London's Last True Scoundrel (26 page)

He’d taken her and she’d trusted him with her body, with her innocence. Why, when Lord Davenport posed the greatest of all threats to her well-being, did he make her feel so safe?

In his own careless, unconventional way, he kept rescuing her. From the storm, from her brothers’ house, from those horrid men in the inn, from the condemnation of her relatives and his.

The realization unsettled her. He was scarcely her idea of a Sir Galahad. Indeed, if she accused him of it, he’d be revolted.

And yet, when one looked at bare facts without prejudice, one could not but conclude that Lord Davenport was every inch the hero.

Her hero, at least.

Confusion teemed in her brain. She ought to feel ashamed at having lost a woman’s most precious possession to him last night. But all she felt was a deep, heated longing for him to do it all over again.

What about that quiet, kind gentleman of your dreams? The country squire, the scholar, the parson?

Those dreams paled beside the reality of Lord Davenport.

Her rational self chastised her. She could never have him. They would break the engagement when her month in Town was over and that would be that. Davenport would move on to another woman—
other women
—and forget her as soon as she was out of his sight. In fact, he might well tire of her before their month was over.

She was a fool if she didn’t try to make some eligible connection while she was in London. Davenport might take her to his bed, but he would never take her as his wife.

A strange ache wrapped around her chest. Well, she couldn’t waste time in regret. She’d have to deal with that trouble when it came.

She reached the morning room to discover her hostess in a frothy vermilion negligee, a lace cap perched slightly askew on her fiery locks. The lady had crumbs down her front and a mountainous stack of what looked like invitations piled up before her.

Mrs. Walker was muttering to herself, sorting through the cards.

At Hilary’s approach, she looked up. “Ah, there you are, dearie. What do you suppose all this is? We are invited everywhere.”

Hilary’s brow wrinkled. “But I don’t understand. No one knows me in London.”

“Mark my words, Lord deVere has seen to that.” Mrs. Walker chortled in delight, waving one card in the air. “This one’s from Lady Arden for a soiree tonight. A very high stickler indeed, Lady Arden.”

Yes, Hilary was well aware of that. “I made her ladyship’s acquaintance yesterday.”

Stunned, she sat down at the breakfast table and watched her hostess go through card after card of cream stock.

“You needn’t be so shocked, Hilary,” said Mrs. Walker. “As Davenport’s future countess you’ll be sought after, mark my words.”

“But no one is to know of the engagement,” said Hilary, though the circle of those who did know seemed to widen with every passing hour.

“This secrecy business is harebrained,” said Mrs. Walker. “Where do you think you’ll find a better catch than a belted earl, my duck? And not one of those pauper lords, either. You may be sure Davenport is plump in the pocket. All the Westruthers are.”

“Still, we might decide we do not suit,” said Hilary.

The lady scoffed. “You’d best resign yourself to marrying Lord Davenport. The secret will be out soon enough and then you’ll have no choice.”

She couldn’t marry him, not even if the betrothal became common knowledge. Not when he didn’t care for her in the least.

Mrs. Walker gave a huff of exasperation. “I can’t imagine what ails you, child. He might be a wicked young man, but you cannot deny he’s sinfully handsome. Rich, titled, what more could a young lady want?”

Only love,
thought Hilary.

The notion startled her. She’d never articulated a need for love before, not even to herself. She’d never dreamed of receiving such a precious gift. Contentment, stability, yes. Those she’d longed for. Love? Situated as she was, the mere idea of a man to love her had been an unimaginable luxury.

What a time to realize love was what she’d wanted—needed—all along.

Desperation shortened her breath, made her pulse race. Dear Heaven, she’d kill herself if she was in love with Lord Davenport. She must not allow herself to harbor tender feelings for a rogue like him. Not when she was so close to attaining her lifelong dream.

But she wasn’t given the opportunity to dwell on the notion. Mrs. Walker declared she must obtain a wardrobe appropriate for the season without delay.

“I’ll take you to my own modiste,” said Mrs. Walker. “She’s got a real eye for color, Madame Perrier. Knows just what I like.”

If the modiste’s eye for color coincided with Mrs. Walker’s, Hilary suspected she was in dire trouble.

She wished with all her being that Rosamund and Cecily had managed to prevail upon Lord deVere to let them assist her with her wardrobe, but she couldn’t very well express such disloyal sentiments to Mrs. Walker.

The prospect of shopping in London could not entirely distract her from the larger problem of Davenport and the evening she’d spent with him. He’d taken possession of her body in the most intimate ways imaginable and she’d let him. More, she’d reveled in it. Why would she have done such a terrible, irrevocable thing if she wasn’t in love with him?

No, she
couldn’t
be that stupid. Fall in love with a rake like Davenport? She might as well watch for the sky to fall as wait for him to love her in return.

“Come along, dear,” said Mrs. Walker. “We have much to do today.”

Obediently Hilary climbed into the carriage and tried to put her mind to the task at hand as Mrs. Walker rattled on about the latest fashions.

Hilary rarely purchased new clothes, and when she did, they were made of durable, serviceable stuffs suitable for everyday wear at the school. A clever seamstress in the village made them, and while Hilary knew they were sadly countrified, their lack of modishness scarcely seemed to matter. Besides, she couldn’t afford to purchase clothing in the exclusive shops in Bath. Her brothers were distressingly clutch-fisted when it came to pin money and Lord deVere was worse.

She was relieved when, despite Mrs. Walker’s summons, Lord Davenport did not appear to escort them to Bond Street. She couldn’t possibly discuss her apparel with him looking on, especially after last night. The mere notion made her stomach go all hot and fluttery. She’d be sure to give herself away and everyone would know that she and Davenport had been intimate.

Oh, she was a sad case indeed. She’d heard Trixie say that once a man got what he wanted from a girl he lost interest. The notion made something twist painfully in her chest. Last night she’d done more than give Davenport her body; she’d laid herself wide open, made herself vulnerable. Until last night she’d been the one doing the rejecting.

Now …

Suddenly her wish for a nice, quiet gentleman seemed like a shiny soap bubble that had burst.

She didn’t want a nice, quiet gentleman. She wanted an infuriating rogue, a deliciously handsome scoundrel. She wanted Davenport.

The shock of that revelation nearly made her trip as she descended the carriage steps.

Oh, she was deranged, surely? The physical act of loving him must have addled her brain.

As they entered the sumptuous showroom of Mrs. Walker’s favorite modiste, Hilary was startled out of her reverie. She looked about her and swallowed hard.

She had no experience of London dressmakers, it was true, but she’d expected something a little more genteel than the establishment they entered.

She’d imagined walking into a showroom filled with colorful, sumptuous fabrics and stacks of the latest fashion magazines, like
La Belle Assemblée
. This shop was furnished in gaudy brilliance of purple and gold, with a plush velvet chaise longue at one end and a massive chandelier looming overhead. The walls were such a violent color, they seemed to pulse around her.

“Madame Perrier has a style that is utterly unique,” whispered Mrs. Walker.

Hilary could well believe it.

“Besides being dagger cheap, my dear,” added Mrs. Walker. She beamed at the emaciated little woman who emerged from the back of the shop.

“Madame Walker, how lovely to see you,” said Madame Perrier. Hilary detected an undercurrent of East London in Madame’s “French” accent.

Madame had dark hair and snapping dark eyes and wore black bombazine, which made her look like an undernourished crow. Altogether an unprepossessing aspect. And this woman was a wizard at dressmaking? Hilary found it difficult to believe.

Equally difficult was associating the eye-watering color of Madame’s establishment with the funereal sobriety of her gown.

The dressmaker gave Hilary a quick, hard, assessing stare before directing a look of inquiry at her patroness.

“I’ve brought you my kinswoman, Miss deVere,” said Mrs. Walker, taking Hilary’s hand and patting it. “She is making her come-out this season and requires dressing. An entire wardrobe, madame. Her guardian insists upon it.”

A thin eyebrow quirked. Calculation gleamed in the woman’s black eyes. Then she clicked her fingers and another woman appeared—equally thin and dressed in the same manner as her mistress but tall as a beanpole.

“If Mademoiselle will step on the plinth?” said the tall woman in a sepulchral tone that made Hilary feel as if she were being led to the scaffold.

The experience went downhill from there.

The assistant brought forth several bolts of cloth, each shade more lurid than the last, and instructed Hilary to hold them against herself so Madame could judge the appropriate shades for her complexion.

Aghast, Hilary said, “But I ought to wear pale colors, don’t you think, Mrs. Walker?”

Debutantes always wore white or pastels or sprigged muslins. She didn’t even want to touch a bilious shade of chartreuse Madame insisted would be exactly the thing for her complexion.

Mrs. Walker waved away her tentative bid for independence. “My dear, you are pretty but not enough of a beauty to outshine the other gels. You must be different—and what better way to stand out than to wear bright colors? I assure you,
my
unique sense of style was what caught the late Mr. Walker’s eye. Bless his soul.”

“I know it is terribly tame of me, but I don’t mind dressing like all the other debutantes,” ventured Hilary. “Indeed, I don’t wish to stand out, particularly.”

All she’d ever wanted was to take her place among the fresh-faced daughters of the ton at Almack’s. How often she’d heard the pupils at Miss Tollington’s bemoan all of the rules of society. Hilary relished every one. She positively yearned to show how well she’d learned them, how modest and quiet and elegant a deVere could be.

How on earth could one appear modest and quiet—not to mention elegant—in eye-watering burnt orange?

What would Davenport think?

The doubt crept into her mind before she could stop it. Oh, she was a sad case indeed to crave his admiration.

Disappointment curdled Hilary’s stomach as she surveyed her reflection in the gilt-edged looking glass. She’d dreamed of appearing exquisitely gowned before Davenport, of seeing awe in his eyes instead of that amused gleam. If she wore a gown made of fuchsia pink silk he’d either roll on the floor laughing or cast up his accounts.

She shuddered. What gentleman would want a girl who dressed like a Chinese lantern?

Hilary argued her case, her tone polite but firm, to no avail. She bit her lip, desperate to come up with a way to foil Mrs. Walker’s plans without criticizing her chaperone’s taste.

The shop bell tinkled, startling her. She turned her head, to see Lord Davenport’s tall form in the doorway.

“My lord!” said Mrs. Walker, beaming at him. “You found us.”

“Lord Davenport,” said Hilary, her voice scraping slightly.

There was an intense, smoldering look in his eyes when they alighted on her that sent a spear of heat to the pit of her belly. She all but melted on the spot.

By now, he’d assimilated the horrors of the décor. “Good God,” he said, looking about him. “It’s like being trapped inside a sore throat.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said, bowing to Mrs. Walker, ignoring the dressmaker completely. “Honey, where the Devil have you been?”

He looked aggrieved, which was rich, considering Mrs. Walker had invited him on this jaunt and he’d failed to appear at the appointed time.

“Here,” she answered. “As you see, I am being measured for gowns.”

“In
this
place?” He took another glance around. “Looks more like a brothel than a dressmaker’s shop. You can’t buy gowns here.”

A muted squawk of fury burst from Mrs. Walker’s lips.

Hilary nearly choked on a spurt of laughter but did her best to frown him down. “Mrs. Walker patronizes this shop. She recommends Madame Perrier’s services highly.”

Davenport eyed Hilary’s chaperone, who today wore a mustard yellow ensemble, edged with bottle green. “I daresay.”

The dressmaker herself stood openmouthed with shocked fury at his outrageous comments. Hilary noted that the emotion colored the lady’s cheeks nicely. She looked a little less like an effigy now.

“Cancel the order, Mrs. Walker,” said Davenport. “Honey, come with me.”

He held the door open for her and bowed. Nearly skipping with relief, Hilary tossed the bolt of fuchsia silk into the scrawny arms of Madame’s assistant and hurried to join him.

Ignoring Mrs. Walker’s squawking protests, Davenport calmly drew Hilary’s arm through his and strode up Bond Street.

“Oh, I could kiss you!” she whispered. So utterly thankful to have been spared the humiliation of wearing Madame Perrier’s creations, she really could have kissed him, right there on Bond Street in full view of all onlookers.

He glanced down at her with a glint in his eye. “Make your apologies to Mrs. Walker and we’ll find somewhere for you to have your wish.”

Vignettes of the previous night rose in her mind’s eye, making heat pool in her belly. Coloring, she shook her head. No matter how often and severely she castigated herself for her behavior, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.