Proper young ladies of the ton -especially ones who have very small dowries-are not encouraged to have an interest in intellectual pursuits. Indeed, the only things they are encouraged to pursue are eligible bachelors. So, the headstrong Sloane sisters must keep their passions a secret. Ah, but secret passions are wont to lead a lady into trouble . . . After an eventful Season, Anna Sloane longs for some peace and quiet to pursue her writing. Though her plots might be full of harrowing adventure and heated passion, she'd much prefer to leave such exploits on the page rather than experience them in real life. Or so she thinks until she encounters the darkly dissolute-and gorgeously charming-Marquess of Davenport. Davenport has a reputation as a notorious rake whose only forte is wanton seduction. However the real reason he's a guest at the same remote Scottish castle has nothing to do with Anna . . . until a series of mysterious threats leave him no choice but to turn to her for help in stopping a dangerous conspiracy. As desire erupts between them, Davenport soon learns he's not the only one using a carefully crafted image to hide his true talents. And he's more than ready to show Anna that sometimes reality can be even better than her wildest imaginings . . .
Release date:
February 4, 2014
Publisher:
Forever
Print pages:
385
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Alessandro twisted free and fell back against the rough stones just as a dagger thrust straight at his heart. Steel sliced through linen with a lethal whisper, but the blade cut naught but a dark curl of hair from his muscled chest.
“Tsk, tsk—you’re losing your edge, Malatesta,” he called, flashing a mocking smile. “In the past, your strike was quick as a cobra. But now…” He waggled an airy wave. “You’re sluggish as a garden snake.”
“You’re a spawn of Satan, Crispini!” Another slash. “And I intend to cut off your cods and send you back to Hell where you belong.”
“Oh, no doubt I shall eventually find my testicolos roasting over the Devil’s own coals. But it won’t be a slow-witted, slow-footed oaf who sticks them on a spit.”
With a roar of rage, Alessandro’s adversary spun into a new attack.
Whoosh, whoosh—moonlight winked wildly off the flailing weapon, setting off a ghostly flutter of silvery sparks.
As he danced away from the danger, Alessandro darted a quick glance over the tower’s parapet. The water below was dark as midnight and looked colder than a witch’s—
“Crispini—watch out!” The warning shout had an all too familiar ring. “Le Chaze is behind you!”
“Damn!” muttered Alessandro. He had told—no, no, he had ordered—the young lady to flee while she had the chance. But no, the headstrong hellion was as stubborn as an—
“Damn!” muttered Miss Anna Sloane, echoing the oath of Count Crispini, the dashingly handsome Italian Lothario whose sexual exploits put those of the legendary Casanova to the blush. Throwing down her pen, she took her head between her hands. Several hairpins fell to the ink-spattered paper, punctuating the heavy sigh. “That’s not only drivel—it’s boring drivel.”
Her younger sister Caro looked up from the book of Byron’s poetry she was reading. “What did you say?”
“Drivel,” repeated Anna darkly.
Caro rose and came over to peer over Anna’s shoulder. “Hmmm.” After a quick skim of the page she added, “Actually, I think it’s not half bad.”
“I used a knife fight to liven things up in the last chapter,” said Anna.
“What about those clever little turn-off pocket pistols we saw in Mr. Manton’s shop last week?” suggested Caro.
“Chapter Three,” came the morose reply.
“Explosives?”
Anna shook her head. “I need to save that for when they hijack the pirate ship.” She made a face. Hijacking—even that sounded awfully trite to her ears. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I seem to be running short of inspiration these days.”
Caro clucked in sympathy. Like their older sister Olivia, the two younger Sloane sisters shared a secret passion for writing. “You’ve been working awfully hard these past six months. Maybe the Muse needs a holiday.”
“Yes, well, the Muse may want to luxuriate in the spa waters of Baden-Baden, but Mr. Brooke expects me to deliver this manuscript in six weeks and I’m way behind schedule.” Anna was much admired by London’s beau monde for her faultless manners, amiable charm, and ethereal beauty. Little did they know that beneath the demure silks she wore a second skin—that of Sir Sharpe Quill, author of the wildly popular racy romance novels featuring the adventures of the intrepid English orphan Emmalina Smythe and the cavalier Count Alessandro Crispini.
“Perhaps you can bribe Her with champagne and lobster patties,” quipped Caro, whose writing passion was poetry. “We are attending Lord and Lady Dearborne’s soiree tonight, and they are known for the excellence of their refreshments.”
Anna uttered a very unladylike word. In Italian.
“You would rather wrestle with an ill-tempered Word Goddess than waltz across the polished parquet in the arms of Lord Andover?”
“Andover is a bore,” grumbled Anna. “As are all the other fancy fops who will likely be dancing attendance on us.”
Caro lifted a brow. “Lud, you are in a foul mood. I thought you liked Andover.” When no response came, she went on, “I know you’ll think me silly, but I confess that I’m still a little dazzled by the evening entertainments here in London. Colorful silks, diamond-bright lights, handsome men—you may feel that the splendors of Mayfair’s ballrooms have lost their glitter, but for me they are still very exciting.”
A twinge of guilt pinched off the caustic quip about to slip from Anna’s lips. Her sister had only recently turned the magical age of eighteen, which freed her from the schoolroom and allowed her entrée into the adult world. And for a budding poet who craved Worldly Experience, the effervescence of the social swirl was still as intoxicating as champagne.
“Sorry,” apologized Anna. “I don’t mean to cloud your pleasure with my own dark humor.” She shuffled the stack of manuscript pages into a neat pile and shoved it to the side of her desk. “I supposed we had better go dress for the occasion.” Knowing Caro’s fondness for fashion, she forced a smile. “Which of your new gowns do you plan to wear? The pale green sarcenet or the peach-colored watered silk?” Her own choice she planned to leave in the hands of her new lady’s maid. The girl was French and had already displayed a flair for choosing flattering cuts and colors.
“I haven’t decided,” replied Caro with a dreamy smile. “What do you think would look best?”
“You are asking me?”
“Only because I am hoping you’ll ask Josette to come with you and give her opinion.”
Anna laughed.
“Not that you don’t have a good eye for fashion,” said her sister. “You just refuse to be bothered with it.”
“True,” she conceded. “I find other things more compelling.”
Caro cocked her head. “Such as?”
“Such as…” A restless longing for something too vague to put a name to.
Anna had carefully cultivated the outward appearance of a quiet, even-tempered young lady who wouldn’t dream of breaking any of the myriad rules governing female behavior. Up until recently it had been an amusing game, like creating the complex character of Emmalina. But oddly enough, a very different person had begun to whisper inside her head.
The saint dueling with the sinner? As of yet, it was unclear who was winning the clash of wills.
“Such as finishing my manuscript by the due date,” she replied slowly.
“Well, seeing as you are so concerned about being tardy,” said Caro dryly, “perhaps we ought to start off this new resolve of good intentions by heading upstairs now to begin dressing for the evening.”
Much as she wished to beg off and spend a quiet evening in the library, hunting through her late father’s history books for some adventurous exploit that might spark an idea for her current chapter, Anna hadn’t the heart to dampen her sister’s enthusiasm. She dutifully rose.
“Oh, come now, don’t look so glum,” said Caro. “After all, inspiration often strikes when you least expect it.”
Slipping behind a screen of potted palms, Anna exhaled sharply and made herself count to ten. The air hung heavy with the cloying scents of lush flowers and expensive perfumes, its sticky sweetness clogging her nostrils and making it difficult to breathe. Through the dark fronds, she watched the couples spin across the dance floor in a kaleidoscope of jeweltone colors and glittering gems. Laughter and loud music twined through the glittering fire of the chandeliers, the crystalline shards of light punctuated by the clink of wine glasses.
Steady, steady—I mustn’t let myself crack.
“Ah, there you are Miss Sloane.” Mr. Naughton, second son of the Earl of Greenfield and a very pleasant young man, approached and immediately began to spout a profuse apology. “Forgive me for being late in seeking your hand for this set. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Forcing a smile, Anna made no effort to accept his outstretched hand. “No apologies necessary, sir. The blame is mine. I—I was feeling a trifle overwarm and thought a moment in the shadows might serve as a restorative.”
His face pinched in concern. “Allow me to fetch you a glass of ratafia punch.”
“No, no.” She waved off the suggestion. “Please don’t trouble yourself. I think I shall just pay a visit to the ladies’ withdrawing room”—a place to which no gentleman would dare ask to escort her—“and ask the maid for a cold compress for my brow.”
Naughton shuffled his feet. “You are sure?”
“Quite.” Suddenly she couldn’t bear his solicitous smile or the oppressive gaiety a moment longer. Lifting her skirts, she turned before he could say another word and hurried down one of the side corridors.
Her steps quickened as she passed by the room reserved for the ladies and ducked around a darkened corner. From a previous visit to the townhouse, Anna knew that a set of French doors in the library led out to a raised terrace overlooking the back gardens. It was, of course, against the rules for an unchaperoned young lady to venture outdoors on her own. But she had chosen the secluded spot with great care—the chances of being spotted were virtually nil.
The night air felt blessedly cool on her overheated cheeks. “Thank God,” she murmured, tilting her face to the black velvet sky.
“Thank God,” echoed a far deeper voice.
A pale plume of smoke floated overhead, its curl momentarily obscuring the sparkle of the stars.
“It was getting devilishly dull out here with only my own thoughts for company.”
Speak of the Devil!
Anna whirled around. “That’s not surprising, sir, when one’s mind is filled with nothing but thoughts of drinking, wenching, and gaming. Titillating as those pursuits might be, I would assume they grow tiresome with constant repetition.”
“A dangerous assumption, Miss Sloane.” Devlin Greville, the Marquess of Davenport—better known as the Devil Davenport—tossed down his cheroot and ground out the glowing tip beneath his heel. Sparks flared for an instant, red-gold against the slate tiles, before fading away to darkness. “I thought you a more sensible creature than to venture an opinion on things about which you know nothing.”
Anna watched warily as he took one…two…three sauntering steps closer. Quelling the urge to retreat, she stood her ground. The Devil might be a dissolute rake, a rapacious rogue, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
“Sense has nothing to do with it,” she countered coolly. “Given the rather detailed—and lurid—gossip that fills the drawing rooms of Mayfair each morning, I know a great deal about your exploits.”
“Another dangerous assumption.” His voice was low and a little rough, like the purr of a stalking panther.
Anna felt the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end.
He laughed, and the sound turned even softer. “I also thought you a more sensible creature than to listen to wild speculation.”
“Indeed?” Feigning nonchalance, she slid sideways and leaned back against the stone railing. Which was, she realized, a tactical mistake. The marquess mirrored her movements, leaving her no way to escape.
“I—I don’t know why you would think that,” she went on. “You know absolutely nothing about me.”
“On the contrary. I, too, listen to the whispers that circulate through the ton.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She steadied her voice. “I am quite positive that there’s not an ill word spoken about me. I am exceedingly careful that not a whiff of impropriety sullies my reputation.”
“Which in itself says a great deal,” he drawled.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Am I?” He came closer, close enough that her nostrils were suddenly filled with a swirl of masculine scents. Bay rum cologne. Spiced smoke. French brandy. A hint of male musk.
Her pulse began to pound, her breath began to quicken.
Good Lord, it’s me who is an idiot. I’m acting like Emmalina!
Shaking off the horrid novel histrionics, Anna scowled. “You’re not only an idiot, Lord Davenport, you are an annoying idiot. I’m well aware that you take perverse pleasure in trying to…”
Cocking his head, he waited.
“To annoy me,” she finished lamely.
Another laugh. “Clearly I am having some success, so I can’t be all that bumbling.”
To give the Devil his due, he had a quick wit. Biting back an involuntary smile, Anna turned her head to look out over the shadowed gardens. Flames from the torchieres on the main terrace danced in the breeze, their glow gilding the silvery moonlight as it dappled over the thick ivy vines that covered the perimeter walls.
She shouldn’t find him amusing. And yet like a moth drawn to an open fire…
“What? No clever retort?” said Devlin.
Anna willed herself not to respond.
“I see.” Somehow he found a way to inch even closer. His trousers were now touching her skirts. “You mean to ignore me.”
“If you were a gentleman, you would go away and spare me the effort.”
“Allow me to point out two things, Miss Sloane. Number one—I was here first.”
The marquess had a point.
“And number two…” His hand touched her cheek. He wasn’t wearing gloves and the heat of his bare fingers seemed to scorch her skin. “We both know I’m no gentleman.”
Devlin saw her eyes widen as the light pressure on her jaw turned her face to his. It wasn’t shock, he decided, but something infinitely more interesting. Miss Anna Sloane was no spun-sugar miss, a cloying confection of sweetness and air that would make a man’s molars stick together at first bite. He sensed an intriguing hint of steel beneath the demure gowns and dutiful smiles.
If I had to guess, I would say that she’s not adverse to the little game we have been playing.
She inhaled with a sharp hiss.
Or maybe I am simply in a state of drunken delusion.
It was entirely possible. Of late he had been imbibing far more brandy than was good for him. Only one way to find out.
He would give her a heartbeat to protest, to pull away. Yes, he was dissolute, but not depraved. A man had to draw the line somewhere.
She made a small sound in her throat.
Too late.
The tiny throb of her pulse beneath his fingertips had signaled her time was up. Devlin leaned in and felt their bodies graze, their lips touch.
A mere touch, and yet it sent a jolt of fire through him.
He froze. The distant laughter, the faint trilling of the violins, the rustling leaves all gave way to a strange thrumming sound in his ears.
Anna shifted, and Devlin shook off the sensation. It must be the brandy, he decided. He had just come from his club, where he had been sampling a potent vintage brought up from the wine cellar. Women had no such effect on him.
A kiss was a distraction, nothing more. A way to keep boredom at bay.
“Go to Hell.” Anna’s whisper teased against his mouth as she jerked back.
“Eventually,” growled Devlin. “But first…” He kissed her again. A harder, deeper, possessive embrace.
Her lips tremored uncertainly.
Seizing the moment, he slipped his tongue through the tiny gap and tasted a beguiling mix of warmth and spice. Impossible to describe.
He needed to taste more.
More.
Clasping his arms around her waist, Devlin pushed her back a little roughly, pinning her body to the unyielding stone. She tensed and twisted…
I am Satan’s spawn.
…and then went still.
Time seemed to stop, to hang suspended within the shifting shadows of the fluttering leaves. A myriad of sensations seemed to skate over his skin. Fire. Ice. The slow softening of her resistance.
Anna made another sound. No words, just a soft feline purr that drifted off into the darkness. She moved, tilting forward in a tentative tasting of her own. Entwined, they swayed, weightless in the cool caress of the night.
Somewhere close by, a door opened and shut.
The echo broke the strange spell. With a shudder, Anna wrenched free of his hold, a gasp fluttering through her gloved fingertips as she touched her lips.
Disgust? Disbelief?
Devlin blinked, not quite certain of his own feelings.
For a fleeting moment it looked as though she were going to speak, but instead, she shoved him aside and walked off without a word.
Walked with her head held high, her spine ramrod straight, he noted, rather than pelter off in a torrent of tears and sobs.
Hard and soft—no question Anna Sloane was a contradiction.
Which made her a conundrum.
But Devlin liked puzzles. They kept his own inner demons at bay.
Chapter Two
Are you feeling ill, my dear?” Anna’s mother squinted through the dim light of the carriage lamp. “You look a trifle peaked.”
Piqued was perhaps a more accurate word, thought Anna, but she kept such thoughts to herself. Unlike her daughters, Lady Trumbull was not overly interested in the nuances of language.
“I confess, I am not feeling overly well either.” Caro shifted on the seat next to her and exhaled loudly. “My head hurts. I think I drank one too many glasses of that lovely champagne.”
“You must learn to control your impulsive urges,” scolded their mother. “Really, Carolina, do try to emulate your older sister’s example.”
Anna closed her eyes, unwilling to meet the fond smile.
“Discretion, discipline,” continued Lady Trumbull. “Follow her lead and you won’t go wrong.”
“Yes, Mama,” replied Caro. But, being Caro, she couldn’t resist adding, “However, not all of us are graced with the good fortune to be a saint.”
“Don’t be impertinent, Carolina.”
“No, Mama.”
To Anna’s relief, Caro left it at that. Not that the ensuing silence was any more comfortable. Left to brood on her own inexplicable impulses, she, too, felt a beastly headache coming on.
Davenport is a disgrace, but so am I.
Of all the buffle-headed, bird-witted things to do, kissing a rapscallion rogue ranked awfully high on the list of Supreme Follies. And to think she had called him an idiot. The epithet was better directed at herself.
Idiot. For good measure, Anna repeated it in Italian. Cretina. She wished she knew German, for no doubt it would sound suitably harsher. Or Russian…
Thankfully, the carriage rolled to a halt, putting an end to her multilingual self-loathing.
“If you will excuse me, I think I shall go straight up to my room,” she mumbled, after handing her cloak to their manservant.
“Shall I have Cook fix you a posset?” asked Lady Trumbull.
“No, no, I’m just fatigued is all. A good night’s sleep is the only restorative I need.” Assuming sleep would come. Anna rather doubted it.
Their mother looked unconvinced but yielded with a reluctant nod. “Very well. However, if you are still feeling unwell in the morning, I shall send for a physician.” A tiny pause. “Lord Andover mentioned that he wishes to take you to Lady Riche’s Venetian Breakfast on Thursday and it would be a pity if you had to refuse him.” Another pause, punctuated by a sigh. “He is such a pleasant young man. Handsome and considerate—”
“Rich and titled,” added Caro under her breath.
“Not to speak of possessing a handsome fortune and being heir to an earldom.”
Anna stripped off her gloves, feeling further unsettled by her mother’s ham-handed hints on marriage. Up until recently, she had dutifully accepted the notion that it was up to her marry well in order to provide security for her family—money, not love, was all that mattered. But now…
“Now that Olivia has married Lord Wrexham, we need not be so desperate to catch a rich peer,” she pointed out.
A frown furrowed between Lady Trumbull’s brows. “I wish to see all my daughters well settled, my dear. Money and position are very important in Polite Society.”
Even if they don’t make you happy?
Anna turned away, leaving the retort unvoiced. What right had she to talk of happiness when she hadn’t the foggiest notion of what it was or how to achieve it?
After lighting a taper from the candelabra on the side table, Anna started up the stairs. Perhaps she, too, had imbibed too much bubbly. Her thoughts usually did not sink to such depths of cynicism.
The patter of steps right behind her warned that Caro was not as easily put off as their mother.
“What’s wrong?” demanded her sister as soon as they reached the top of the landing.
“I’m tired,” she snapped.
“Oh? And since when has fatigue grown clever enough to give a girl kiss-ravaged lips?”
Anna clapped a hand over her mouth. “What do you know about kissing?” she said through her fingers.
“You describe it in excruciating detail in your novels,” replied Caro smugly.
“I’m sorry that Olivia and I taught you how to read.” Anna wrenched open her bedroom door and kicked it shut behind her. No wonder men liked hitting each other. There was something very satisfying about lashing out a solid thwock.
“Ha, ha, ha.” Caro slipped in just before the paneled oak fell into place. “Who was it?”
“Never mind.”
Ignoring the order, her sister took a seat on the edge of the bed and began fingering her chin. “Not Andover. He’s much too polite. And Chittenden wouldn’t dare—he’s far too in awe of you.”
“Kindly stubble the speculation. I’m really not in the mood for it.”
“Major Grove is a possibility. Or perhaps that American merchant, Mr. Hale. He’s a little rough around the edges.”
“Caroooo.”
“But it’s amusing to try to guess,” responded her sister with a grin. “Who in the name of the Devil would be bold enough—” Her words suddenly came to a halt in mid-sentence.
Drat.
“Ye gods. Not Lord Davenport.”
Anna dropped her reticule on the dressing table and sat down. A hard yank freed a handful of hairpins. The stinging in her scalp actually felt rather good.
“That is to say, he, of all people, would be bold enough,” went on Caro. “But you would never allow it. You dislike him.”
She picked up her brush and set to combing out the topknot of curls.
“Intensely,” added her sister.
Anna continued to work in steadfast silence.
“Though I confess, I’ve never quite understood why. You once tried to explain it, but it didn’t make a great deal of sense.” Caro’s voice turned more tentative. “Something about how the two of you were more alike than you wished to acknowledge because you were both forced to be on the hunt for a plump-in-the-pocket pigeon to marry.”
Caro had a habit of making rambling speeches, mused Anna. Perhaps she would simply tire herself out and go off to bed.
“But that’s a moot point now. Wrexham is rich as Croesus, and Olivia has assured me that neither of us has to worry about marrying for money anymore.”
Their eldest sister had recently wed the Earl of Wrexham—much to the surprise of Society, for Olivia was regarded as an outspoken, opinionated hellion while John was admired as the oh-so-proper Perfect Hero. However both portrayals were only skin deep. Beneath the surface were hidden complexities. Hidden secrets.
Anna repressed a sigh. Secrets seemed to run in the family.
“So if you ask me…” Caro’s voice drew her out of her brooding. “I think the Devil’s aura of danger is exciting.”
That a part of her—a very small part—obviously agreed with Caro turned Anna’s mood even more prickly. Abandoning the I-Will-Not-Say-A-Word strategy, she huffed out a sharp “hmmph” and turned in her chair.
“My head is aching enough right now without having to listen to you prattling on like a silly schoolgirl about something of which you know virtually nil. So could we kindly continue this conversation in the morning?”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Anna wished she could summon them back. Caro, who usually accepted the set-downs from her older sisters with cheerful good grace, flinched and went white as the down-turned linen sheets.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Rising, she hurried to the bed and enveloped Caro in a fierce hug. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me of late—I’ve not been myself.” And the trouble was, she wasn’t quite sure who “myself” was anymore. “It wasn’t you I was sniping at—it was my own tangled thoughts. Please forgive me.”
“The fault is mine,” mumbled Caro through a teary sigh. “I should have known better than to tease you when clearly you are feeling blue-deviled. Mama is right, I must learn to control my impulsive urges. It’s childish. And selfish.”
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you to bridle your exuberance.” Anna stroked a hand over her sister’s dark curls. “It’s part of your essence, and without it you wouldn’t be you.” Lifting Caro’s head, she pressed a light kiss to her brow. “Or a poet.”
“I—I’m not a very good poet, but perhaps if I work as hard as you and Olivia do at writing, I shall have a hope of improving.”
“You are exceedingly good, Caro. And you’re going to get even better. You have a rare talent for expressing emotions.”
Sniff. “Even though they sometimes get out of control?”
“Emotions are perverse little devils.” Devil—the word brought a fresh rush of heat to her cheeks. “They seem to have a will of their own and defy any attempts by us mere mortals to control them.”
Caro quirked a watery smile. “Perhaps I’ll write an Ode to Hellfire Emotion.”
“An excellent idea. But it’s probably best left until morning, when the flames of Passionate Feelings have burned down a bit.”
“Yes, yes, quite right.” Her sister smoothed her skirts and rose. “I’ll leave y. . .
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