London's Last True Scoundrel (13 page)

He shrugged. “You are too clever to succumb to such stuff. No matter how genuine the sentiment.”

He did not know her as well as he thought if that was his opinion. Thank goodness he did not try such stuff in earnest. She imagined it would be impossible to resist.

That was the danger of him. Even though one knew he talked nonsense, one wanted so desperately to believe …

“I am glad you understand me so well,” she said, primly folding her hands in her lap.

He drew rein and turned to her, his voice very low and graveled. “As long as
you
understand
me,
my dear. I mean to have you. I mean to have you every way a man can have a woman and some others not even I’ve thought of yet. I give you fair warning of that, for I don’t lie when it comes to my intentions. I don’t flatter and I don’t deceive and I
do not commit myself to anyone
.”

She stared into that suddenly serious face and her heart pounded hard. Each word he uttered sent spears of delicious heat arrowing down to her belly, and lower.

He’d awakened unprecedented sensations within her. Longing. Desire. Need. He’d told her explicitly that he intended to use her body and that his use would not lead him to any kind of emotional attachment. Certainly not to marriage.

In that moment, the easygoing charm she was accustomed to from him vanished. Yet she was not afraid. Not of him, at any rate.

On a sudden insight, she realized he sought to place some distance between them on an emotional plane, while he maneuvered closer to her on a physical level.

As if she might encroach on the emotional well-being of the notorious Earl of Davenport. As if she, Hilary deVere, had the power to touch him or make a claim on his affections.

Something twanged at the edge of her mind. Something that restored her equilibrium just enough to reply, “There is a saying, my lord. ‘Save your breath to cool your porridge.’ Which essentially means, ‘Don’t talk about a thing. Just do it. Or do not.’”

There was an arrested expression in his dark eyes. Then he spoke softly. “Is that an invitation?”

“Yes,” Hilary said. “An invitation to stop talking nonsense. Now,” she added, refusing to preen at the astounded look that had replaced the arrested one, “do tell me what story you have concocted that will explain away this harebrained journey.”

CHAPTER NINE

Several moments passed before Davenport could collect himself to answer her. How had the mood passed from hotly, heavily carnal to clipped and prosaic in the blink of an eye?

One short reproof from her and he felt like a schoolboy reprimanded by his governess for pulling his sister’s hair. Not that he’d ever pulled Cecily’s hair, of course, but still …

He recovered his aplomb, but only after a rather awkward pause. “Oh, that’s easy,” he said. “I’ll tell Lady Tregarth the truth.”

“What?”
Honey went white as a virgin’s night rail.

“Why not?” he said, suppressing a satisfied grin. “Rosamund has become well acquainted with the deVeres by now. She will understand. More than that, she will sympathize.”

Honey stared at him, blinked. “I see you will be no help at all. I must concoct some tale or other on my own.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The conversation had so engrossed him, he’d momentarily forgotten to keep an eye out for Honey’s brothers. He hadn’t seen anyone thus far, but that didn’t mean anything. Tom and Benedict must have a fair idea of their destination by now.

He’d taken care to leave the main road, following a more circuitous path to London. That would make it more difficult for the brothers to get wind of them and perhaps give his shadow some trouble, too. With any luck, they’d be confused and charge off in a different direction when Davenport failed to take the expected route.

He kept a weather eye cocked at the deep charcoal clouds that gathered on the horizon. The wind had picked up; he was almost certain they wouldn’t make it to London before the heavens opened.

The fresh breeze dampened. He halted the horse and handed Honey the reins so he could pull up the gig’s hood. It was hardly adequate shelter against a squalling storm, but it was the best he could do. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to fetch the rug from the coach before they’d abandoned it.

He climbed back into the gig. “I fear we are in for a thorough soaking,” he said cheerfully. He
was
cheerful. They’d be obliged to stop somewhere for the night, during which time all kinds of interesting activity might ensue.

Honey bit her poor lip anxiously as she handed back the reins. “We must make it to London this evening. I do not care if we are both drenched to the skin in the process. We
will
get to London tonight.”

Gad, but she was a determined little thing. He admired her spirit. But as the wind blew ever colder and the rain drenched his breeches, he grew slightly less enchanted with her stout refusal to consider the comforts of a dry bedchamber and a roaring fire.

Not to mention a big, manly body between the sheets to warm her chilly flesh.

Just imagining it sent his own flesh into all kinds of torment. It seemed his destiny was to be wet and cold on the outside while aflame for this woman within.

Two days
. Two days they’d known each other, yet he felt as if he’d suffered from this thwarted lust for a month.

He had to hand it to her; she didn’t whine. Her delicate features formed a mask of grim determination to face down the elements; that gorgeous peach of a mouth was pressed in a stubborn line. Her bonnet drooped; her pelisse grew steadily more sodden. They no longer spoke because neither of them could be heard over the howling of the wind.

The sky had darkened to pitch, even though it was only four in the afternoon. Honey was right; if they raced to get there, they could reach London late this evening.
If
the weather was fine and they had a chaise and four with a friendly moon shining above them, that was.

This gig had not been built for nighttime travel, that was clear. It did not even boast lamps to light the immediate path ahead.

Lightning splintered the sky. The nervous horse shied with a high-pitched whinny. “Damnation!” Davenport swore, quickly bringing the poor beast under control.

He turned to Hilary. “My dear, this has gone far enough. We will have to stop somewhere, at least until the storm passes. I’m afraid of injury to the horse if we stumble along in the dark.”

That lower lip of hers had taken an awful lot of punishment since the start of their acquaintance. Her shoulders drooped and the crestfallen expression on her face made him wish he could halt the storm for her.

“Very well,” she said. “Let us seek shelter at the first place we find.”

*   *   *

Almost an hour passed before they found a suitable place to stop. The cottage was a neat establishment owned, as it turned out, by a prosperous farmer and his wife. Hilary warmed immediately to Mrs. Potter, a comfortably rounded matron of middling years. She had a no-nonsense way about her and cried out in dismay at the sight of the two sodden travelers dripping on her doorstep.

“Come in, come in.” She shepherded the two of them inside the small vestibule and divested Hilary of her sodden bonnet and pelisse. Hilary’s bandboxes had been exposed to the worst of the elements. They were now a soggy, bedraggled mess of cardboard, and the contents were in no better state.

“What a dreadful evening to be caught out on the road.”

“Thank you, ma’am, you are very kind,” said Hilary, turning with relish toward the fire.

“We apologize for trespassing on your hospitality,” said Davenport with that devilish twinkle in his eye she’d come to mistrust. “My wife and I are indebted to you, Mrs. Potter.”

Hilary’s eyes narrowed.
Wife??

At least he’d endeavored to safeguard her reputation, she supposed. But couldn’t he have said she was his sister? She ought to have thought of that. She ought to have made him promise to behave. Strangely enough, he seemed to be a man of his word, if one could get him to give his word in the first place.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” said the lady, all smiles. “I was only just saying to Mr. Potter, now that our only chick has left the nest we are lonely these nights. Married very well, did our Daisy. Only now she lives all the way down in Kent and we never see her.”

Mrs. Potter sighed gustily, then seemed to recollect herself. “We were just finishing our dinner, but there is plenty if you’d care for some raised mutton pie. It’s not what Quality like you is used to, but—”

“Not at all, Mrs. Potter,” said Davenport. “I must admit I’m famished and pie sounds just the ticket.”

“You must come upstairs and get dry first,” the lady said, her gaze flicking over Hilary’s sodden garments. “Daisy’s bedchamber is all I’ve got, but you are much of a size with my girl, my lady, if you’ll pardon my saying so. I’ll find some things of hers for you to wear.”

“You are so kind,” murmured Hilary. “But I couldn’t wear your daughter’s gowns and we must be on our way once the storm passes—”

“But surely you must stay,” said Mrs. Potter, flinging up her strong, weathered hands. “That storm is only just getting started, and how can you travel in a night as black as pitch?”

“I’m afraid she’s right, my dear,” murmured Davenport. “It is a wild night.”

Before Hilary could answer, their hostess took Davenport’s endorsement as consent. “I’ll make up the bed and search out some clothes for my lady.”

Hilary’s heart plummeted. No matter her desperate need to get to London, she was forced to admit that it was impossible. They couldn’t risk laming the horse by letting it stumble into a pothole or endangering themselves by riding through an electrical storm.

If she’d had a horse of her own, if there’d been the slightest possibility of moonlight to guide them … but the clouds had amassed against her. There was no help for it. She must stay in this cottage tonight.

At least she could do so anonymously. Somehow, Davenport had managed not to give their names and it was clear Mrs. Potter was too diffident or too polite to ask.

She looked Davenport up and down. “My Jebediah is a big man, Your Honor, but not big enough for his clothes to fit you.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Davenport. “With your permission, I’ll remove my coat, which I believe got the worst of it. The rest will dry off in front of the fire overnight.”

As Mrs. Potter bustled off, Davenport appeared solicitous. “Shall I play lady’s maid for you, my dear?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Hilary between her teeth. “I’m sure Mrs. Potter will be good enough to oblige me.”

At the lady’s request, Hilary followed Mrs. Potter to Daisy’s bedchamber. As she was an only child, it seemed Daisy had been given every comfort the Potters could afford. The dominant color of the chamber was a pretty, feminine pink.

While the furnishings were a trifle too frilly for Hilary’s taste, she suffered a burst of envy that surprised her. Clearly, the Potters doted on their little girl. What would it have been like to have grown up surrounded by such love?

Against her hopes, a tester bed easily large enough for two dominated the room. She tried very hard
not
to think about that bed.

From her cursory inspection of the cottage on her way to the bedchamber, she realized that Daisy’s was the only spare chamber with a bed in it. Even if she’d known how to do so without being thought odd, she could not have asked for sleeping quarters separate from her “husband.”

Well, Davenport could sleep on the floor for all she cared. She was not sharing a bed with him, that was certain. Even fatigued as she was, she’d surely not sleep a wink all night unless she might put some distance between them.

Hilary peeled off her wet garments and gave herself a vigorous towel dry, before donning the chemise and petticoat Mrs. Potter provided. The corset was a little too large for her, but after lacing it as tightly as she could, Mrs. Potter helped her into a pretty muslin gown sprigged with primroses and a matching shawl.

The muslin gown gaped a little at the bosom. Clearly, young Daisy possessed more in that department than Hilary did.

Mrs. Potter clicked her tongue and pinned the bodice so that it clung a little more snugly, but she couldn’t do anything about the neckline, which skimmed low across Hilary’s breasts. Not so low that there was danger of a nipple showing, of course, but lower than anything Hilary had ever worn.

You’ll have to get used to this,
she told herself. She would behave with irreproachable propriety in London, but she had no intention of being a dowdy. She was perfectly well aware that ladies of the first consideration wore gowns that plunged much lower. It was just that she felt rather … exposed. And that was not the best frame of mind in which to fend off the advances of a certain roguish earl.

Mrs. Potter insisted on arranging Hilary’s hair in a becoming style. It would have been churlish to refuse; the lady clearly missed her daughter and enjoyed having a proxy tonight.

Hilary was outfitted in dry clothes and longing for sleep when she came down to join her hosts and Davenport at the table. A welcoming fire blazed in the hearth and the fragrance of mutton pie met her appreciative senses.

She saw Davenport’s tall figure standing close to the fire. His coat and waistcoat were gone and the fine lawn of his dress shirt was still wet, plastered to his chest.

He really ought to take it off, she thought, then blushed as the desire rose in her to see those wondrously muscled shoulders again. This time, not covered in plaster dust. This time, slathered in golden licks of firelight.

His evening trousers were mostly dry—or at least, the backs of them were, as far as she could tell. Of course, thinking of his trousers led to thinking of his buttocks, and the tester bed upstairs, and all that pink—

Madness
. She shook off such lurid imaginings and moved to the table, smiling at Mrs. Potter, who had not stopped talking all the while.

Hilary shook hands with the quieter Mr. Potter, a stocky man with an impressive head of chestnut hair, who looked rather bewildered by their invasion but too respectful to object.