The Devil Earl (10 page)

Tempestuous behavior? Prudence, with her writer’s knack for words, wondered if she ought to offer Hugh some help in composing his thoughts. He was obviously not expressing himself clearly.

“Prudence, I am stunned. Stunned,” he repeated, placing his hands behind his back and rocking upon his heels. “Your letters have always proclaimed you as a most sensible woman—thrifty, well mannered and of upstanding character. Yet you are loosed but a few moments in Hatchards
and I find you cozying up not only to Lord Neville, but to the earl of Ravenscar—a murderer twice over!”

At Prudence’s protesting sound, he turned to glower at her. “You do yourself no service to defend him, Prudence, for everyone knows that Ravenscar killed his own uncle to gain the title. Rumor has it that he has done away with his brother, too! And now, all that business with the book, what with people calling him Count—”

Hugh paused to stare at her. “I must say, Prudence, I can scarcely believe you are the author of that piece of work.”

Prudence returned his regard calmly. “Have you read it?”

Hugh grimaced. “A gothic novel? Not likely! And you say this character is not supposed to be Ravenscar?”

“Of course not,” Prudence replied, with such vehemence that her spectacles slid down her nose. She pushed them back into place with a quick jab of a finger. “I had no idea that such nonsense was being bandied about here in town. It is unconscionable! So, you see, Hugh, since I inadvertently added to His Lordship’s troubles, I must make amends.”

Ignoring Hugh’s blank look, she continued. “I simply must attend the soiree, so that I can be seen with the earl. Only in that way, I am convinced, can I stop this absurd gossip that links him to
Bastian of Bloodmoor.”
Prudence smiled. She did not add that she wished to see Ravenscar in the worst way possible, a way that had nothing to do with her novel or his reputation…

Hugh eyed her dubiously. “I do not know, Prudence. While you are in London, I feel responsible for you. You are, after all, staying with me, and as your nearest male relation, it is my task to protect you from the more unsavory characters. And this Sir Neville is definitely not the sort of person of whom I approve.”

“I cannot say I am taken with him, either, Hugh, but it is not as though he is hosting the event,” Prudence answered, in the same polite but firm tone she had learned to
use with Mrs. Bates and, lately, Mrs.. Broadgirdle. “I understand it is to be held at Lady Buckingham’s residence. Surely, you cannot find fault with such an esteemed lady?”

Hugh hesitated, as if trying to recall all that he might about the woman in question, and Prudence seized her opportunity.

“Good. I knew you would be happy to escort Phoebe and myself,” she said, rising to her feet. “Thank you so much for your help, Hugh. I do so enjoy these little talks of ours.” Smiling, Prudence patted his hand and exited the drawing room, leaving him to swallow his long speech.

Sebastian ignored the looks that came his way, some leery, some startled, and some cutting him dead as he moved through Lady Buckingham’s reception rooms. This was not his usual sort of thing, a gathering of deadly-dull sorts, most of them barely literate, daring to dissect someone’s work while they gossiped and mingled.

No, he would not be here, but for
her.
Sebastian had finally stopped trying to ignore it and had come to admit his odd attraction for Miss Prudence Lancaster. She was, in a word, intriguing. And, to a man who had precious little to interest him besides business and scandal, she was a refreshing respite.

Sebastian realized that Prudence was entirely different from any female he had ever known. He had met few intelligent women; not many of his paramours could boast an education, or any skill that was not honed between the sheets. Yet, here was a lady who was obviously smart, wellread and talented.

Her writing fascinated him. After seeing her at Hatchards, Sebastian had gone home and reread his copy of
Bastian of Bloodmoor.
Very impressive, he decided. He liked her style, especially the evocative atmosphere she created,
and, of course, the characters. But what really stunned him during his second trip through the volume was the depth of passion exhibited in its pages.

Sebastian found it very difficult to believe that the bespectacled, spinsterish Prudence Lancaster had written of dark doings and forbidden longings with such compelling prose. Perhaps it was that dichotomy that drew him, but Sebastian found himself lusting after the gothic authoress as he had no one else. Ever.

It astonished him, for sex had become nearly as boring as everything else in his life. Sebastian had seen it all and done most of it under his uncle’s corrupt tutelage, yet he felt the stirring of real hunger for prim Prudence.

And still he knew that desire was not all that drove him. That would have made it too simple, too understandable. When Sebastian tried to explain her attraction, even to himself, he could not. There were too many facets to her, too many silly things that unaccountably appealed to him, like the ink stains on her hands. Or how she looked at him, without fear or guile, but in a way that made him feel warm somewhere inside that had been cold for so long…

“Lord Ravenscar!” Sebastian heard a female voice, and wondered, with grim amusement, who of that gender would dare call out to him. Schooling his features, he turned slowly and saw her not six feet away. Although she was garbed in suitable evening attire, her glittering spectacles made her instantly recognizable. Sebastian felt his pulse leap at the sight of her—eerily different and yet achingly familiar.

Apparently, someone had stripped off a few of her layers in order to make her presentable, but somehow, even in a fashionable dress, Prudence Lancaster managed to look…rumpled. Obviously, she took no more interest in her willow green silk gown than she had in her serviceable muslins, for she had wrinkled the skirt unmercifully, and one of the tiny cap sleeves had slipped down from its place.

Sebastian sucked in a deep breath and stared at her bare shoulder, a smooth feast of flesh that was suddenly more alluring than a naked courtesan’s. Her skin was not stylishly pale, like her sister’s, but a flawless golden color that gleamed, rich and tempting. His body sprang to life, evidence of just how much he wanted to place his mouth where the material had fallen, to taste the texture of her right there…

With her crushed clothes and her drooping sleeve, she looked to Sebastian as if she had just come from a man’s bed, and that was exactly where he wanted her. In
his
bed. Then, bit by bit, he would remove the outwardly staid layers of Miss Prudence Lancaster, to discover just what lay beneath, and plumb the passionate depths she kept so well hidden from the world.

Of course, he had already made up his mind back in Hatchards, when he forced Nevvy to include him in the invitation. And despite his peers’ censure, her sister’s hatred and her apparent innocence, Sebastian was determined to act upon it.

Prudence Lancaster, gothic authoress, was the first thing to interest him in years, and he was going to pursue her.

P
rudence felt a peculiar warmth creep through her that she could only attribute to the way Ravenscar’s steely gray eyes were raking her from head to toe. Usually, she was too focused on her writing or her responsibilities to be aware of her body. Certainly, she clothed it, fed it and noticed when it was protesting a long walk, but, really, it had always seemed disconnected from her, somehow…until now.

Now, every inch of her skin seemed alive with heat and sensitive to the slightest change in the air or the barest friction of movement. Her heart had doubled its pace, her breath was lodged in her throat, and things were happening in other regions that she dared not even contemplate. For the second time in her life, Prudence felt as if she were one of her heroines, quivering under the stare of a man far more handsome and compelling than any she had ever known.

“Miss Lancaster.” Ravenscar smiled, a rueful twitch of lips she would never have realized could be so fascinating. They were not full like Hugh’s, but hard and even, like the rest of the earl, and perfectly suited to him. Prudence had never paid much attention to such things, but suddenly, they seemed very important. His mouth, his eyes and his tall, lean form had taken on a significance she could not fully comprehend.

“If you wish to convince the ton that I am not in your book, you must stop looking as though you expect me to drag you off to Wolfinger and…ravish you.” The words were spoken, for her ears only, in a slightly amused tone, and yet that gray gaze of his had not softened, and the way he said “ravished” made Prudence blink behind her spectacles.

“Oh, my!” she whispered, half to herself, as she snapped open her fan. “I beg your pardon, if I have been gaping at you oddly, my lord.” She fanned herself rapidly. “I am not sure what has come over me lately. It is rather warm in here, is it not?”

“Undoubtedly,” Ravenscar agreed, his appealing mouth curving sensuously. “Uncomfortably warm, I would say.” There was a wry note in his voice that made Prudence glance up at his eyes again. It was a mistake, for they swept over her anew, like storm clouds, rating and churning with the heady promise of lightning.

“Oh, my,” Prudence muttered again as she dropped her gaze to the floor. No one had ever affected her in such a manner. For a moment, a silence as charged as his look stretched between them, while Prudence frantically sought to remember the speech she had rehearsed so nicely back in Hugh’s apartments.

It came back to her in snatches, and, taking a deep breath, she turned toward him. “My lord, I want to apologize,” she began, her attention fixed upon his neckcloth. She dared not look into those gray depths that reminded her so forcefully of Wolfinger and dark cliffs and nights of intrigue and passion. She drew in more air, shakily.

“I am sorry for this whole business. I had no intention of causing you any distress with the publication of my book. You must believe that. Although I often use bits and pieces of people I meet in my work, I never dreamed that my readers would compare you to the count. That is, it is absurd to make so much of a superficial resemblance! And to
imagine that you would do such evil things as my villain. Why, it is too silly!”

“My thoughts exactly,” he said, making her glance back up at him in surprise. His hard face gave away nothing, and yet something in the set of his mouth told her of his amusement. “Unfortunately, very few members of the ton are as intelligent or sensible as you—or I.”

The shared confidence eased her strangely overset nerves, lending a new aspect to their relationship. With renewed confidence, Prudence thought she might just allow herself a peek at those enthralling eyes of his, but just then voices intruded upon her thoughts. She realized that a whole roomful of people existed around the two of them. It was disconcerting, the way Ravenscar seemed to draw her into some forbidden realm—or perhaps she simply jumped with both feet into a place that so resembled her fondest dreams.

With difficulty, Prudence tried to clear her head. What had they been discussing? She had never found it difficult to concentrate before, but the potency of Ravenscar’s physical presence seemed to scatter her wits.

“They thrive on gossip and scandal, creating it where there is none,” Ravenscar said suddenly, the bitterness evident in his tone.

Prudence lifted her hand, longing to reach out to this man society vilified with such glee, but, aware of their audience, she only adjusted her spectacles. “I cannot understand it,” she said. “My last book,
The Mysterious Alphonse,
had no such problems.”

“Yes, well,” Ravenscar replied, “perhaps that is because the villain was a specter, and no matter how soulless some of this company seems to be, I doubt any among them would confuse a living being with a shade.”

He knew her work!
Prudence felt a swell of pride and pleasure at the knowledge that this man she so admired was familiar with her novels. Looking up at him, she had the odd sensation that she was falling, the drop as dangerous
and dizzying as if she had leapt from one of Wolfinger’s cliffs. “You have read it, then?” she asked, rather breathlessly.

“Yes,” Ravenscar sad simply, with an inclination of his head. He fixed her with a penetrating gaze. “You write very well.”

What heady praise! Suddenly, Prudence realized just how starved she had been for it. She had little enough at home, for Phoebe cared nothing for her scribbling, and neither Cook nor Mary could read. Mrs. Bates, by her very nature, disparaged anyone’s achievements but her own, and her lead was usually followed in the village. Here in London, Hugh held her work in contempt, and although quite a few people at the soiree had complimented her effusively, Prudence knew none of them well enough to form an opinion of their judgment.

Ravenscar, on the other hand, was known to be brutally honest, and Prudence respected him without reserve. Feeling positively euphoric, she beamed up at him so happily that she thought she saw a flicker of surprise pass over his harsh features.

“There you are, Miss Lancaster!” A voice broke through the amazing intimacy she and Ravenscar had created, and Prudence turned, reluctantly, to face her hostess. Lady Buckingham seemed pleasant enough, but Prudence, with her sharp eye for character, had detected a caustic edge to the noblewoman’s speech.

“Ravenscar! Is that you? I must say, I never expected to see the two of you together!” Lady Buckingham said, her eyes narrowing as if she scented scandal.

“Why ever not?” Prudence asked calmly. After all, that was the whole purpose of her presence here—to salvage some of the earl’s reputation—and it was time she got down to business.

Lady Buckingham watched them slyly from behind her fan. “Why, my dear, have you not heard the rumors? Everyone
believes that Ravenscar here is Count Bastian…in the flesh.”

Without sparing a glance at the earl, Prudence pursed her lips. “Nonsense! As it happens, I have heard that absurd rumor, and it is naught but rubbish. His Lordship is my neighbor, nothing more.” This last bit came out with a bit of difficulty, since the earl was fast becoming much more to her than simply the owner of Wolfinger.