The Devilish Mr. Danvers Read online

  He released a wry laugh as he pulled on a pair of heavy-looking black gloves but made no other comment. Apparently, he wasn’t too disturbed by her presence, because he began to move around the cottage. Which was less of a cottage and more of a sweltering hearth room. The hearth in question was a glowing furnace with a hole cut in the center of a pair of doors. Built into the brick beside it stood an oven, with a hefty stack of wood on the floor. A single stool and three tables of different heights and sizes were the only pieces of furniture. The tables were mostly laid bare aside from a few odd-looking tools and charred squares of cloth. Nearest the furnace, a narrow trough of dark water shimmered, reflecting a glow that resembled liquid copper.

  She kept close enough to the door for a reprieve from the heat, yet leaned forward for a good vantage point to see what Rafe’s work entailed.

  Lifting a long piece of pipe up from the table, Rafe proceeded to push one end through the small round hole in the doors of the furnace. Something about the act caused her stomach to bobble. So she pressed a hand to her middle.

  As she watched, the firelight caressed his profile, bathing him in golden light. Above the cuff of his gloves and below his rolled-up shirt sleeves, the muscles of his forearms flexed and bunched in a sinuous dance. Unable to help herself, she imagined him working in nothing more than snug-fitting breeches. Naturally, her gaze dipped lower to the firm flesh of his buttocks and thighs, well-defined beneath a buttery-colored cloth.

  Hedley swallowed and felt her hand tighten over her middle, wrinkling the pale pink muslin she wore.

  In that moment, she knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

  But it had to be done. “I came by to tell you that I refuse to be a party to your scheme. If I choose to allow anyone to court me, it will not be because of a wager. More specifically, you cannot purchase my acquiescence.”

  Rafe’s profile hardened, his mouth pressed in a firm line. “Did Montwood kiss you?”

  She started. “Wha—”

  “I will kill him,” he growled, withdrawing the pipe from the furnace. On the end was a sort of misshapen ball of mush. Moving quickly—angrily, it seemed—he laid the middle of the pipe over the narrow table and began to roll it from side to side. Then, as if he’d developed a rhythm he liked, he bent at the waist and fitted his mouth to the opposite end of the pipe.

  Hedley’s knees went weak. A trickle of perspiration slid down her temple. She pressed her fingers to her lips. No wonder he didn’t allow anyone to watch him work. It was far too erotic. And, she imagined, scandalous. She didn’t need to be part of society in order to know that what she was feeling right now could not possibly be acceptable.

  It took her a moment to recover. “If kissing is suddenly a killing offense, then you and I are slated for the gallows as well.”

  She probably shouldn’t have enjoyed the dark look he sent her as he stood. Or the way that it caused her to notice the heat dampening her flesh. She had no desire to fan herself. Instead, she wanted to be closer to the source.

  Without a word, Rafe turned and pushed the end of his pipe back into the furnace. His arms flexed, pulling his shirt tight across his shoulders.

  “Then of course,” she added, her throat dry, “Greyson Park—your apparent reason for living—would suffer because of it.”

  “It is not my reason for living. Greyson Park holds my legacy.” He withdrew the pipe again and went to a different table. This time, he rolled the hot, glowing end into what looked like a littered mess of glass shards, before returning once again to the furnace. “And you did not answer my question.”

  He still had Montwood on his mind. Did he have any idea how absurd it was to think that Montwood would have kissed her? Or that she would have permitted him?

  “Fine. I will answer your question as soon as you explain how your legacy ended up in my house.”

  He adjusted his grip on the pipe, keeping his gaze toward the hole in the furnace door. “The property once belonged to my family. During the reign of Henry III, one of my ancestors was commissioned to be part of the rebuilding of the abbey and subsequently the king’s chamber, which later became known as the Painted Chamber. Later on, a fire destroyed part of the chamber. Certain works of art were damaged, some restored, and some . . . removed for safe keeping.”

  As his words slowly sank in, she watched him maneuver back to the first table. His back to her, he picked up a tool here and there, moving fluidly, going about his work as if she wasn’t in the room.

  “Are you saying that . . . Greyson Park actually does hold a treasure?”

  He shook his head. “Only to antiquarians.”

  “And to the descendants of the artist.” She suddenly felt as if she were looking directly into the furnace. “That is what you meant by your legacy. I can only imagine how such an important artifact would also restore your father’s name. Now, I understand why you would do anything for Greyson Park.”

  She truly did. Although she was not quick to forgive him. “You could have saved yourself a great deal of silliness and scheming if you’d told me from the beginning. Surely it doesn’t matter who owns the property. Your family would get credit.”

  “In this particular case, it will not work that way. Lord Fitzherbert is the head of the Society. His wife was the one who gave my father the cut direct, casting him out of the ton’s good graces. The Royal Antiquarian Society has refused my claim on the grounds of my lack of ownership. They’ve gone so far as to label me a trespasser on the property of the family who publicly humiliated me.”

  She heard what sounded like a sudden break of glass and gasped. In the seconds that followed, she worried that he’d done all that work for naught. And that her presence here had caused him to ruin a piece of art.

  Yet when he faced her, he held a small bottle in his hand, with swirls of blue intermingled with the clear glass. Then, watching her closely, he set it down on the largest table in front of her.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, thoroughly amazed. “Calliope will be pleased. It is exactly the size of those bottles from my grandmother’s cask. How did you get it to be so perfectly formed? And blue, as well.”

  “Practice,” he said with a cocky shrug of shoulder, but his expression was not as aloof. He seemed to study her for a moment before he gestured to the table littered with shards of glass. Reaching out, he scooped up a handful and sifted it though his fingers. “And the color comes from these pieces of frit.”

  Ah, so that was where his horse came by his peculiar name. She was learning so much about Rafe. It made it even more difficult to remember that—for him—she was only a means to an end.

  Before she could forget again, she took a step back until she could feel the breeze coming through the door. “I will write this Lord Fitzherbert and explain how my family never knew of this artifact, and that—through marriage many years ago—the estate changed hands without anyone the wiser. That way—”

  “It won’t work,” he interrupted with a solemn shake of his head.

  “You sir, are no optimist.” Of course it would work. She owned Greyson Park and would be seen as an authority on the property.

  “When I spoke of my discovery to Lord Fitzherbert, he made it clear that he wouldn’t validate any finding of mine unless the ‘journey’ of the artifact was documented by a member of the Society. Besides, I cannot remove the treasure without damaging it. I’ve already tried.” He removed his gloves and raked a hand through his hair. “And last, they would need to validate your ownership. From there, they would inquire about the young Sinclair woman who had never been presented in society—whose name is not listed in Debrett’s—and then discover the stipulations of your inheritance.”

  Oh. Perhaps it wasn’t as simple as she thought. “And it would only be a matter of time before they assumed that reason for my absence in society is because I am considered . . . the family lunatic.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I’ve never believed it for an instant.”

  “I know
.” She offered a wan smile. “I appreciate that you did not judge me on circumstance. Now, if only I could find a member of your Society who would do the same. But perhaps the only way would be to meet one of them in person and prove that I am of sound mind.”

  Rafe stepped forward and took her hand. “They are in London, Hedley. They have refused my numerous invitations to travel here.”

  Thus the reasons he’d schemed to get her to marry Montwood.

  She wasn’t about to give up Greyson Park and return to a locked attic room. There was, however, one thing she could do. Hedley squeezed his hand in return and then slipped free. She’d made up her mind.

  “I will go to London and speak to them myself,” she said. It was the only way. Then, feeling suddenly lightheaded, she placed her hand on the doorframe. “First, I’d like you to help me face my fear of carriages.”

  His presence had helped her with her first encounter with Frit, after all. Now—especially after what had happened moments ago—she was much surer of herself. Facing one fear had given her confidence. She was ready to face the rest.

  “No. Absolutely not. I will not allow you to put yourself through an ordeal,” Rafe said, adamant.

  Hiding her disappointment, she turned to the door but hesitated. “This fear has plagued me for most of my life. I plan my days around avoidance so that I will not be caught in that icy grip—that prison that has crippled me and made me an outcast.” She glanced over her shoulder once more before leaving. “Don’t you see? Until recently, I never imagined I would have the strength to face it. If I don’t . . . then it will be an ongoing ordeal.”

  And just like that, her mind was made up.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  If Rafe wouldn’t help her, then Hedley would do it on her own. The carriage house at Greyson Park had intimidated her long enough. Each time she had to bring wood in for the fire, it was there, taunting her with nightmarish memories. She wanted to banish those for good.

  A shiver assaulted her as she gained the path between the two estates, making her misstep.

  Trailing her all the while, Rafe suddenly reached out and steadied her by taking her arm. “You are not going to do this for me, Hedley. There is another way.”

  “What way?” she challenged, already knowing the answer. Slipping her arm free of him, she continued her hike. Greyson Park lay just ahead, through the copse of trees.

  “Once the wager is won, I will . . . ” His words trailed off into the void of alternative ideas between them. He released an oath under his breath. “I will think of something.”

  Hedley ducked beneath a low budding branch. Unfortunately, part of it caught in her hair. Her pins came loose. When she straightened, the thick plait fell, the length of it resting down the center of her back, all the way to her hips.

  Lucifer’s talons! She grumbled as she pulled a twig free of a tangle. “No. It is up to me. Unless I marry Montwood, there is no other way. And you and I both know that he would wait until he’d won the wager first. And I doubt you want to wait another year. Besides, I would prefer to go to my potential future husband as a complete person, not one who freezes in terror every time a horse and carriage is near.”

  Rafe growled and brushed her hands aside, assisting her. “Why do you insist on mentioning Montwood in that context?”

  “I don’t believe I’m insisting. Merely remarking. You were, after all, the one who put the idea into my head.” It served him right to believe that she was in earnest. “You never once encouraged my association with anyone other than Montwood. You could have chosen a local merchant instead. Although, I admit, I certainly wasn’t entranced by Mr. Lynch the way you were by the laundress.”

  When the gentle movements of his fingers stopped, she turned.

  Holding the weight of her braid in his grasp, Rafe grinned at her and gave her a playful tug that drew her closer to him. “You’re jealous.”

  The heat of a blush rose to her cheeks. She hoped that beneath the shadowed canopy of branches that he wouldn’t notice. “Only as jealous as you are of Montwood—which is to say not one whit.”

  His devilish grin spread as he toyed with her braid, brushing the end over the pad of his thumb. “You have a great deal of hair.”

  “Which is the reason I keep it pinned. It tends to get in the way. Now, I’d like to find my pins before I can face this next task.” Of course, she knew that pinning her hair up again wouldn’t erase her fear, but it was a way of giving her another moment before forging ahead.

  Slowly, Rafe shook his head. “I like it this way.”

  She swallowed and felt her stomach dip low. It settled deep down inside her and made her aware of every inch of space between them. With a single step, her body would touch his. She knew what it felt like to have nothing but layers of clothes between them, and she yearned to be that close again. Yet an even stronger yearning pulsed within her to have nothing between them. Not clothing. Not doubt. Not Greyson Park.

  She let out a breath and silently told her stomach to return to its proper place.

  Most likely, Rafe was stalling as well, solely as a means of helping her avoid what she must do. Or . . . he simply didn’t want to help her at all.

  She took a step back and watched her braid slide through his palm. “I can do this on my own. It was thoughtless of me to ask you when you have so much at stake as well.”

  “I don’t want to see you hurt,” he said with quiet sincerity.

  Hedley looked down to see his hand open. Most of her pins lay across his palm. Taking that as his readiness to leave her, she took them. “Thank you.”

  Turning away, she walked across the courtyard toward the carriage house. To keep her mind occupied, she busied herself with pinning her plait in place.

  “Hedley, stop.”

  She saw him stride up beside her, but she was almost to the door. And if she stopped now, she might never return. “I need to do this, Rafe. I need to stop the fear from controlling my life. I want to live free of this burden. I will do it alone and—”

  “No. You’ve done enough on your own.” He stepped in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I want you to lean on me. I want to give you my strength.”

  Those words went directly to her heart. She was powerless against them and against the overwhelming surge of love that filled her. “My hands are shaking.”

  He reached down and settled her hands against this chest. Since he’d only donned a coat while leaving the cottage, she could feel the warmth of his body through the linen of his shirt. “Just keep your hands on me. Keep your gaze on mine, like before with Frit. Don’t look away.”

  “I won’t,” she promised. She suddenly felt that she could face anything.

  Rafe opened the door. The hinges groaned with the movement, like a bellowed warning. Dank, musty air escaped on a cold breeze. Hedley shivered. She knew there was a carriage inside because she’d seen it before. At the time, all she could do was stand in the doorway and experience the terror she’d felt as a child, unable to look away for what had seemed like an eternity.

  Now, it was different. She wasn’t facing this alone.

  “We can turn back any time . . . ”

  She was already shaking her head before he finished. “I’m ready to conquer this.” Surprisingly, her voice didn’t quaver. Rafe had helped her discover her inner strength.

  Then carefully, as if she were one of his delicate glass creations, he guided her through the door, backing her into the carriage house.

  “It’s dark in here,” she whispered.

  “Let your eyes adjust. There’s enough light. And I’m here.”

  Yes, he was here. And close, too. She breathed in deeply to fill her lungs with the comforting scent of him. To her, he smelled like home—freshly cut logs and a fire in the hearth. He warmed her from the inside out.

  Rafe held her gaze, his never wavering. “Just a few more steps, sweeting.”

  He was right. There was plenty of light in here. She could
see the severity in his expression, one that told her if she had even a tiny bubble of panic, he would whisk her out of here faster than she could blink. Knowing that made her fear seem far away—a haunting memory but nothing more. The way it should have been all this time.

  Their muted footsteps on the stone floor landed in perfect syncopation. The rhythm reminded her of the slow, meandering tune she’d learned on the piano. It made her wonder if this was what it would be like to dance with Rafe. Beneath her hands, his heart quickened as if he were imagining something similar while staring down into her face.

  She let her hands drift down to the firm ridges of his abdomen. The shape of him fascinated her. Her fingertips traced the horizontal valleys, starting at the top of his stomach and working her way down, bit by bit. When she reached the one nearest the waist of his breeches, his flesh rippled. He let out a rush of air against her lips.

  Rafe stopped walking. His grasp tightened around her shoulders as he drew her marginally closer. “Sweeting, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

  Hearing the rawness of his voice, she hesitated. “I’m touching you.”

  “Because you’re afraid?”

  “No, because you feel good. Different. I like touching you,” she admitted, flattening her hands over him. He was entrancingly solid, so unlike her. She’d seen this part of him without clothes. She wondered what he would feel like beneath his shirt, too. Would his skin be smooth? Would that black hair on his chest and abdomen feel silken or coarse?

  Marveling at these things, she moved her hands upward to his chest. When he drew in a sharp breath, she hesitated again. “Should I stop?”

  “Absolutely not.” He shifted closer, his boots sliding against the outside of her shoes until her knees were between his.

  She lifted her face, automatically tilting it to the side when she saw his gaze dip to her mouth. “Should I kiss you?”

  Rafe shuddered. While it was wonderful that Hedley wasn’t quaking in fear and that she appeared to be handling this with aplomb, having her hands on him had brought him to an urgent state of arousal. He was thick and heavy with need already.