Four Dukes and a Devil (17 page)

He began to tap the side of his well-muscled thigh in exasperation while waiting for her answer. What had he asked her? More importantly, how was she to cajole this gentleman into taking them all the way to Derbyshire? There was nothing except common decency to prevent him from leaving them at the next signpost. His Grace did not look the sort who suffered fools lightly. And Victoria felt little more than a fool after today’s events.

She stopped biting her bottom lip when he raised his quizzing glass to his eye again, evidently to intimidate her into an answer.

“Do you need spectacles, Mr. Varick? Peter would be happy to lend you his, won’t you dearest?” The boy nodded and produced his small pair straightaway.

He lowered his quizzing glass. “I do
not
require spectacles.”

“It’s entirely understandable, you know. Failing sight is a common ailment among many gentlemen of your advanced years, and—”

“Advanced years?” he said, one corner of his mouth curling the merest bit.

“Why, yes. Ah, please forgive me, I should never have suggested you are…”

“What, Miss Givan?”

“Well, I do have the greatest respect for the wisdom one acquires with gray hair and all.”

“Gray hair? I do not”—he sat up straighter and blinked—“Miss Givan, I’m not in the habit of enduring people who evade questions. Now, will you favor me with your certain-to-be-woeful tale instead of these tedious observations of yours, or not?”

Young Peter Linley’s head had been swiveling back and forth in an effort to keep up with the conversation. “I’ll tell you, sir.”

The duke fastened his penetrating gaze on the boy. “I knew I could count on you, Peter. Men must stick together. Spill it.”

“Well, it was like this. Me and Gabe and Matthew—”

“Gabriel, Matthew, and I,” Victoria instinctively corrected. “Really, this is the most tiresome story.”

He ignored her. “Go on, Peter.”

“Right,” the boy said. “We were at the last inn. The one in Quesbury. Do you know it, sir?”

“Yes.”

“You see, Miss Givan was haggling with the innkeeper because he was askin’ too much for the bread and cheese, then the mail coachman’s horn sounded and, well…”

“Yes?”

“That’s when it got really interesting.”

“Peter…” she tried her best ‘I shall make you rue the day’ voice. Lord, make this day end, please.

“Go on.”

“Well, another gentleman, actually he didn’t quite look like a gentleman—more like a laborer really since he had lots of dirt on his clothes—anyway, he took up for Miss Givan when the innkeeper winked at her and said she could pay off the debt in another fashion since he fancied red hair. He even pinched her”—Peter darted a glance at her and hurried on—“and the laborer darkened the daylights out of the innkeeper. For some reason that made the rest of the men there join the brawl. We had to crawl out on our hands and knees and had a jolly time of it…until we saw that the mail coach was gone without us and we had to walk.”

“And all your belongings?”

“Oh, all of Miss Givan’s coins were lost in the brawl, and our belongings are still on the coach, sir. But that’s for the best, Miss Givan said. Easier to walk without havin’ to carry much.” The boy grinned, and the duke ruffled his hair.

Victoria tried to laugh. Tried to appear good-humored. In fact, she was an ugly combination of mortified and anxious. She knew she had only one way to get all the boys to Derbyshire safely, and that would involve engaging the bemused interest of the richest man in England for the next sixty miles or so. It was all that separated the boys and her from spending a hungry night or three under the stars, blanketed by a hedge-row, and all manner of insects and wild animals prowling this
jungle.

For the first time in her life, she felt very much beyond her depth. If she could just make his blue eyes a plain shade of brown, and eliminate, oh, say a few hundred thousand pounds from his staggering wealth, then she would feel much more capable of making this paragon of bachelor-hood come around to her way of thinking.

She also wished for one day and one night of quiet reflection so she could make a bargain with her maker: to get her out of this detestable countryside in exchange for an end to her ridiculously romantic dreams. It was too bad the angel charged with guarding over her took such delight in sabotaging her wishes at every opportunity.

J
ohn glanced up from the large stack of documents he had been perusing for the last fifteen miles only to find the boy fast asleep in Miss Givan’s luscious little lap. Each time he had allowed his concentration to waver, he had studied her lovely, even profile while she gazed out the carriage window at the day’s gloaming. Worry emanated from every stiff inch of her. And he inwardly cursed.

Didn’t he dole out enough tithes and coin each year to an endless string of venerable institutions to discharge his conscience? He didn’t want to have to take a personal interest in any one person in need. There were too many people who suffered, and he could not be responsible for all. He tightened his jaw. It was much more productive to remain apart from others and concern himself with his endless correspondence, investments and speculations that could ultimately benefit many.

Despite the fact that she was a fascinating creature, he didn’t have time for this. He had but a week or so to sort out an impossible dilemma in his newest venture if he was going to be ready to take on autumn’s cornucopia at the proposed mill. He couldn’t spare a moment on an unusual-looking, sharp-tongued teacher wearing mysteriously fashionable half boots. Who on earth had given them to her? A cast-off lover, perhaps? He glanced up from her footwear to find her exotic green eyes flashing at him.

He suddenly realized his carriage had lurched to a stop more than a minute ago.
Christ.
What was taking Crandall so long? “Wait here, Miss Givan.” John wrenched the door open and jumped from his carriage without waiting for the steps to be moved into place.

One of his outriders, who was waiting in the Gray Fox Inn’s yard, leapt to attention. “The owner said the roof gave way after the rain two nights ago, Your Grace. The next inn is twenty-five miles from here.”

“And?”

“And the innkeeper said he and his wife would be willing to give you the only habitable room—their own—for a pretty penny. Mr. Crandall is having a look.”

“Of course there is no second room.” There was not a hint of a question in his voice, only barely restrained annoyance.

“Correct, Your Grace. Although there is plenty of room in the excellent stables.”

“Have Crandall pay the man for the room if it is suitable and get everyone settled.”

The man cleared his throat. “Shall I have Your Grace’s affairs brought to the innkeeper’s room—or is the
lady
to occupy—”

“Bring my portmanteau inside. And order whatever dinner can be served for everyone as soon as humanly possible.”

His outrider darted a glance beyond him and dipped his head.

John turned to find Miss Givan standing there, silent.

“I thought you were to remain in the carriage, madam. Do you ever do what you are told?”

“Rarely. I’m more used to doing the managing. Of the children, of course.” She looked pensive and slightly unnerved. “Look, I want to thank you for taking us this far. The boys and I will continue on our way from here. I’m certain it’s not that much farther.”

“Miss Givan, if you think I will allow you to go trotting off down this obscure country lane, into the darkness, you can discard that idea straightaway.” He brushed an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “You have never ever been out of London, have you? Do you not know how many bears, mad dogs, boars, and wicked men are lurking about at night?” He hoped she was as ignorant as he thought she might be of the benign nature of the countryside. Why, there hadn’t been a wild bear lumbering in England’s woods the last century or more.

There was a symphony of skittish doubt in her expression. “We shall sleep in the stable, then.”

“Glad to hear it. Can’t abide straw ticking myself,” he drawled. “Come along now, Peter. Madam, I shall leave it to you to gather the rest of your charges. Dinner awaits.” He captured Peter’s smaller hand in his own and took a chance by walking away from her.

An hour later, John stared in wonder at the adolescent boys seated around the hastily arranged table in the only chamber untouched by the calamity aside from the kitchen. “Impressive. Who knew dwarfs were capable of consuming an entire side of beef at one sitting?”

“They’re of a
growing age
and not used to such abundance,” Miss Givan said defensively, as the boys giggled.

It had not escaped his notice that she’d eaten very little. “Come now, Miss Givan,” he said, nodding almost imperceptibly to the manservant. “You can do better than that crust of bread. We must keep up your strength if you’re to have a prayer of keeping this next generation in line.” The servant transferred a juicy slice of meat to her plate at the same moment Crandall entered. His loyal driver produced a bottle of the finest brandy one could buy from seasoned French smugglers. John never went any great distance in his carriage without a case of it well-cushioned in fine English wool. A crystal glass appeared.

Silence reigned as Crandall carefully poured the nectar of the gods. It was the only thing John had looked forward to this entire problematic day. If he couldn’t have a taste of the auburn-haired siren, and his conscience and good sense suggested he couldn’t, then he would at least let the amber waves of balm claim a portion of his monumental concerns.

He suddenly realized everyone’s eyes were upon him for some odd reason.

“Boys, Mr. Crandall, would you please give me a moment with Mr. Varick?” Miss Givan rose and urged the boys from their chairs.

“Varick?” his driver said, righteously. “Why, he’s the—”

“That will be all, Crandall,” John cut him off curtly. As the servants and boys exited the room, John lifted the ambrosia to his lips and savored the intoxicating scent.

“Sir,” the spitfire said with hauteur, “I would ask you to refrain from consuming spirits in front of the boys. They’re of an
awkward age
, and easily impressed by gentlemen they might admire.”

“So they’re of a growing age
and
an awkward age?” he asked dryly. “How inconvenient.”

“It would not do to give them the idea that they should spend any monies they might one day find in their pockets—on…on gin or any form of the devil’s brew.”

“Gin? Why, this is the farthest thing from that vile poison.”

She stared at him silently, mutinously.

“Miss Givan, are you truly asking the gentleman who has taken you up in his carriage to forgo the one and only bit of heaven to be found in this godforsaken excuse of an inn?”

“Well, I’d thought—”

“And here I was considering taking you and the boys miles out of my way tomorrow to deliver you safely to Wallace Abbey.” He lowered his voice. “And I was also considering how best to share the one and only room available here.” He said the last to provoke her. Her eyes were flashing again. It was definitely how he liked them best.

“Why, I wouldn’t share this room if it were the only one in all of England. And furthermore,
Mr. Varick,
I want you to understand that I intend to repay every last farthing for this meal, the carriage ride, and for all the trouble you have so
generously
taken on today.”

“Really?” He enjoyed the animated play of her delicate brows and relaxed in his chair to savor another long taste of his excellent brandy. He wondered if she had truly deduced who he was. “And how do you plan to accomplish that, Miss Givan?”

“I shall write to my benefactor, who will forward any and all monies due you straightaway.” She pushed back her shoulders. “With or without your further aid.”

“You have a benefactor, do you?” He glanced at her elegantly tooled footwear.

“Of course,” she said, the tiniest blush finally cresting her cheeks. “And you shall be happy to learn that I have already asked the innkeeper, who I have found to be considerably more civilized than
most
men I’ve encountered since leaving town, to provide a pallet for me in the kitchen, which he has graciously consented to do. I would never dream of asking for the use of this room. I shall be perfectly comfortable with the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen.”

“And the boys?”

“Will be in the stable.”

He looked at her shrewdly for a long moment.

“It’s very rude to stare,” she muttered.

“I’m debating the wisdom of informing you that there will be ten times as much drinking going on in that stable than in this room—what with the number of ostlers, drivers, and servants occupying the outer building.”

She strode over to the table and retrieved the brandy bottle by pinching the neck with two fingers as if it were three parts distilled poison to one part pure evil. “Well, Mr. Varick, I must thank you for setting a better example.”

“Miss Givan, has anyone ever told you ‘
no’
?”

She hid the bottle of brandy he had spent a small fortune on, along with the nearly empty glass, in a rude armoire in the corner. “I’ve never put myself in a position to have to hear it.”

“Who gave you those boots you’re wearing?”

Miss Givan whipped around. The smallest crease of a wrinkle appeared between her brows. “A good friend.”

A
very
good friend, indeed, John thought as he ground his molars together.

John stared down at the sleeping form of Miss Victoria Givan on a pallet far from the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen. She had obviously been placed in his path to bewitch him.

The frayed hem of her simple shift had risen above her knees; the thin blanket discarded completely in the balmy night air. He could not drag his gaze from the moonlit sight of her slender thighs and calves, and her pretty, feminine feet. No wonder her lover had given her those damned boots. The better to ogle her elegant ankles.

Christ, he had always prided himself on his ability to keep his baser instincts in check. He obviously needed to engage a mistress, just as Crandall was hinting. Of course, his driver probably suggested it to keep him in a better frame of mind. John had taken for granted the convenient arrangement he had had for so many years with Colleen, the beautiful Duchess of Trenton, possessor of three yapping dogs, two indolent children, and one husband old enough to be her grandfather. But she had become melodramatic of late, insisting they should marry when poor Trenton cocked his toes. He had had to end it.

Miss Victoria Givan rolled onto her back in sleep, and his mouth became dry as chaff. The scrap of her shift eased off her shoulder, exposing one creamy breast to taunt him.

He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Surely he deserved a place beside the saints for not acting on the impulse. Heaven wasn’t worth it, the devil on his shoulder shouted.

Damn it all to hell. He leaned down and gathered the woman in his arms to carry her to the room. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well give her the bed. Without the brandy to fortify him, his manners had become far too accommodating, and he had invited the three boys to sleep in makeshift beds the innkeeper had placed in the tiny sitting room beyond. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known boys made such a ruckus in slumber.

She was so soft in his arms. So different from the harsh angles she seemed to possess when she was wide-awake. She slept like a bear in hibernation. Must be a result of sleeping near a gaggle of snoring infants for decades in the foundling home.

His own life had been spent in the reverse manner. All alone for the most part. No brothers or sisters, no mother. Merely a father, who, while very kind, had not been much in evidence in their country home due to the demands on his time in London. But John had learned to enjoy the peace of solitude.

She muttered something when he placed her in the middle of the innkeeper’s soft bed. He leaned close as he tucked the bed linens around her form, only to hear two blasted words. Well, only one was a true word…a name.

“Oh,
John
…” she whispered on a sigh as she settled.

He straightened awkwardly, resolutely. No. He would not be gulled like some rich, wet-behind-the-ears buck first come to town. He knew better than to put himself in such a situation with an unmarried miss in an almost public place. He’d had enough brushes with the altar of late.

Why, in the last three months alone, an impoverished marquis had tried to sneak his daughter into John’s sleeping quarters, and he had been forced to ferret out the truth behind a very determined widowed countess, who had deliberately planted scandalous rumors linking herself to him. She had made the mistake of thinking he would leg shackle himself to a pretty lady he had never even met—all in the name of honor. The last event had caused a new fever pitch in the gossip columns.

John studied the luscious morsel bathed in moonlight before him. She was all soft curves, rosy flesh, and tangled locks of shadowy plum hair. He couldn’t resist touching those dark loose curls of a shade he’d never seen. Surely they would be silken. His palm stroked the glossy locks, bringing him closer to those irresistible lips of hers.

He closed his eyes against the sight, but his mind refused to be denied the remembrance of that full bottom lip below the lovely bow of her lush upper lip. And suddenly he noticed her scent of warm crushed roses. He couldn’t have stopped himself from dipping lower to follow the trail of sweetness if his life had depended on it.

And then, he didn’t want to be blind from the potency of the moment. He opened his eyes, only to encounter her sleepy, half-closed expression. She said not a word to stop him, and he inched forward at her silent encouragement. It would really be just a promise…of a hint…of a taste…of a kiss. Very innocent, of course. There were boys snoring in the closet-sized room beyond after all. And the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen.

He swept his lips across hers, side to side, feather soft. And then he molded his upper lip in the crevice where her lips met and teased the softness he found there. A soft moan came from her, and it was all he could do not to gather her again into his arms. Every part of him—well, the key parts of him—of any man, really—came awake at the sensuous sound.

And then she whispered it again…“Oh,
John
—”