self-esteem; he’d simply wanted her to go. Now he was probably going to have to deal with a blubbering damsel in need of cheer. Could this day get any worse?

“I must confess,” she whispered, “you’re nothing like I’d imagined.”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” he muttered,
trying to figure a smooth way out of this wretched fix. He raised his hand to run it though his hair and was arrested by a now-familiar searing pain. That was one nervous habit that he had to adjust for his burn injuries.

“Look, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he ventured.

She smiled sadly. “There is no need to apologize, Mr. Devane. I know I’m no beauty.”

He wondered if it was worth arguing the point with her. Granted, with her unfashionable ebony hair and dark eyes, she would never be considered a fine English rose. And she was far too thin for conventional fashion. Moreover, she’d do better with a coiffure of elaborate curls to balance out her strong features. No, she was not an exceptional beauty.

And yet…

“Would you believe me if I told you that I disagree?” he asked gently, knowing that any woman who would suggest her looks as a reason for rejection had to be sensitive on that very point.

The lady studied him a long moment, her black-jeweled gaze considering. “No. And I would prefer that you be honest with me in all of our future dealings together.”

Prescott gritted his teeth. Although he was glad that she hadn’t wilted like a sodden handkerchief, that didn’t mean that he was willing to put up with her designs. “Look, I may not have been particularly politic about it, but—”

“Oh, really?” Crossing her arms, she raised a brow. “For a moment there I thought you were Solicitor General Dagwood.”

Comparing him to one of the most ambitiously po
litical men in government was obviously sardonic. He almost smiled at her wit, but forced a frown. “Regardless, I still want you to leave.”

Slowly, her small shoulders squared and her pointy chin lifted. Her pink lips firmed into a mulish line and her gaze became decidedly determined. Turning, she stepped over to the sofa and sat, hands folded in her lap. “I’m not quite ready to leave yet, Mr. Devane. My business with you is not yet concluded.”

Prescott blinked, astounded by her cheek. “This is my house.”
At least until Cat and her new husband return from their honeymoon….

“Then perhaps you would be so kind to at least
pretend
to be hospitable.”

Careful of his injuries, he crossed his arms, wondering if she were daft or simply an overindulged shrew.

As if to match him, she crossed her arms. “The only way I’m going is if you carry me out kicking and screaming.”

Glaring at the stubborn woman, he tried to decide how difficult it would be to do exactly that. She was small, but she moved with a healthy vitality indicating that she was familiar with exercise. More importantly, from the mulish set to her shoulders and the determined look in her eye, he recognized that she’d kick up a riot if he tried.

“Pray don’t glare down at me as if you’re sizing me up for market,” she admonished, with a frown. “We both know that you’d never do anything so crass or ungentlemanly.”

“Why the blazes not? I’m no gentleman.”

“No, but you have principles.”

She said it with such certainty he blinked. Who was
this perplexing woman? And what the dickens did she want with him?

Her demeanor was very different from the usual sensual display or demanding entreaty that most of the ladies interested in him exhibited. There was no suggestive cadence to her tone. She came across as businesslike, plain-speaking.

In fact, now that he thought about it,
everything
about her seemed a far cry from most of the ladies he knew. The first indicator was her attire. Although fine in line and fabric, her clothes were staid, undistinguished, and more akin to a Quaker than an
élégante.

The majority of the females he associated with exhibited their skin in an artful display of ruffles, bows and silky fabrics. Through the open front of her demure plum coat, he could see that there was not a bow or ruffle in evidence on this lady’s sober brown gown.

Likewise, her mien was…
contained.
As if any natural inclination for exuberance had been extinguished long ago. She reminded him of a schoolmarm, one who oversaw children but could not comprehend their liveliness.

And yet, her actions bespoke a deep-seated strength of purpose and her self-assurance seemingly indicated a depth of character.

Prescott felt something inside of him stir, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time:
curiosity.
Irritably, he pushed it aside, knowing that despite her dissimilar mien, in the end she would behave like every other lady he’d ever known, wanting to use him for her ends, then discarding him when she was through. There was one way to know for certain.

“What do you want with me?” he asked.

“For the moment, your ear.”

“Just an ear?”

Her porcelain cheeks splotched cherry. “I wish you wouldn’t speak like that.”

“I’m trying to give you the opportunity to state the very business for which you claim you must remain in my presence.” His tone reflected his limited patience. “Are you here in the hopes of engaging me as an escort?”

Her eyes blazed like black coals as she was obviously discomfited at being pigeonholed. Well, that made two of them.

Her chin lifted another notch. “Yes. But it’s much more complicated than you can imagine.”

He was surprised at the disappointment shafting through him. Well, what else did he expect? He was a
cicisbeo,
for heaven’s sake, no one was going to treat him any better.
Had been
a
cicisbeo,
he reminded himself. That chapter of his life was now closed.