The Devilish Mr. Danvers Page 6

  Clearly, she didn’t belong here. She knew nothing of this world, other than how to blend in with the shadows and slip through doorways unseen. She’d never paid attention to what mattered, to social customs, or even manners of address. Now, she was surprised that Valentine had let her inside at all. It made her wonder at the state of Fallow Hall’s other visitors.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company so early in the morning?” Rafe asked, drawing her attention.

  She glanced to the small rosewood clock on the mantel and noted that it was nearly nine. The servants would have been up for hours by now. Although at Sinclair House, her mother and sister had usually slept past noon. Was that the proper way of things? “Is it too early to pay a call?”

  Rafe moved deeper into the room, fishing out the cuffs of his shirt sleeves from beneath his fitted gray coat. The open front exposed a cerulean waistcoat with brass buttons over his lean torso. His breeches, a shade lighter than his coat, were tucked into a pair of glossy Hessians.

  Then, before she had the chance to truly appreciate the flex of his muscles as he walked, he stopped in front of the cabinet and faced her. His amused countenance made it clear that he noticed her perusal.

  Her cheeks grew warmer.

  Even though the door of the parlor remained open, she suddenly felt as if the room were shrinking. As she’d foolishly hoped only a day ago, Rafe was indeed noticing her. From the top of her head—no doubt noting her hair’s dampness because she’d walked in the drizzle without a bonnet—to the fringed knot of her shawl over her breasts, and then all the way down to the tips of her shoes.

  His gaze made an equally thorough assessment on the way up. “Yes, it is too early to pay a call.”

  “It won’t happen again.” She would have to learn these things gradually, she supposed. It would help if she would stop ogling Rafe Danvers as if he were leg of mutton on a table set for her dining pleasure. At the wayward thought, she bit her upper lip and turned back to the cabinet of glass. “This is quite a lovely collection.”

  “And that was a clumsy change of topic,” he said, moving beside her. “A young woman in society usually flirts when given the opportunity.”

  How was she supposed to flirt when she could barely think? He stood close enough that she could feel the alluring heat rising from his body. She drew in a breath in an effort to think of a response. When she did, however, her nostrils filled with a pleasant scent that only made her want to draw in another breath. It was his fragrance. From their previous encounter, she recognized the woodsy essence and a trace of sweet smoke.

  Hedley caught herself rocking onto the balls of her feet to get closer but then quickly fell back onto her heels. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I am not in society. Nor am I likely to be. Therefore, I have no reason to flirt.”

  “You don’t need a reason.” He leaned in, his voice low. The angular cut of his side whiskers seemed to direct her gaze toward his mouth. “Flirting is a skill. You use it to get what you want.”

  Hedley forgot why she’d come here . . . to get what you want . . .

  The more she stared at Rafe’s mouth, the heavier her eyelids seemed to weigh. Why was she suddenly so tired? Perhaps it was too early to pay a call. Or perhaps it was because he stood so close that his warmth blanketed her. It would only take a single step to rest her head against his shoulder. “Like a type of currency used in society?”

  “An astute observation.” He grinned.

  She was definitely out of her element. The least she could do was try to keep her wits about her. “Then, I should assume that you want something from me.”

  He moved closer, but she dared not imagine that he was under the same trance. No, he was far too skilled in the ways of society for that.

  Even so, the curve of his knuckles brushed her cheek. “What shade of pink do you suppose this is?”

  “And that was a terrible change of topic.” Believing that he was speaking of one of the colored glass vases in the cabinet, she looked them over. She found deep red, the color of merlot; a blue vase, bright and clear as a summer sky; and daffodil yellow, among other hues. “Besides, I see no pink.”

  “No, this color. Here.” His thumb caressed her cheek, his fingers settling beneath her jaw.

  Was it possible for a man to have eyelashes that looked as if they were smudged with soot, all soft and curled up at the ends? It didn’t seem possible to her. Yet that’s exactly what she saw as he studied her. Knowing that her skin had betrayed her thoughts in a blush should make her want to shy away. Yet she’d gone too long without being noticed to feel an ounce of shame. Instead, she reveled in the attentiveness of his gaze, the nearness and warmth of his body, and the contact of his flesh on hers—even if it was a false show for him.

  While not entirely certain that he expected her to answer, she indulged him. “Some roses are pink.”

  “True.” He tilted her chin. Four thin, horizontal lines appeared above the bridge of his nose as if he truly were studying her. “Though when I think of rosy pink, it is darker, redder than this.”

  She tasted his breath on her lips. Other than their clumsy spill on the ice, this was the closest she’d ever been to a man. Heat poured from his body, sweeping over her, compelling her to draw nearer to the source. She couldn’t help it.

  “Berries are sometimes pink,” she whispered, wondering if he could feel her breath as well.

  He licked his lips. “Only unripe berries are pink, and you are a most decidedly ripe fruit, sweeting.”

  The tone of his voice changed ever so slightly. The silky timbre turned deeper, indulgent, like slipping into a pair of warm velvet slippers.

  She wanted to sink into that sound. “Pink carnations.”

  “Yes. That’s it.” His hand slipped away. “A carnation pink blush, and berry-stained lips.”

  Missing the contact, her chin tilted of its own accord. His gaze slowly dipped to her mouth. Whatever this game was, she wanted it to continue. “Is this a lesson in flirting, or is the color of actual importance?”

  Abruptly, he turned from her and headed toward a tasseled bell pull on the far wall. It was almost as if he suddenly wanted to put as much distance between them as possible.

  She had her answer. He was only flirting in order to gain something. The only thing she possessed that Rafe Danvers wanted, however, was not for sale. No matter how tempting the currency, she would not give him Greyson Park.

  Was this a lesson in flirting? If so, then he was the pupil.

  Rafe held fast to this spot on the carpet, tempted to wrap the bell-pull strap around his wrist to keep him from standing too close to Hedley again. Yet even a distance apart from her, his blood pulsed hot and heavy in his veins.

  Apparently, the long journey from London had left him addle-brained. He’d only planned to test her ability to tempt Montwood. He needed to discover if Hedley knew anything about flirting or teasing, enough to ignite Montwood’s interest. Unfortunately, what Rafe had discovered when he’d held her face and stood recklessly close was that she knew nothing of artifice. Her responses were too open and unguarded. Far too beguiling. He’d never witnessed such a curious mixture of desire and innocence before.

  It was more alluring than he wanted to admit.

  Clearly, he never should have driven so far without a rest. He’d changed horses at Stampton, but nothing more. And all so that he could be reassured by the sight of Greyson Park from this very window.

  Standing here in this room, however, he had to wonder why his gaze had not strayed to the window. Not once.

  He needed to end their encounter quickly and before he was tempted by another Sinclair.

  “And why wouldn’t the exact shade be important? I come from a family of artists, after all.” He tugged the bell pull again for good measure. “And if they were to ask me to describe the wicked Sinclair woman who holds Greyson Park hostage, I would have to be precise.”

  “It must be thrilling to come from such a fa
mily.” She turned toward the window and clasped her hands. “The freedom. The acceptance.”

  Rafe was about to respond to her overly romantic ideals of artists, when Valentine appeared in the doorway.

  “Sir?”

  “I left a parcel in my chamber,” Rafe said. “Would you be so good as to send a footman to retrieve it?”

  The butler bowed and summarily left them alone again. Valentine’s presence added to the reminder of how removed from society this young woman was. She hadn’t even known how to address a butler. A swift rise of irritation flooded him when he thought of how she’d been kept a secret. He had to wonder why.

  Turning his back on the door, Rafe crossed the room to her. This time, however, he kept his distance. He’d learned his lesson.

  “You have it wrong about freedom and acceptance for artists. Not only that, but there was a time when I would have preferred an invisible family.”

  She shook her head. “You shouldn’t wish that upon anyone.”

  Her expression was so tortured that he had an overwhelming urge to put his hands to her face and blot away those furrowed lines on her brow with his lips

  But he didn’t. Even so, he found himself drawing nearer.

  “Not everyone casts such a pleasing light over artists. In fact, many in society—including those in your family—see artists as a disgrace.”

  Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand.”

  Had she not even heard the reason for Ursa’s abandonment? He was beginning to wonder if Hedley wasn’t simply kept a secret from society, but if her own family hadn’t separated themselves from her as well.

  “As a member of the peerage,” he said, pushing those thoughts aside for the moment, “my father’s portrait skills were in high demand among his set. One day, however, it became known that he wasn’t solely painting the ton’s elite but their servants as well. These were not flattering portraits either, but displayed the grittier side of those fine houses.”

  As if she were an expert on the matter, she pursed her lips. “And they were ashamed of what they saw.”

  He admired her quick understanding but then wondered . . . Was shame the reason that her family kept her dressed in rags? He wanted to solve the mystery more than he cared to admit.

  “Because of one portrait in particular, he was cast out of society—along with my family.”

  “And Ursa did not stand by your side,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  Rafe gave Hedley credit for her skills of observation. For someone who had been virtually invisible during his visits to Sinclair House, this surprised him. Yet he reasoned that someone who was kept hidden would have learned to be watchful.

  Still, the idea disturbed him. “Your sister loathed me and my family, only I’d been too besotted to realize in time.” And blind to Ursa’s true nature—the avarice that ruled her every action.

  “I apologize for my family’s behavior toward you.” That open cornflower blue gaze revealed her sincerity.

  No. He did not want her taking responsibility for what her family had done. That would be too convenient for them. “That does me no good, because until very recently, I did not know you existed. It will take me some time before I am able to harbor enough ill will toward you,” he teased. “As long as you hold Greyson Park, however, we are off to a good start.”

  It pleased him when her eyes narrowed. He would rather have her annoyed with him than tilting those lips at such a tempting angle. Strangely, he wasn’t certain he would be able to resist if she renewed her unspoken invitation for a kiss.

  “Since we are already speaking of unpleasantness,” Hedley began, “I will state the purpose of my visit here.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. And liked it even less when she didn’t immediately continue. Instead, Hedley adjusted the threadbare shawl around her shoulders. Her gloves were worse than before. Now, an entire finger was exposed, the rip too frayed to allow mending.

  She drew in a breath and met his gaze. “I have recently learned—through Mr. Tims—that my family believes Greyson Park houses a treasure.”

  Rafe went utterly still at this announcement.

  She hesitated, as if waiting for him to absorb this first bit before she went on to explain the history of the manor and the belief that the goldsmith had left something behind.

  “I know the story,” he said, clenching his teeth so hard he expected his jaw to shatter.

  “Is that your reason for wanting it?”

  He sidestepped the question. “To imagine that the estate hosts a treasure of gold is ludicrous.”

  It held a different sort of treasure, though nothing that the Sinclairs would deem of worth. It was his family’s legacy—historically significant art, fashioned by his ancestor hundreds of years ago.

  She nodded. “That is exactly what Mr. Tims and I believe. Unfortunately, my sister is not likely to be swayed from her quest.”

  “Your sister.” Rafe swallowed down a sudden rise of bile up the back of his throat. “What does she have to do with this?”

  Hedley turned toward the window. The curling tracks of rain on the glass cast blurred shadows on her face. “Ursa has returned. She came to Greyson Park yesterday.”

  He raked a hand through his hair and began to pace the room. “She must have had this notion for some time, then. Time enough to book passage from the American colonies.”

  “Had she known I was to inherit Greyson Park, she would have come sooner,” she said with quiet resolve. “I’m certain Ursa will attempt to find a way to nullify my inheritance and revert it back to being part of her dowry, as it was previously.”

  Rage tore through him. The only reason Greyson Park had ever been part of Ursa’s dowry was because he had bargained for it! Or begged, more like. The Sinclair family had humbled him on too many occasions.

  After Ursa had sailed off with her new husband, Rafe remembered the relief he’d felt that the manor had been removed from her dowry. Neither Greyson Park nor Rafe had been prestigious enough for her. Which had suited him and his purpose in the end.

  And now, she wanted to take it back? He wouldn’t allow it!

  Pivoting on his heel, he stared at Hedley’s silhouette. During all this, it had not escaped his notice that everyone—including him—was trying to take Greyson Park away from her. A fact which must be weighing on her mind. After all, she’d come here to tell him of Ursa’s plans. “Why come all this way to tell me?”

  “I would like your help,” she said without facing him. “I know my sister. She will stop at nothing to find the treasure. Greyson Park is already in disrepair. I cannot imagine that destroying a wall to enter a room would be beneath them. She has already said as much.”

  It seemed that the Sinclairs were put upon this earth to destroy everything. “And you believe I could stop them?”

  “I thought you knew more about the manor. Perhaps you even acquired the original drawings during your betrothal. They weren’t among Grandfather’s papers.” She turned her head. Her beseeching gaze compelled him to listen, despite the unpleasant reminder. “There are many doors that will not open. Neither Mr. Tims nor I have the strength. If I could simply show them that there is nothing hidden, no secret rooms, then they might leave Greyson Park alone.”

  “And what happens if you find a treasure?”

  She shook her head. “I have no interest in it. All I want is to live at Greyson Park in peace. I don’t want to see my home destroyed because of their greed.”

  Damn it all, he believed her—an entirely foolish inclination. Hadn’t he been burned by the Sinclair women enough in this life to ever trust one of them again? And yet, guilt niggled at the corners of his conscience. While Hedley might want to live at Greyson Park in peace, he couldn’t let that happen. Just as he was about to remind her of that, a footman appeared in the doorway, holding a paper-wrapped parcel tied with string.

  “Thank you, John,” Rafe said, grateful for the distraction. Crossing the room once more, he took t
he hefty package in both hands. “That will be all.”

  Inside, there was new cornflower blue muslin dress, a worsted-weight petticoat, two chemises, a short corset, several pairs of wool stockings, kid gloves and silk gloves, and a pink paisley shawl. He’d purchased far more than he’d intended, yet each item was chosen for the specific purpose of luring Montwood. Lucky for Rafe, his friend had always been drawn to damsels in distress. That blue gown was sure to bring Montwood’s focus to those haunting eyes.

  Rafe set the bundle down on a round mahogany table on the opposite side of the room. He crinkled the thick brown paper with the quick press of his hand. “This is for you.”

  He’d intended to deliver it to her at Greyson Park, but he was beginning to suspect that being alone with her, far removed from either servants or societal rules, might not be the most prudent choice.

  Hedley turned from the window, her inquisitive gaze drawing together as tightly as the parcel strings. “For me?”

  He shrugged as if it was a matter of happenstance. In truth, he’d spent the better part of a week in shops searching for just the right items. The only thing he hadn’t found was a pair of red shoes. She seemed fond of the color.

  “It is just the gesture of a gentleman, wishing to make reparations for our previous encounter.” Yet while he told himself the purchase was solely part of his plan to draw Montwood closer to marriage and losing the wager, even Rafe knew it was somewhat odd to have gone to such lengths for the precise color of shawl. “Although I do not imagine you would care to open it in my presence. Something tells me that your carnation pink blush would return.”

  “Reparations for what?” she asked, genuinely baffled.

  “I noticed that my clumsiness ruined the clothes you wore,” he lied smoothly. “Not to mention what Boris did to your shawl.”

  Confusion knitted her wispy brows. Her mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “Is this common practice in society?”

  “Of course.” He fought the urge to cross his fingers behind his back as if he were a child. “Otherwise, I would not have given it a second thought.”