All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (12 page)

“My lady—”

She cut him off. “Miss. Miss Deverall.”

“Miss Deverall, I find myself in an awkward quandary,” he said as he kept pace with her. “Clearly I have insulted an intelligent and extraordinarily beautiful woman, and she believes I’m an uncivilized arse.”

Catherine fought not to smile, but it was a battle that she quickly lost. Lord Sainthill was charming, even if he was an arse. “There is no need to apologize.”

“But I must,” he said, his handsome face shining with sincerity. “I probably gave you the impression that I was mocking your choice of books.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“My feelings are quite the opposite, I assure you.” He opened the door to the circulating library and waited for her to cross the threshold. “I have great admiration for intelligent women.”

“Truly?” she said, trying to recall a day when the notorious Marquess of Sainthill was pursuing females because of their scholarly pursuits. The attributes he generally appreciated were below the neck. “Thank you for your assistance. You may give me my books.”

“Miss Deverall, it is good to see you again,” a gentleman called out from across the room.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lawrence.” Catherine looked expectantly at her companion. “The books.”

“I have been remiss in introducing myself.” He extended the books to her. “I am Saint.”

She bit back a smile as she accepted the books. “Surely, you jest.”

He seemed perplexed by her response. “It is short for Sainthill. Marquess of Sainthill, to be precise.”

“And are you always precise, Lord Sainthill?” She turned away to address the clerk. “Mr. Lawrence, your recommendations the other week were quite enjoyable. Do you have another package for me?”

“Yes, yes, I do, Miss Deverall.” He nodded to Lord Sainthill before he disappeared behind one of the long counters.

“You do not believe me?” Sainthill whispered in her ear.

“That you’re burdened with the name Saint? Of course I do,” she said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the sleeve. “I will wager you have spent your entire life trying to live down such a taxing nickname.”

One side of his mouth curled up in an endearing, almost boyish, manner. “Guilty.” He braced his forearm along the surface of the table and studied her. “Why have we never met, Miss Deverall?”

Sainthill scowled as the clerk reappeared.

“Here it is, Miss Deverall,” Mr. Lawrence said, handing her another selection of books that he had wrapped in cloth and secured with string. “I hope you will approve.”

“I am certain I will.” She exchanged her books for the new ones. “Good day, Mr. Lawrence. I will see you next week.”

“Good day, Miss Deverall.”

Sainthill fell into step with her. “How long have you been in London?”

“Years,” she said breezily, seeing no reason why she could not tell him the truth. She paused, waiting for him to open the door. As much as she enjoyed their exchange, she had no business conversing with the marquess. While Madame Venna had many rules, Catherine had only one—and that was to keep her and Madame Venna’s lives separate. Except for a few close friends who knew her before she opened the Golden Pearl, Catherine’s world never intersected with Madame Venna’s.

It should not astound her that Saint had managed to meet her as Catherine. The gentleman had a way of complicating her life, even if he was not aware of it.

“Then why have we not met, Miss Deverall?”

She gave him a look of disbelief. “I doubt we move in the same circles, Lord Sainthill,” she said drily.

“Well, that is about to change.”

She laughed at his bold declaration. “Now I know why they call you Saint.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you have a bad habit of trying a person’s patience, even a saint’s.” As he floundered for a proper response, she was already a few steps ahead of him. “Good day to you, Lord Sainthill. I would say it was a pleasure meeting you, but I suspect it is dangerous for a lady to compliment you.”

“Why?” he all but growled.

“Otherwise, I will never get rid of you.” She glanced over her shoulder and offered him a winsome smile. “Enjoy your afternoon.”

He did not pursue her. Standing his ground, he said, “We will meet again, Miss Deverall.”

Catherine raised her hand in farewell. She was annoyed to see that her hand was shaking. Just nerves, she assured herself. This unexpected encounter with Sainthill had disconcerted her, but she had handled it brilliantly. The marquess would never trouble her again.

Unfortunately, Madame Venna could not make the same claim.

*   *   *

Saint followed Miss Deverall at a leisurely pace. So confident was she in her dismissal of him that she did not bother to look back. Infuriatingly oblivious to him, he thought to his chagrin. His looks were appealing to women. Women might not pursue him like they had Sin before his marriage to Juliana, or even Frost and Hunter, but he never been quite so resistible to a lady. A part of him wanted to dash after her and demand what was so damn unappealing about him that she spent most of their conversation averting her gaze to any direction other than where he stood.

It was humbling.

He laughed at his own foolishness. Saint had not sought out Miss Deverall because he was seeking a new mistress. He had arranged this accidental encounter to meet the lady to figure out how she might be connected to Madame Venna. Unfortunately, he still did not have an answer to his unspoken question.

Was Miss Deverall in danger?

Perhaps it would be wise to keep an eye on the independent young woman. Whether or not he was willing to admit it, he was looking forward to verbally sparring with the lady again.

Chapter Fifteen

“Your self-discipline is admirable.”

Saint accepted the glass of brandy from Hunter, favoring it over the tepid champagne that was being offered by Lord and Lady Durrant. He sipped from the glass before he replied, “For not walking out the door? If not for Lady Netherley’s polite request to attend the gathering, I might have turned on my heels the second I noticed Lady Durrant was wearing a goose for a hat.”

Hunter’s dimples showed as he struggled not to laugh. “Not a goose, you arse. It’s a damn swan.”

Saint shrugged. “Damned more like it. Difficult to tell since it smothered itself by sitting on its head.”

His Grace tipped back his head and laughed, drawing attention from the other guests. “Swan kills itself on Lady Durrant’s head. Witty and brilliant, my friend, but you might want to keep your opinion to yourself. Lord Durrant has already tossed out several guests for frowning at his lady.”

“Then there is still hope for this evening.” Saint sobered as a thought struck him. “Now that Vane is married to Isabel, do you think Lady Netherley has set her sights on us?”

“Perhaps you and Frost, but not I,” Hunter said, finishing his brandy. “My grandmother has already meddled and ruined my life. May God rest her soul.”

Saint pitied his friend, though he was careful not to allow his true feelings to show in his expression. “You’ve been running from this for most of your life. Have you ever considered that your grandmother might be looking out for your best interests?”

“No, because she was looking after her own interests, and those of the family” was Hunter’s bitter reply.

“Even with his mother’s meddling, Vane is very happy with Isabel. You might—”

Hunter stabbed his finger in Saint’s face. “If you finish that sentence, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

Wisely, Saint swallowed his retort while he sought to change the subject. “You remarked about my restraint. Since you were not referring to this tedious gathering, what were you talking about?”

“The Golden Pearl.” His friend nodded knowingly. “You’ve stayed away.”

True, Saint had not returned to the Golden Pearl since Madame Venna had revealed Lord Perry’s most private secrets, but he had not been deliberately avoiding the place. “How would you know?”

Hunter winked. “Clearly, I have not.”

Frost startled both of them by coming up from behind and positioning himself in the middle as he laid his arms across their shoulders. “What are we discussing?”

It was on the tip of Saint’s tongue to tell his friend to tend his own business when Hunter replied, “We were discussing Saint’s absence from the Golden Pearl.”

“Ah, the Golden Pearl.” Frost dropped his arms to his sides as he shouldered past his friends and turned around. “I have been remiss in paying my respects to the charming mistress of the establishment. How is the fair Madame Venna?”

Oblivious to Saint’s glare, Hunter said, “Beautiful and elusive as always. Mulcaster has been trying to lure her into his bed.”

Saint’s jaw clenched at the mention of Lord Mulcaster. Perhaps he was being unreasonable, but he did not want the earl anywhere near Madame Venna.

“Mulcaster will never succeed,” Frost said, sneering at the notion. “Madame V is too perceptive to allow such a man into her bed. Besides, she knows that I am more than willing to satisfy any cravings, in or out of the bedchamber.”’

Saint froze at his friend’s admission. His eyes narrowed menacingly.

Hunter did not bother concealing his astonishment. “You bedded Madame V?”

“Lower you voice,” Frost cautioned as several ladies glanced at them. “Since our good friend has a certain reputation to maintain, I saw no reason to gloat about my fortune.”

“When?” Saint asked tersely.

Hunter cast a worried glance at him. “Do yourself a favor, gent, and spare us the details.”

“Naturally, she thought I was magnificent,” Frost said, preening like a proud peacock. “In fairness, I must return the compliment. It is rare for a lover to impress me, but that little thing she does with her tongue was almost my undo—”

“When?”

Frost seemed to finally notice Saint. He frowned at the interruption. “When, what, my friend?”

Frost had bedded Madame Venna. Saint had a dozen questions, but his brain was as productive as a whirlpool. The words swirled in his head, putting a fine edge to his temper. “When did you fuck her, Frost?”

Hunter winced, snatching the glass of brandy from Saint’s hand before he thought to grind the glass into the earl’s smug face.

Frost’s mouth curved into a malicious grin. “Jealous?”

The taunt provoked Saint into action. He did not recall moving, but suddenly his hands were around Frost’s throat. Several ladies shrieked in dismay as he marched his friend backward until they collided with the nearest wall.

“When were you with her?”

As the earl struggled to free Saint’s hands from his throat, a part of Saint prayed Frost would refuse to answer. It was reason enough to strangle him. God’s bones … Madame Venna and Frost. He could not believe the audacity of the bastard.

“Release him. Frost can’t tell you anything when you are crushing his windpipe,” Hunter said in Saint’s ear. His grip felt like a damn vise.

A gurgling sound bubbled from Frost’s throat. His face was turning red and his lips were peeled back into a sneer as he fought to free himself.

In the distance, Saint thought he heard Sin curse. Hunter’s next words confirmed it.

“About time you gents showed up,” the duke muttered. “Saint has a good grip and blood in his eye.”

It was three against one. One of the sneaky bastards punched him in the right kidney, the sharp pain guaranteeing Frost’s freedom. Saint growled in frustration as he glared at Hunter, Sin, and Vane.

“Which one of you hit me?” Saint demanded, shaking off Hunter’s hands on his shoulders.

Vane’s gaze was unwavering. “You were killing him,” he said quietly.

Saint’s fist clipped Vane along the side of his jaw, causing him to stagger back. “Then you will understand if I do not thank you for it.”

Everyone was gaping at him as if he had sprouted two heads and horns.

Sin was crouched next to Frost, who had slipped to the floor when their friends had pulled Saint off him. “Christ, Frost, what did you do to rile Saint into a murderous rage?”

“Me?”
the earl rasped, though his coloring had improved. “How is this my fault?”

“He’s mad,” one of the elderly guests exclaimed.

Another person said, “Someone should summon the watch.”

Vane silenced the onlookers with a quelling glance. “Foxed is more like it,” he said, rubbing his sore jaw.

Hunter was the only one who did not seem shocked by Saint’s attack. Then again, he knew the source of his friend’s rage. “No more than you. Frost just doesn’t know when to hold his tongue.”

Sin offered his hand to the earl and helped him to his feet. “What the devil did you say to Saint?”

“Nothing,” Frost protested, insulted that everyone thought he had done something to justify being throttled. “I was telling Hunter and Saint about my—” He halted midsentence as he sent Saint a sly glance.

Suddenly he straightened and pointed a finger at the marquess. “This business between us isn’t finished.”

His friends tensed at the verbal gauntlet Frost tossed at his friend’s feet.

Saint rolled his right shoulder until it popped. “Unless you plan on offering up your traitorous neck again, I have nothing to say to you.”

Saint’s forbidding expression would have deterred most of Lord and Lady Durrant’s guests, but the earl seemed unimpressed.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Reign’s hurried approach.

“I do not know what is going on, but you are beginning to upset the ladies.” He nodded at Vane. “I had to practically tie Isabel to a chair when she witnessed Saint punching you. Your mother is trying to calm her down.”

“I hope you told her that Saint hits like a light-heeled wench,” Vane said, still angry he had been punished for the earl’s mischief.

Reign was too intelligent to allow himself to be pulled into the argument. “You can tell her yourself,” he said. His gaze shifted from Saint to Frost. “Might I suggest that you take your business outside, gents. Lord Durrant is gathering volunteers to have all of us tossed out on our arses.”

“Let them try,” Saint said sullenly.

“Agreed,” Frost concurred.

Sin shook his head, clearly disgusted with both of his friends. “Is it too much to ask that we keep the petty arguing confined to Nox so we do not humiliate our wives?”