London's Perfect Scoundrel (16 page)

His low, sensual drawl made her shiver. Her fingers trembling, she backed away for a moment to collect herself. “Behave,” she commanded.

Saint shifted his gaze from her face to the razor. “At least kiss me good-bye before you cut my throat with that.”

“Shh.” Pressing the fingers of her free hand against his chin to hold him steady, she slowly, carefully ran the sharp blade of the razor down the side of his face. “This would be easier if you weren’t so tall,” she complained, letting out her breath.

“Use the footstool,” he suggested, clanking the chains again as he indicated her seat on the far side of the room.

He seemed awfully helpful suddenly, and as she retrieved the stool and stepped up onto it, she realized why. Evie found herself at eye level with St. Aubyn, her face only inches from his.

“I—”

Lurching forward against the restraints, Saint captured her mouth in a hard, soapy kiss.

She felt it all the way to her toes. All she had to do was back away a few inches, and he wouldn’t be able to reach her any longer. The knowledge made her feel…powerful, even as his hard, demanding mouth against hers left her breathless and aching for things she didn’t dare express aloud.

Evie kissed him back, tangling her free hand into his dark, disheveled hair and boldly running her tongue along his teeth. Saint moaned, and a hot, tingling sensation ran down her spine and started a low warmth between her thighs.

Oh, he was right. There was so much more she’d rather be doing with him than shaving his face. She kissed him again, hot and openmouthed. The chains around his wrists rattled as he pulled against them, trying to embrace her. He was hers, and she could do whatever she wanted with him. Whatever she wanted.

“Stop,” she hissed, more to herself than to him.

“Why, Evelyn?” he murmured, seductive as the devil. “Touch me. Put your hands on me.”

She wanted to, so badly that it hurt physically to step backward off the stool to the floor. “No.”

He scowled, soap smeared across his face and one cheek smooth. “You want me as much as I want you. Come here.”

Evelyn shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the warm, intoxicating haze his presence inspired. “This isn’t about what you or I want; it’s about what’s best for those children.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he retorted, making a last lunge toward her against the chains and then falling back against the wall. “Did you really think shaving me
would turn me into your version of a hero? You wanted to touch me. You still do; you’re trembling for it.”

“I am not.” She tucked her hands behind her back.

“Let me go, Evelyn. Forget this nonsense, and I’ll take you somewhere with satin sheets and rose petals.” He lowered his voice still further, to that soft, sensual drawl that left her heart racing. “I want to be inside you, and that’s where you want me.”

“You’re fooling yourself,” she retorted, pacing to the door and back again. “Yes, you’re handsome, and I’m sure you’re…skilled at your seductions.” Oh, he was infuriating, and even more so because his words created images in her mind that enticed and aroused her. “You’d best remember, though, that you’re not chained to a wall because your better qualities outweigh your poor ones.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “And?”

“And so you’d best stop trying to seduce me and start listening to what I’m saying.” She grabbed the stool, moved it back half a foot, and tromped onto it again. “Now hold still.”

“As long as you’re holding a blade to my throat, my dear, I’ll do as you ask. But I’m not here because I want to be convinced of something. I’m here because you lied to me and locked me up. You’re the one with a task. And I don’t plan on being here much longer, so you’d best get on with it.”

At least he’d made her angry enough that she wasn’t thinking about kissing him any longer. Saint wasn’t a coward, to bait her while she held a razor in her hand. Still, if she expected him to become civilized, she would have to lead by example.

Evie took a deep breath. “I have no doubt, given your…keen sense of self-preservation, that you will try to escape.” She slid the razor down his other cheek,
trying to ignore the sharp green eyes watching her every move. “For that same reason I also believe you will listen to the argument I present to you.”

A slow, wicked smile curved his mouth. “Before you start presenting your argument, you should wipe the soap off your chin, Evelyn Marie.”

S
aint hoped someone was tending his horse. Evelyn had mentioned that they’d put Cassius into the old barracks’ stables, which made sense; whether his peers missed him or not, someone was bound to notice a prize bay Arabian tied outside the Heart of Hope Orphanage for a week. Feeding the stallion was a different part of the equation, but considering Evelyn’s compulsion to rescue children, he assumed she would be equally diligent about feeding his animal.

A damned, bloody week. She’d even brought him a copy of the
London Times
yesterday, just to prove that no one had come forward to say they were missing a marquis. He paced to the end of his shackle and back again, as he’d been doing for the past hour. It hardly counted as stretching his legs, but he needed to do something for exercise.

He’d been playing along with her, learning all the orphans’ names, teaching the infants their letters and num
bers. It passed the time, if nothing else. He knew what Evelyn was looking for: some sign that he’d grown a conscience and had fallen in love with the little brats. The stubborn, prideful part of him refused to go along with that scenario, even to fool her. Admittedly, some of the orphans were brighter than he’d expected, and a few of them seemed actually to have a share of wit. And yes, having them about was better than pacing alone in his dungeon.

The two or three oldest boys bothered him, not so much because of the hard looks they had for him, but because of the way they seemed to treat Evelyn’s orders as a game. He knew several of them were members of the local thieves’ rookery, and without his intervention, they might very well have begun hiding stolen items or even their older fellows in the orphanage. If Evelyn stumbled across one of them, her keen sense of righteousness and honor would not protect her for an instant.

The board of trustees would have met yesterday. In his absence, he had no idea what scheme they might be contemplating now to fleece the orphanage of the current month’s funds, since of course they had no idea he was planning to pull the proverbial orphanage rug out from beneath them and their purses. Even more frustrating, he had no idea which of them might have stepped in to assist Evelyn’s little education project in his apparent absence. They would be oh, so helpful, and flatter her intellect even though they believed her to be nothing but a pretty innocent with feathers for brains.

His door rattled and opened, and he stopped his pacing, startled. His students were early for their afternoon session, and he hadn’t heard the door at the top of the stairs open. Damned Evelyn distracted him even when she wasn’t about.

“What’s this?” a female voice said, and the housekeeper’s head edged around the door. “Saints preserve us,” she gasped as she saw him.

Thank God
. “You,” he demanded, striding to the end of his chain, “fetch me an axe or a hacksaw at once.” Evelyn still had the key to the shackles, and he needed to get out before any of the children realized what was going on and could warn her and whoever she’d given that damned pistol to.

“What are you doing here, my lord?” she asked, taking in the shabby room and the mattress and the books stacked against the wall.

“I’m being held prisoner,” he snapped.
Wonderful. Rescued by a bloody imbecile
. “I don’t have a key to the shackle, so I need an axe. Hurry, if you please.”

“I was wondering what the children were doing, creeping down here at all hours. I thought maybe they’d taken in a stray dog or something. Bless me, though, they’ve captured a nobleman.”

“For God’s sake, Mrs…. Housekeeper, get—”

“Natham, my lord,” she interrupted. “Natham. For four years, it’s been Mrs. Natham. I heard the wee ones whispering that you were going to sell this place. That would put me out of work, you know.”

“We can discuss your employment later. In fact, freeing me will earn you a reward. Fetch me—”

“Hmm. I’d best talk this over with Miss Ruddick, I think. She’s been down here, too, if I’m not mistaken. It’s been awful pleasant upstairs, the past few days. And she’s given me a salary increase, too. Nice lady, Miss Ruddick.”

“Yes, she’s wonderful. Now—”

“Good day, my lord.” Slipping her head back out of the cell, she slammed the door closed. A second later the
key turned in the lock, and a moment after that he swore he heard her hoarse chuckling as she climbed the short set of stairs.

Saint dropped into his chair, growling curses in several different languages. Evelyn had probably sent the hag down here to prove her point that his friends and allies were few and far between.

He knew that already. He’d known it practically since he was seven years old. They’d sent a solicitor to the family estate to tell him that his father had died in London and that he was now the Marquis of St. Aubyn. He’d barely known the old marquis, who had whored and gambled until his fiftieth year, then married and fathered an heir. That task finished, he’d gone back to whoring and wagering until it killed him. Saint intended to model his life after the man. It made more sense than the rest of the hypocrisy leveled at him once he donned his black mourning jacket and half-pants.

His mother had been so busy with huge mourning dinners and soliciting male support from her many new admirers that she hadn’t returned to St. Aubyn for more than six months. The servants in residence at St. Aubyn Park had fawned over him in her absence, hoping to be retained if the family should relocate upon the widow’s probable remarriage. When his mother and new papa
du jour
suggested he go away to boarding school, he’d been relieved to escape the pandering.

His instructors and his fellow students, though, had carried on the new tradition of bowing to his every whim. Rules didn’t apply to a twelve-year-old marquis with a bottomless income, and he had long ago realized that he could get away with anything short of murder. He’d come into his majority before his mother died, and
once he had control over her income, she’d been as fawning and sycophantic as anyone else.

He didn’t trust anyone any longer, nor had he for years, and so he’d become someone no one would want to trust. He knew then why anyone sought his company; with his reputation as he’d carved it out, the contact couldn’t be for friendship, so it had to be that they’d been drawn in by the smell of power and money. Those fools, he knew precisely how to deal with.

Deciphering Evelyn took considerably more time and effort. She’d told him what she wanted: to save the children, the orphanage, and him. The most difficult part of the puzzle was that she seemed to be telling the truth. She had no ulterior motives that he could discover, and nothing he’d said or done or offered seemed to have swayed her an inch. And that was remarkable, especially considering that the foe to all three of her goals was the same exact person—him.

Her existence, then, was simply…impossible. No one was that pure; no one’s motives were that noble. And no one
ever
tried to change him. They changed themselves to become more amenable to what he wanted, so they could have what they wanted. Period.
Ergo facto finito
. And no one locked him up when he refused to play their game. They went away and bothered someone else.

Saint kicked one of the few pebbles remaining on his side of the cell. So he’d been missing for a week and no one had noticed. His solicitors paid his staff at his London home and his various estates, so none of the servants would fret over his absence. Hell, they were probably enjoying it, drinking his expensive French wines and smoking his American cigars.

With a scowl and another curse at Mrs….
Natham
, damn it all, he stood again, yanked off his shirt, and tossed it onto the pile with his discarded cravat, waistcoat, and jacket. This morning Molly and Jane had brought him a washing cloth and a bowl of clean water. What he wanted was a bath, but that seemed unlikely at the moment.

Plunging the cloth into the water, he wrung it out over his head, letting the cold water course down through his hair and past his shoulders. The upstairs door squeaked open, but he ignored it. He knew precisely what he was doing, as he always knew; he was feeling sorry for himself. His afternoon class could damned well wait until he was finished washing and sulking.

He didn’t see the point of him teaching etiquette to anyone, much less to a herd of orphans. Of course, it was part of Evelyn’s plan to civilize him. Well, he’d feel more civilized if he was clean.

The lock turned and the door opened. “Lord Saint,” Rose’s plaintive voice came, “girls don’t bow, do they?”

“On occasion,” he grunted, going to work on his torso with the cloth, “though there’s generally a man involved and the chit’s facing away from him and grabbing her ank—”

“Enough!” Evelyn roared.

He whipped around to face the door. She looked the vision of fury, fists clenched and stone gray eyes glinting. The muscles across his abdomen tightened. “Good afternoon, Evelyn.”

Her gaze trailed down his bare chest and snapped up to his face again. “Children,” she bit out, “I’m afraid that Lord St. Aubyn’s lesson for today is canceled. You have free play this afternoon.”

Grumbling turned into cheers, and the half dozen youngsters filed out of the cell again. Saint held Evelyn’s gaze. “Who do you think you’re punishing—them or me?”

“Put on your shirt.”

“I’m wet.”

She turned on her heel. “Fine. I’ll have someone bring you dinner tonight.” Breezing back out, she slammed the door behind her.

Something tight and uncertain ran up from his stomach and tightened his throat. Dinner was a good six hours away. “Evelyn!”

Her feet continued stomping up the stairs. Saint glanced at the candles. Two hours of light remained, at the most.

“Evelyn, I apologize!”

The top door squeaked open.

“Evelyn, for God’s sake, don’t leave me down here alone again! Please! I’m sorry!”

Silence.

Cursing, he grabbed up the water bowl and hurled it against the door. It shattered, porcelain shards and water spraying everywhere. “Is that your lesson for today, then, that you get to do what you want to do, and I get to sit on my ass in the dirt, in the dark, until you decide otherwise? I’ve learned that one already! Teach me something I don’t know, Evelyn Marie, damn it!”

“Saint?” Evelyn’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Calm down, and I’ll come in.”

Breathing hard, he realized what was happening. He was panicking. Him. The heartless, ruthless, soulless Marquis of St. Aubyn was afraid of being left alone again in the dark. “I’m calm,” he snapped.

No one who had the power of thought could possibly have believed him, but Evelyn obviously had more compassion than sense, because she opened the door.

Saint started to say something that would convince her to remain for at least another few minutes, but he stopped when he saw her face. With a nearly audible groan, his mind angled around from thinking of his own terrors to wondering what he’d done to hurt her now. “Why are you crying?” he said in what he hoped was a more reasonable tone.

Wiping at the tears flowing down her pale cheeks, she sniffed. “Because I don’t know what to do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You? You always know what to do.”

Evie looked at him. Water still ran in slow, angled drips down his shoulders, down his bare chest, down his muscled abdomen, and soaked into the waist of his trousers. Damp hair hung across his left eye, and her fingers twitched with the abrupt desire to brush it back from his face. He looked so…innocent. And that wasn’t all. She absolutely wanted to devour him.

Wiping at her face, she made a show of positioning the stool and plunking herself down on it.
He knows what he looks like
, she told herself fiercely.
He knows what to say
. This was just another part of his game, to make her wish to stay and keep him company, or better yet, to make her feel so sorry for him that she would let him go. When she felt slightly more in control of her base, counterproductive, lustful emotions, she looked up at him again, to find him still standing there, gazing at her. Evie swallowed. “I wasn’t feeling sorry for you,” she said.

“Of course you were,” he returned, his own voice
calmer and deeper, more in control. “You feel sorry for everyone.”

For her own safety, and her own sanity, she knew she had to stay one step ahead of him, one inch further in control. “I’m mad at you, not sorry for you.”

“You’re mad at
me
,” he repeated. “And yet you’re the one with the keys, my dear. Imagine my own feelings.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” She sniffed again. “It’s not you I’m mad at; it’s me.”

“Now we have something in common,” he drawled, shaking out his hair.

Droplets flew, several of them landing on her arms. Goose bumps raised, though she thought the shiver running along her nerves was due more to the idea of being alone in a room with a very handsome half-naked man than from a few drops of water.

“For a week I’ve tried to show you what good you can accomplish and how kindness begets kindness. I’ve had your undivided attention. And yet, nothing’s come of it.”

Saint looked at her for a moment, an emotion she couldn’t read crossing his face. “I’m a hopeless case,” he finally said.

“But you can’t be.”

“And why not?” Saint sank onto his haunches. Reaching out, he could just bat the toe of her shoe with his fingertips.

Oh, good heavens
. Now she had a handsome, desperate, half-naked man literally at her feet. “You…no one is as awful as you are.”

“And yet, here I am.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s…”

He tilted his head, his gaze taking in, measuring, her
every expression. “You may as well be blunt. Honesty looks well on you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about me.”

“Yes, we are,” she agreed. “I mean that no one—
no one
—can be as much a scoundrel as you are and still be as charming and interesting and even likable as you are.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“You’re faking it, Michael.”