London's Perfect Scoundrel (3 page)

Heat rose in Evie’s face, but she refused to back away. “And where might that be?”

“In my bed, Miss Ruddick.”

For a moment all she could do was look at him. She’d been proposed to and propositioned, but never by someone like…him. He meant to shock her, to drive her away. That had to be the explanation. All she needed to do was keep breathing. She cleared her throat. “I doubt you even know my first name, my lord.”

“Of course I do, not that it means anything, Evelyn Marie.”

The deep sound of his voice curled around her name with a soft intimacy that made her shiver. No wonder he had such a devastating reputation with women.

“Well. I am surprised, I admit,” she returned, trying to keep hold of her nerve, “but I believe you asked for a proposal detailing my plans for volunteering. I will provide you with that—and nothing else.”

He smiled again, the expression delightfully handsome, except that his eyes retained every ounce of cyni
cal derision he’d had from the beginning of their conversation. “We’ll see. Don’t you have an embroidery circle to join or something?”

She wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but he would probably consider that some sort of seduction. And what in the world was she doing anyway, standing in an abandoned hallway talking with the notorious Marquis of St. Aubyn? “Good day, my lord.”

“Good-bye, Miss Ruddick.”

Saint watched her out the front door, then returned upstairs to collect his coat and hat. Of all the meddling females who tried to relieve their boredom with candy-coated visits to the Heart of Hope Orphanage, Evelyn Marie Ruddick was probably the most and least surprising. Her political-aspirant brother doubtless had no idea she had gone visiting—no self-respecting female out to aid her male relation’s political career would venture outside of Mayfair to go wading with the poor. On the other hand, on the few occasions he’d ventured into his peers’ soirees, she and her clever friends had looked so terribly bored and self-important that undoubtedly she couldn’t resist a chance to spread the joy of her presence to the orphans.

“My lord,” the housekeeper peeped, lurking in a downstairs doorway, “will there be anything more?”

“No, not that you actually did anything,” he replied, shrugging into his greatcoat.

“I…I beg your pardon?”

“Weren’t those infants in the hallway supposed to be doing something useful?” he asked, shaking his flask before he stuffed it back into his pocket. Empty again. They needed to make the damned things larger.

“I cannot be everywhere at once, my lord.”

“Then you might focus on keeping track of the uninvited guests,” he finished, watching her step aside as he exited.

“That’s why I’m seeing to you, my lord,” she muttered.

Saint pretended not to hear that, preferring to escape the premises rather than stay and argue with the unpleasant woman. He could hardly blame her for her commentary anyway. The staff undoubtedly liked having him there as little as did the rest of the board of trustees. The only person who liked it less was himself.

His carriage pulled into the street and circled to meet him outside the door. As he waited, he glanced down the roadway. The Ruddick family coach turned the corner and passed out of sight. She’d hesitated to leave, then, even after he’d sent her on her way. Hm.

Attractive as she was, suggesting that she join him in bed had only been to frighten her away. God knew she was far too angelic and virginal for his tastes. Still, she did have pretty gray eyes, and they’d widened so amusingly when he’d insulted her.

Saint allowed himself a faint smile as he climbed into his coach and they trundled off toward Gentleman Jackson’s. No doubt those pretty gray eyes would never look in his direction again. And thank Lucifer for that. He had enough to deal with without an empty-headed angel stumbling across his path.

F
atima Hynes, Lady Gladstone, knew how to give a proper greeting. “Please remove your hand from my trousers,” Saint murmured, glancing over her head at the half-open door.

“You didn’t say that the other night,” the viscountess purred, continuing her caress.

“That was before I discovered you’d told your husband about our little amusements. I warned you once, I won’t be involved in your domestic squabbles.”

Her hand left his nether regions. “That’s why you wanted to see me in private?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “To be rid of me?”

“You’re not surprised, Fatima, so don’t pretend otherwise.” Saint took a slow step backward. “And neither of us knows how to cry, so good evening.”

Lady Gladstone sighed. “You have nothing resembling a heart, do you?”

He chuckled. “No.”

With a quick glance to be certain the hallway was clear, Saint slipped out of Lord Hanson’s library and back toward the ballroom. He’d known Fatima wouldn’t object, and all he needed to do now was stay out of Lord Gladstone’s way for the next few days, until the viscountess found another lover. The old goat Gladstone was volatile enough that he would likely demand a duel, and Fatima Hynes simply wasn’t worth the bloodshed.

The majority of guests had arrived at the ball, and Lady Hanson’s dinners were reputed to be exceptional, but he had no intention of staying. Despite the crowd here, he would find a plentitude of fat purses and more interesting conversation at Jezebel’s or one of the other, less-distinguished clubs.

He headed for the foyer and the exit beyond, then stopped as a lithe figure in blue silk blocked his path.

“Lord St. Aubyn,” Miss Ruddick said, dipping one of her pert, perfect curtsies.

The muscles across his abdomen tightened. “Evelyn,” he said, deliberately using her Christian name, and somewhat surprised at his body’s reaction to the chit.

“I would like to set up another meeting, my lord,” she said, her gray eyes meeting his. Interesting, that. He didn’t know too many people, male or female, who looked him in the eye.

“No.”

A delicate flush crept up her cheeks. “You said you wouldn’t allow me to volunteer because I had no plan. I am assembling one, and I wish to be allowed the courtesy of presenting it.”

Saint gazed at her for a long moment. It would be easy to dismiss her out of hand. To be honest, however, she seemed less dull than he’d expected, and he’d spent
far too much time lately being bored. A little amusement would be worth a small effort on his part.

He nodded. “Very well. We meet again a week from Friday.”

Her soft lips opened and then closed soundlessly. “Thank you.”

“Shall I write it down for you, to be certain you remember?”

Her blush deepened. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Good.”

“I…do have another request, my lord.”

Saint folded his arms. “I’m waiting.”

“I insist on visiting the orphanage again first, so that I may see what the children most need. That’s the only way I may be certain that my presence there would actually have some benefit for them.”

He didn’t laugh in her face, but the cynical humor in his eyes deepened. Evie kept her own expression stern and serious. Perhaps he found her silly and amusing, but she could accept that if he would allow her to proceed.

“And have you asked the other board members about this?” he asked.

“No. You said you were the chairman, and so I have come to you.”

His look became more speculative. “So you have.”

Evie kept forgetting to breathe in his presence, probably because her heart began pounding in her throat the moment she considered approaching him to speak. “Do you agree?”

“I have a condition of my own.”

Oh, dear
. Now he would undoubtedly make another insulting remark about wanting to bed her or something. “Yes?” she asked anyway.

“You will be escorted for the entire duration of your visit.”

She blinked. “I agree.”

“And…” he continued, that slight, sensuous smile touching his lips again, “you will waltz with me.”

“A…a waltz, my lord?” she squeaked.

“A waltz.”

If she could put him off until after he agreed to her plan, perhaps she could avoid it entirely. “I’m spoken for this evening, of course, but I’m sure I could save a waltz for you this Season.”

He shook his head, a dark strand of hair falling across one eye. “Tonight. Now.”

“But I told you, I’m spoken f—”

“The next waltz is mine, or you and your pretty bottom will stay out of the Heart of Hope Orphanage.”

So the Marquis of St. Aubyn was making declarations again, hoping she would run liked a scared rabbit and he wouldn’t have to deal with her any longer. Well, this wasn’t about him; it was about her, and about how she hadn’t been able to get the children or the orphanage out of her mind. No one had ever valued her assistance before; at the orphanage, what she did would be important.

“Very well,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “May I inform Lord Mayfew that I must decline his invitation?”

Something unreadable touched his gaze for a fleeting moment. “No, you may not.” As if waiting for his cue, the waltz began out on the ballroom floor. He gestured toward the main room. “Now or never, Miss Ruddick.”

“Now.”

Prior to this evening, the most daring, scandalous thing she’d ever done was put on her brother’s clothes for
a masquerade soiree, and that had been at Adamley Hall in West Sussex when she’d been fifteen. Her mother had fainted. This would probably kill Genevieve Ruddick.

The marquis led the way to the crowded dance floor, declining to take her hand and no doubt hoping she would take the opportunity of his turned back to flee. Evie was tempted.

At the edge of the floor he faced her, and with a last strangled breath she joined him there. His hand slid slowly about her waist, drawing her still closer while she waited for lightning to strike her dead.

Lord Mayhew appeared, but whatever protest he’d been about to utter vanished in a convulsive swallow as he saw her companion. St. Aubyn merely looked at the baron and abruptly Mayhew turned away, scurrying off as though he’d remembered the immediate need to relieve himself.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered. Perhaps Georgie and Luce were right, after all. Chivalry was dead.

And St. Aubyn was kicking stones into the grave. “Changed your mind?” he asked, taking her fingers in his other hand.

This close he smelled of shaving soap and brandy. Her eyes were level with his crisp white cravat, and she didn’t want to look up at him. This close, he…overwhelmed her, every scandalous tale she’d ever heard about him swirling about in her mind. What was she doing, standing in the embrace of the Marquis of St. Aubyn?

With a slight shift of his hand, he guided them into the waltz. She’d never seen him dance before that she could recall, but Evie wasn’t surprised that he moved with elegance and grace. And light as his grip was, she felt the steel beneath. Evie had no doubt that she wouldn’t be able to escape unless he let her.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his soft breath in her hair reminding Evie of his intimate conversation with Lady Gladstone.

Swallowing, she lifted her chin. “You’re very mean, you know.”

An eyebrow lifted. “I’m giving you what you asked for.”

“In exchange for humiliating me.”

“I only requested a waltz. I might have asked for something much more intimate, you know.”

Evie decided she might as well blush. He probably thought beet-red was her natural coloring, anyway. “You already did, and I refused you.”

St. Aubyn chuckled, the sound unexpected and warm. Even his eyes lit just a little, and she wondered for a fleeting moment why he seemed so determined to be jaded and cynical all the time.

“Sharing my bed was a suggestion, not a request. A very good suggestion, by the way.”

“No, it wasn’t. I don’t even like you. Why would I want to…become intimate with you?”

For a moment he looked genuinely surprised. “What does liking someone have to do with anything? It’s the act that’s pleasurable.”

Oh, God, now she was going to faint
. Discussing sexual intercourse in the middle of a ballroom with the Marquis of St. Aubyn was akin to a demand to be ruined. He’d kept his voice low, though, and she hoped no one had overhead their discussion. As for what else anyone might think she could possibly be chatting about with him, she would worry about that later. “I admit to ignorance about the details you discuss,” she returned, “but I would think any interaction between two people would be…nicer if genuine affection were involved.”

“Your naïveté is truly remarkable,” he said, then lowered his head to whisper, “and I would be happy to relieve your ignorance.”

His lips brushed her ear, feather-light, and she shivered.
He’s just playing with me
, she told herself desperately.
He’s bored, and he’s trying to keep himself entertained
. “Stop that,” she commanded, annoyed that her voice shook.

The waltz ended, and he released her before she could pull away. She expected another intimate, insulting comment, but instead he sketched an elegant bow. “You’ve fulfilled your part of our agreement,” he said, lips curving in a soft smile. “Be there at ten tomorrow morning to meet your escort. If you’re late, you lose the opportunity.”

Again before she could react, he strolled into the crowd of guests. They parted in a wave before him. Evie abruptly felt the need for some fresh air.

The noisy, tittering crowd parted for her as well, as she made her way to the balcony. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she didn’t need to; their conversation would feature the Ruddick name and the St. Aubyn title, and that couldn’t be good.

“Evie,” a female voice said behind her, and a hand clasped hers.

“Lucinda,” she returned, light-headed with relief. “I had no idea you were h—”

“Are you mad?” Lucinda Barrett continued in the same hushed voice, though from her smile anyone in the audience would think they were discussing primroses. “St. Aubyn? Do you know what your brother would say if he knew?”

“I’m sure he does know,” Evie answered, as they stepped out onto the cool balcony. “The only time he no
tices I have a mind of my own is when I’m doing something he doesn’t approve of.”

Lucinda gazed at her with serious hazel eyes. “This time I would be inclined to agree with him. Rebellion is one thing, but St. Aubyn?”

“Did you know he’s on the board of trustees at the Heart of Hope Orphanage?”

Her friend’s mouth opened and closed again. “No, I didn’t. The poor dears. But Evie, what does that have to do with the price of pudding?”

“I want to begin some programs there,” Evelyn answered, wondering how she could convince Lucinda about the importance of her plans when she didn’t quite understand yet herself why it was becoming so significant.

“That’s…admirable.”

“You don’t think I can do it, do you?” she retorted, the evening’s frustrations making her voice harder than she intended.

“It’s not that,” Lucinda said quickly. “It’s…If you’ve decided how you want to focus your energies, there are other places and in better areas that aren’t associated with the Marquis of St. Aubyn.”

“Yes, I know. But I chose this place before I knew about him, and I think it would be cowardly of me to turn away from those in need simply because one board member has a poor reputation.” He was the chairman of the board, and “poor” didn’t begin to describe his reputation, actually, but that didn’t change the argument.

“Even so,” her friend said, more slowly, “that doesn’t explain why you were waltzing with him.”

“Oh. That was a trade: He agreed to have someone show me about the orphanage tomorrow if I would waltz with him.”

From her expression, Lucinda remained unconvinced that Evie hadn’t lost her mind. Good friend that she was, though, Miss Barrett only nodded. “Please just remember, St. Aubyn never does anything without exacting a price, and what he does is never in anyone else’s best interest.”

The memory of his lips brushing her ear made Evie shiver. “I do know that, Luce. Contrary to popular male opinion, I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Even so, you may want to discuss St. Aubyn with Dare. They know one another.”

“Oh, very well, if it’ll make you feel any better.”

“How
I
feel doesn’t signify, Evie. Just be cautious.”

“I will.” She sighed at Lucinda’s worried expression. “I promise.”

Victor stood waiting for her just inside. “Evie.”

Motioning for Lucinda to go, Evelyn wondered whether one had to be of a certain age before suffering an apoplexy, or if anyone could succumb. “Victor.”

He grabbed her arm, the gesture seemingly affectionate, except that it would likely leave a bruise. “We are leaving,” he rumbled. “Of all the stupid, naive, empty-headed—”

“One more word,” she said in a low voice, “and I will fall to the floor in a dead faint. That will make you look very,
very
mean.”

With a baleful look, he released her. “We will continue this at home,” he growled.

Wonderful
. “Undoubtedly.” She glanced over his shoulder, seeing a dark-haired savior approaching. “Now, if you don’t mind, my partner for the quadrille is waiting.”

Victor swung his head around. “Dare.”

Tristan Carroway, Viscount Dare, nodded back at
him, his solemn face at odds with the twinkle in his light blue eyes. “Ruddick.”

Sending her a last, angry look, Victor strode off in the direction of his latest political allies. “Ogre,” she muttered.

“I hope you realize I’d rather break my neck than dance a quadrille,” Dare said, taking her arm.

“I know.”

“I’ve been commanded to escort you to Georgiana,” he said amiably, guiding her around the fringes of the crowd. “She wants to chastise you.”

Everyone seemed to, tonight
. “And what do you think, my lord?”

“I think that whatever game Saint is playing, you probably don’t want to be a part of it.”

“I thought you were friends.”

The viscount shrugged. “We used to be. Now we play cards together on occasion.”