Authors: Cara Elliott
“By the by, Lord Davenport,” said the countess, “I hadn’t realized you were such an avid sportsman. Had I known you were so fond of grouse shooting, I would have invited you to our annual hunt parties before now.”
“Ah, we all have our little secrets,” he replied lightly.
“Well, I am glad that Sir Thorncroft made mention of the fact to my husband. I do hope you will find your stay a rewarding one.” With that, she drifted off to greet a contingent of local gentry who had just entered through the side salon.
A small smile played on his lips. Rewards came in many guises, and although a rich heiress was not likely to fall into his arms, the sojourn was still going to prove highly lucrative, assuming all went according to plan.
But no sooner had the thought popped into his head when a sudden flutter of moss-green silk at the drawing room’s main door knocked all such assumptions to flinders.
Anna smoothed at her skirts, feeling unaccountably reluctant to join a crowd of strangers. Her mother’s constant carping had provoked a dull ache in the base of her skull, and for a moment she was tempted to cry off from the gala welcoming supper and retreat to her room.
But good manners triumphed over the longing to curl up in bed with a cup of tea and her book on Scottish history. Heaving an inward sigh, she pasted on a smile and made herself step over the threshold.
“Oh, look,” said her mother a bit smugly, “here is the Lady Dunbar coming to greet us. No doubt she wishes to introduce you to the prince. I wonder which one…” Her words trailed off in an aggrieved huff as she caught sight of the figure by the arched windows. “Good heavens, what possessed Miriam to invite
him
to Scotland?”
Anna followed her mother’s gaze and suddenly felt the ache in her head turn into a stab of fire.
An imp of Satan, perhaps?
A strange crackling heat seemed to spread through her limbs.
“Who?” asked Caro, trying to see over her mother’s shoulder.
“The Devil,” grumbled Lady Trumbull. However, the approach of their hostess forestalled any further complaint.
Anna performed the rituals of introduction by rote, for her thoughts were knotted in a tangle.
Davenport is here?
Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined that the marquess might be part of Lady Dunbar’s house party.
The idea ought to appall her, and yet…
She slanted a sidelong look at Devlin and felt her pulse skitter. With his dark, disheveled hair and his dark, disheveled evening clothes, he looked like some wild Celtic wraith from the black-misted moors. In contrast, all the other gentlemen looked tame as well-fed tabby cats.
Yes, that was it
, she realized with a jolt. The marquess always looked hungry for something, though God only knew what it was. His predatory gaze was always hunting, hunting—
Their eyes locked for just an instant, and then she quickly looked away.
“…What lovely daughters, Hermione.” Anna caught the last of Lady Dunbar’s compliments to their mother. “Come along, girls, I must introduce you to the other guests, starting with visitors from the German principality of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt. Prince Gunther has not yet come down, but his friends are a very amiable group of gentlemen.”
Anna listened with only half an ear as the countess rattled off several names and titles.
“Did you hear that, girls?” said their mother in a hushed whisper. “Not only a prince, but a
margrave
and a
graf
. That is the equivalent of an English marquess and an earl.”
“I think Mama is already hearing the ringing of church bells,” murmured Caro, as Lady Trumbull turned back to converse with her old friend. “Which title would you prefer to wed? As the elder sister, you ought to have the first choice.”
“Hmmm?” answered Anna absently as she checked the reflection in a large glass-front curio case, trying to spot Devlin among the blurred shapes and flickering light.
A playful smile tugged at her sister’s lips. “Or have you decided that you will settle for nothing less than the prince?”
“Hmmm?” He seemed to have melted into the shadows.
“You aren’t paying the least attention, are you?” Caro raised a quizzical brow. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” she replied, forcing herself to push aside the distraction. “I was simply making mental note of the details. It’s an unusual room.”
It was far larger than a traditional London drawing room, with soaring stone columns rising up to a vaulted ceiling. Beneath its arch, massive oak beams ran the length of the space, and from the center beam hung an ornate chandelier wrought of stag horn and silver. Tapestries of hunting scenes hung on the honey-colored pine paneling—rather fiercely graphic scenes that were not for the faint of heart.
The Scots appeared to be a bellicose, bloodthirsty people, noted Anna, as her gaze came to rest on a display of ancient claymores and crossbows.
“The fireplaces look large enough to roast an ox,” observed Caro. There were two set at opposite ends of the room, with high granite mantels and fanciful fire-breathing dragons carved into the decorative stone work above them.
“Or two English nobles,” said a deep, hard-edged voice.
“That is
not
amusing, Alec.” Lady Dunbar whirled around and fixed the sandy-haired gentleman who had just stepped out from the recessed book alcove with a reproving glare. “Miss Sloane, Miss Caro, please forgive my cousin. His sense of humor can be a little rough around the edges.”
“You don’t like the English, Lord McClellan?” asked Caro, once Lady Dunbar had performed the introductions.
“No,” came the blunt reply, which earned another pained look from the countess.
“Why?” demanded Caro, ignoring their mother’s surreptitious warning pinch to maintain a ladylike silence.
“Don’t you south-of-the-borderlands schoolgirls study history?” he shot back. “If you did so, you would know that the history between our two countries is a violent and bloody one.”
If sufficiently provoked, Caro could display a fiery temper to go along with her flair for drama. Sure enough, her sister was quick to fling back a retort. “Don’t you north-of-the-borderlands nobles study social etiquette?” she asked. “If you did so, you would know that I would not be a guest at your cousin’s house party if I were still in the schoolroom.”
Hoping to forestall further pyrotechnics, Anna took her sister by the arm. “Perhaps we ought to move on, before Lord McClellan decides to roast
us
as a sacrifice to the Celtic God of War.”
His mouth twitched, softening for just a fleeting instant his stony visage. “It would be too great a waste of beauty, so I shall confine my murderous impulses to the males of your country.”
Caro’s eyes narrowed.
If looks could kill…
As her sister hitched in an angry breath, Anna nudged her forward before any retort could be uttered. “Let us try not to spark an international incident on our first night here,” she counseled.
“Ill-mannered oaf,” muttered Caro.
“True, the man does display a decided lack of charm and good manners.” Her gaze unconsciously darted around the room again. “If he annoys you, the best thing is to simply avoid any further contact with him.”
“With pleasure,” replied her sister darkly.
The chance for any further exchange was ended by Lady Dunbar’s cheerful summons to the German gentlemen to come greet them.
Lord Saxe-Colza and Count Rupert, two of the unmarried gentlemen among the prince’s party, proved far more polished and polite than the countess’s cousin. Their English was excellent, and they made amiable conversation about their fondness for London and how much they were looking forward to hunting in Scotland.
The count was especially delighted with Anna’s ability to converse in his native tongue. “I am impressed, Miss Sloane. Most English ladies know only French.”
“My father was a serious scholar and spoke many languages. I had a good ear for them and he encouraged my interest.”
“What others do you speak?” inquired Saxe-Colza.
“French, along with a little Russian and Italian,” replied Anna. “And I can read classical Greek and Latin.”
“You speak Russian?” remarked Lady Dunbar. “How nice. One of the other guests is Colonel Polianov, an attaché from the Russian embassy in London.”
“La, but you mustn’t think my daughter is a bluestocking, Count Rupert,” interjected Lady Trumbull. To Anna she added, “Pray, my dear, don’t give the gentlemen the wrong impression. They might think you are bookish.”
Rupert looked bewildered. “Blue stocking? Is this some new English fashion?”
Anna smiled. “No, my lord. It is a rather unflattering term for a lady who has an interest in intellectual pursuits. You see, in our country, a lady is not supposed to be
too
clever.”
“Indeed, beauty, not brains, is all that matters to a proper Englishman.” Devlin joined their little circle and tossed back a swallow of his champagne. “Is it the same in Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt?”
The count looked uncertain of how to reply. Clearing his throat with an embarrassed cough, he shot an appealing look at their hostess.
“Ah, I see that the crown prince has come down from his quarters,” announced Lady Dunbar loudly. Offering her arm to the beleaguered count, she signaled her footmen to throw open the double doors leading to the dining salon.
“Come, let us all go in to supper.”
T
he meal over, the ladies returned to the drawing room for tea and cakes while the gentlemen remained in the dining salon to enjoy their postprandial cigars and port. The French duo immediately chose to sit together and seemed little inclined to socialize, despite the efforts of their hostess. The two German countesses were a little more gregarious observed Anna, although their loud voices and brusque comments did not bode well for prolonged conversation. As for the two local Scottish gentry, they quietly helped to pass the cups, and when they did speak, it was hard to understand their burred speech.
No doubt the initial reserve would soon melt, but for the moment, an air of stiff formality seemed to pervade the room.
After exchanging pleasantries with the other group of ladies from London, Anna sought refuge in one of the side display alcoves, where a collection of hand-colored botanical engravings offered the perfect opportunity to enjoy an interlude of quiet contemplation.
Perfect, that is, until the murmur of male voices announced that the gentlemen guests hadn’t lingered long over their masculine rites of pleasure.
Anna slipped deeper into the alcove, hoping her presence would go unnoticed. The candles in the wall sconces had burned low, and the encroaching shadows were deepening the fluttery light to a soft, bronze-hued glow. With any luck, no one would think to enter the secluded space.
Just then, the light tread of steps sounded just outside the narrow archway…
Anna held herself very still. But Luck appeared to be in a perversely mischievous mood this evening.
“I wasn’t aware that you are fluent in German,” said Devlin as he slid through the opening and slouched a shoulder against the wall. “Or Russian.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Lord Davenport,” answered Anna. “Do be careful of the engravings,” she added. “I imagine that they are quite valuable.”
“No doubt. I’ve heard that the castle is full of priceless art.” The wavering flame caught the spark of amusement in his eyes. “Perhaps you would care to explore some of the other dark nooks and crannies together. I’m sure we would discover some very interesting things.”
Anna turned away to hide the smile tugging at her lips. She shouldn’t find his humor appealing. He was too dissolute.
Too dangerous.
“Please go away, Lord Davenport.”
He shifted his stance and somehow his lean body was now too close for comfort. “But we’ve barely begun to talk.”
“I’m in no mood for conversation, if you don’t mind.” Suddenly feeling a bit breathless, she inhaled, only to find her nostrils filled with the faint sweetness of the wine on his breath and the earthier spice of his sandalwood cologne.
“Oh?” He leaned in closer, the movement causing a lock of his hair to brush against his jaw. Anna was intimately aware of the subtle fragrance of pine soap clinging to the dark strands.
Was it possible to become intoxicated from mere scent?
All at once her head was feeling woozy. Leaning back, she steadied herself against the wainscoting.
“No matter—I can think of other activities that don’t require speech.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t dare.” As soon as she said it, Anna realized her mistake.
“That,” replied Devlin slowly, “is exactly the wrong thing to say to a Devil like me.”
“I—I meant…” She wasn’t sure what she meant. But it was
not
to be staring at the sinuous shape of his mouth and wondering what the trace of port would taste like on his lips.
“Perhaps you meant that
you
wouldn’t dare,” whispered Devlin, after the silence had stretched out for several heartbeats.
Anna wanted to respond with a clever answer, and yet some force seemed to have squeezed the air from her lungs.
“But I think you are wrong,” he went on. “I have a feeling that deep down inside that delectable body, the well-behaved Miss Sloane is not quite as angelic as she wishes to appear.”
A light touch of his finger tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his. A strange sound—something akin to the crackling of burning coals—began to echo in her ears.
“Unless I am much mistaken,” he said in a whisper, “there are devilish desires swirling in intimate places you don’t wish to admit exist.”
Anna shook her head and the movement seemed to dispel her momentary dizziness. “You are quite wrong, sir.”
A breath of air teased against her cheek.
A silent laugh?
Or was it merely a draft sneaking in through some unseen gap in the woodwork?
“Then prove it,” said Devlin.
“How? You seem unwilling to take my word for it.”
“It’s simple. All you have to do is not react to my kiss.”
“That’s an unfair challenge, sir. I’m damned as a coward if I say no, and damned as a fool if I say yes.”
This time there was no mistaking his mirth. “See what I mean? No angel would dream of uttering an oath.”
“On the contrary. I could have blistered your ears in German or Russian as well. But I showed an angelic restraint.”
“That’s what is so intriguing about you, Miss Sloane. Like all truly interesting individuals, you have a dark and a light side.”
His words sent a serpentine shiver slithering down her spine. “That’s completely untrue, sir.”
“Is it?”
Flustered, Anna quickly returned to the heart of his challenge. “It seems to me that the risk is all mine.”
“On the contrary,” replied Devlin ever so softly. “According to you there is no risk at all.”
“Honestly, you and your silver tongue could probably convince St. Peter to throw open the Pearly Gates and invite you to tea.”
“A kiss,” he murmured. “A mere touch of the lips.”
Loath to appear uncertain of her resolve, Anna decided to settle the matter once and for all. In London, he had caught her at a vulnerable moment. She had been off balance, taken by surprise.
He had no such advantage this time.
“Very well, sir. You may test your theory. But be prepared to have your pride piqued.”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” he quipped. “We shall see which one of us takes a tumble.”
Anna backed up a step. “Just to clarify the rules, sir. Just a touch of the lips, nothing more.”
He hesitated, and then nodded. “As you wish.”
A shift of his shoulders threw her face into shadow. Her skin felt suddenly cooler—a mere illusion, she knew, for the candleflames gave off only a weak stutter of light. Closing her eyes, she waited.
And waited.
Her pulse began to skitter, and she was just about to cry off from the challenge when a gossamer feathering of flesh against flesh stilled the protest.
Just as suddenly, the coolness gave way to warmth. The sensation was so slight that it may only have been a figment of her imagination. And yet her mouth began to tingle.
A rake would be more ruthless, Anna thought. More demanding. She had prepared herself to withstand a hard, possessive attempt to win her surrender. But this soft-as-silk caress had her insides slowly melting into a slow spin of topsy-turvy somersaults.
This dreadful dizziness will pass in a moment—it’s just fatigue that is addling my wits.
Anna steeled her spine, willing her resolve to reassert itself. Instead, the gentle warmth of Devlin’s mouth flared to a fierce burn. The beguiling whisper of port—a potent mix of sun-ripe sweetness and fire—was tantalizing.
Just a tiny taste more and then I will stop
, she decided, tentatively tracing the sensuous shape of his lips.
It felt good—no, beyond good. Rising on tiptoes, she steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder…
“Anna?” Her sister’s voice cut through the haze. “Are you there? Mama is looking for you.”
Thank God for the gloom and the Devil’s coal-black evening clothes.
Coming back to her senses, Anna broke off the challenge with a ragged gasp. “Yes, yes, I’ll be out in a moment.”
Devlin’s expression was impossible to read. All she could tell was that he seemed to be watching her intently with a heavy-lidded gaze.
Fisting her skirts, she edged past him, praying that he would be gentlemanly enough not to follow.
Caro cast a second look into the alcove as Anna emerged from the shadows and paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the brightly blazing light.
“Since when have you become so engrossed in art that you’ll stay to study it even when the candles are in danger of burning out?”
“My garters had come loose,” she fibbed. “I could hardly retie them in full view of the other guests.”
“Well, that might have roused the elderly baron McIntire from his after-supper slumber,” replied her sister. “Instead, two footmen had to carry him up to his room when the snoring grew too loud.” However, the bantering tone did not quite dispel the question lingering in her eyes.
Anna avoided meeting her gaze. “Where is Mama?”
“In the side salon, having a nip of sherry with the countess and her husband.” Lord Dunbar had finally arrived halfway through supper, having been delayed in his journey home from Edinburgh by a broken carriage axle. “You know how garrulous she gets when she’s had several glasses of spirits. We had better go trundle her off to bed before the poor earl faints from exhaustion.”
“No doubt we could all use a good night’s rest.” Perhaps in the morning she would wake and find the last little interlude had been nothing but a strange dream. Even now, it seemed a strange, smoke-swirled fantasy brought on by too much rich food, too much fine wine, and too many new faces.
“You look odd,” said Caro. “Are you feeling ill?”
“Just overtired.” Just overwhelmed with sensations that no proper young lady ought to be feeling. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
Devlin held himself very still, waiting for the sound of her retreating steps to trail off. He knew he was playing with fire—and Anna would suffer the worst of the burns if anyone spied their private encounters.
Damnation.
He had meant to escape all thoughts of Anna Sloane’s kiss and the terrible, sinful urges it sent spiraling through his body. A jaded rake ought to be impervious to innocence. Instead, he found himself feeling…protective. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that she was hiding a secret that could draw her into trouble.
Expelling a pent-up breath, Devlin ran a hand through his hair. “Ha! As if I am some pure and noble knight, ready to slay dragons for a damsel in distress.” He was the first to admit that nothing could be further from the truth. Nobility took too much effort—it was far easier to be a hellbent rascal. No one expected anything from the Devil Davenport.
Including himself.
Cocking an ear, he heard nothing but the muted murmurs of the few guests left lingering in conversation by the hearth. The others seemed to have wandered off to the card room, and so, after waiting a few moments longer, he slipped out of the alcove and made his way out through the double doors to the castle’s central corridor.
Straight ahead would take him to the main staircase and the wing housing the gentlemen guests. But feeling too agitated to sleep, Devlin chose instead to turn left and wander down to the row of leisure rooms, where the guests had been invited to explore the various activities available for their amusement.
After pouring himself a glass of whisky from the decanters in the music room, he cut between a pianoforte and an ancient harpsichord and went to stand by the glass-paned doors overlooking the terrace. The rain had ceased and the lawns sloping down to the rock-ringed lake were bathed in a dappling of pale moonlight. In the silvery glow, the wet grass took on a fanciful glitter, as if some Scottish silkie had risen from the dark water and flung handfuls of diamond-bright crystals into the night. Wraith-like fingers of mist swirled in and out of the pine trees bordering the far garden wall, adding to the aura of primitive enchantment.
Angling his gaze upward, Devlin watched the scudding clouds, wondering why he was in such a strange mood.
He ought to be celebrating a clever triumph over Miss Anna Sloane. He had won—he was sure of it.
Well, almost sure.
She
had
reacted. Her mouth had quivered at his touch, and she had softly, ever so softly, let herself explore his shape, his taste.
Raising his glass to his lips, Devlin drew in a mouthful of the amber spirits and let it trickle down his throat.
Or perhaps it was just another figment of his imagination.
Draining the rest of his whisky in one gulp, he turned abruptly, determined to shake off his brooding. Anna Sloane’s presence must not distract him from the reason he was here. Between finishing the intricate mechanical model he was making for a wealthy collector and doing a bit of sleuthing to determine whether Thorncroft’s fears were justified, he had more than enough to keep his mind occupied.
Stepping lightly, Devlin exited the room and began prowling the length of the corridor. The library was dark, the only sounds emanating from within were the faint creaking of the wooden shelves and the rattle of the brass-framed windows in the gusty wind.
The study was also deserted. Moving on to the billiard room, he paused by the half-open door, listening to the rumble of laughter punctuated by the click of the ivory balls. The prince and his unmarried friends appeared to be deep into a competitive match. Angling a look through the opening, Devlin saw through the haze of cigar smoke that they had stripped off their evening coats and rolled up their shirtsleeves. And though they were speaking in German, the language of masculine needling was universal. There must be a hefty sum riding on the outcome of the games, for a scowling Count Rupert took his time in lining up his next shot.
They would likely be at it for some time, thought Devlin, and judging by the array of wine and brandy bottles on the sideboard, play was only going to get more erratic. There was no reason not to take advantage of the opportunity to have a quick look around in the rooms of the prince’s three friends.
The German contingent was quartered on their own floor in the tower, and to avoid being spotted by any of the other guests, he decided to retrace his steps to the music room and circle around the gardens to gain access through the entrance on the north side of the castle.