Devil in My Arms: A Loveswept Historical Romance (The Saint's Devils)

by Samantha Kane

  “We are disgusting, you know,” she said to Hil in an undertone. “Neither one of us is showing an ounce of discretion.” And it was the most glorious time she’d ever had.

  “You are absolutely correct,” Hil said seriously. “Not an ounce.”

  “You don’t care a bit,” Eleanor told him, not sounding even mildly censorious, because she felt the same. They’d had this discussion numerous times over the past few weeks. He was incorrigible. And every time she climbed into his waiting carriage in the middle of the night, and then let him sweep her into his bed to make mad, passionate love to her, she only encouraged him more. She really ought to stop doing that. But it had only been six times in three weeks, which was really quite negligible. She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was looking particularly dashing this evening, if somber, in an all-black ensemble, broken only by the white of his shirt and the silver stars embroidered on his waistcoat. She nearly sighed like a moonstruck young girl, but stopped herself just in time. His blue eyes twinkled and she noticed his hair was even longer, making her fingers itch to touch the curls on his collar. Or pull them until he put his mouth just where she wanted it. She cleared her throat and blinked a few times to clear those thoughts out of her head.

  “Stop it,” he murmured, smiling at Lord and Lady Toomey on his right.

  “What?” she asked innocently.

  “I can read your thoughts just by the look on your face. You are shameless.”

  “This is true. I am hopeless.” She almost sounded as if it bothered her. Almost. She couldn’t quite achieve the proper remorse.

  “Good,” he said, heartily. “Less work for me.”

  “Ladies first,” she reminded him, astonished at her forward behavior.

  “Always,” he agreed with a secret little smile for her as he tucked his chin into his chest. “I don’t suppose you have a headache?”

  She was taken aback at his change of subject. “No. Why?”

  “Then feign a megrim so I can take you home and ravish you in Roger’s drawing room.”

  “Hilary!” she gasped a little too loudly. Mrs. Turner and Lady Quantrille, standing not too far off to her left, wore identical scandalized expressions. Eleanor coughed delicately. “Sir Hilary,” she corrected herself. The two high sticklers still turned their backs and began to whisper furiously. She growled under her breath at her faux pas.

  “Ignore them and act like you’ve done nothing wrong,” Hilary advised her as he smiled at Alasdair, Julianna, and Julianna’s father, Mr. Harte. “It’s our word against theirs.”

  “Oh, Hilary,” she muttered. Men simply didn’t understand these things. She let go of his arm. “If you’ll excuse me, Sir Hilary,” she said politely. He looked startled, but answered immediately.

  “Of course, Mrs. Fairchild. Good evening.”

  She turned and walked directly to the retiring room. She needed a few minutes to think. Hilary made her feel far too much to keep her presence of mind. That lack of focus was going to get her into trouble one of these days. The room was empty when she entered, except for a maid who helped her readjust the pink roses pinned in her hair. They were attached to a little band, and she wore it like a tiara. Her dress was pale pink to match the roses. She felt like a girl in her first season, which was foolish because she was not. But the pretty clothes and Hilary’s attentions certainly made the comparison inevitable. She was living the life she’d dreamed of when she was a girl, before Enderby and marriage crushed her dreams. Everything about her life now—Hilary, Harry and Roger, her new friends—seemed too good to be true. She’d worn herself ragged worrying that it couldn’t last. Nothing this good could last.

  She heard voices approaching and stepped behind a screen set up in the corner. She sat down on a little stool there and took off her slippers to rub her feet. The little pink shoes were pretty, but uncomfortable. Perhaps she ought to tell Harry they needed to find a new cobbler.

  Some young women entered the room, talking and laughing. Eleanor couldn’t tell how many there were, but rather than fight through the crowded room to get to the door, she decided to wait and rest her feet a bit more. Then one voice rose above the others.

  “Did you see them? It’s disgusting,” she said as if she’d tasted something rotten.

  “She’s so old,” a second girl whined. “I don’t know what he sees in her.” There was a pause. “She’s a strumpet, or so says my mother,” she continued in a hushed stage whisper. “You know what that means.”

  “It means she’s ensnared poor Sir Hilary with her wanton wiles,” the first voice said, scandalized. “The poor dear. He has no idea, of course. The man is always the last to know.”

  At that Eleanor had to bite her lip to keep from laughing, although she was a little offended at the “she’s so old,” comment.

  “He was about to come up to scratch, or so mother thought, before she came along.” First voice again. Eleanor made a face. She’d known girls like that when she was young. She was sure she’d met the girl, but couldn’t place the voice. These young ladies all seemed so alike to her. She could never remember who was who. “But men will go with loose women when given the chance, mother says, rather than choose a good girl with marriage on her mind. They’re beasts, to be led about by their—”

  “Miss Deeds! That is inappropriate.”

  A third voice. At least one of these girls showed some sort of decorum.

  “Well, it’s true,” the petulant Miss Deeds said. “You all know it. He’s the catch of the season and he’s been bewitched by that she-devil. God only knows what liberties she allows him, to have him sniffing around her skirts like a pup.”

  “He’s been the catch of the season for the last decade,” the voice of reason answered, “and yet no one has caught him. He’s the same age she is.”

  “She is far older. Mother says she remembers meeting her when they were young girls. She must be at least forty.”

  “She’s an amazingly well-preserved forty,” Voice of Reason said drily. Eleanor was starting to like that one. She leaned back against the wall and yawned. Gossip like this was to be expected. Eleanor had known from the start that women were attracted to Hilary. Naturally, there would be some jealousy.

  “She’s also a widow, and therefore allowed to take a lover,” she continued. “They all do it. You’re just jealous because you’ve been carrying a torch for Sir Hilary since last year, and he doesn’t even know you exist.”

  “He asked me to dance last year!” Miss Deeds said stridently. “He hasn’t danced with any of you.” Something slammed down on a table. “The point is, she’s a whore. It’s a disgrace they allow her to mingle with good society.”

  “I’m leaving,” Voice of Reason said firmly. “Good evening.” The door opened and closed.

  “Miss Rosalie Hatton will learn her place very soon,” Miss Deeds hissed. “She’s too arrogant by half. Just because her father is an earl she thinks she’s better than the rest of us. Ha! And that Mrs. Fairchild—who, by the way, mother isn’t even sure was ever married—will learn hers. Mother is making some discreet inquiries about her supposed late husband. When it turns out she’s an adventuress or worse, Mother says she’s going to bring the information to Sir Hilary. We’ll see who he wants then.”

  Her companion made some soothing noises of commiseration, but Eleanor ignored them. She hurriedly slid her slippers back on and stood up. This was a disaster. What if their inquiries reached Enderby? She had to tell Hilary. She stepped out from behind the screen and the two girls standing there gasped and turned bright red with embarrassment. The little brunette glared at her and Eleanor assumed she was Miss Deeds.

  “Thirty-three,” Eleanor told her, fluffing her curls in the looking glass over Miss Deeds shoulder. “A very well-preserved thirty-three. Good evening, ladies.”

  When she emerged, Hilary was leaning nonchalantly against the wall at the end of the hallway. She shook her head at him. “Perhaps I need to write down the definition
of discreet for you,” she told him, taking the arm he offered. Of course, she was secretly thrilled at his attentions, but she wouldn’t tell him so.

  “Circumspect in one’s speech or actions,” he said. “Intentionally unobtrusive. Am I being obtrusive?”

  “Well, you certainly aren’t being circumspect,” she muttered, hiding her delight.

  “I can’t help it,” he said defensively. “Everyone else here is so terribly boring.”

  She finally laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It was meant as such, so naturally you should do so.” They’d stopped near the door to the drawing room, which was open. There were other people in the hallway, chatting, so their position was unobjectionable. Eleanor needed to tell him about Mrs. Deeds’s plans. “Which one is Mrs. Deeds?” she whispered behind her fan to him.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Why on earth do you want to meet that woman?” he asked, aghast. “The last time I was forced to converse with her I had a headache for a full day after.” Just then Miss Deeds walked by with another glare for Eleanor and a sweet smile accompanied by fluttering eyelashes for Hilary. When she’d passed into the drawing room, he shuddered. “The daughter is as bad as the mother.”

  “That much I know,” she told him. “We met, more or less, in the retiring room. Apparently you danced with her last year, which has given rise to the foolish notion that you were ‘about to come up to scratch.’ A direct quote, by the way. That is, until I came along.”

  “What utter rubbish. Although now you mention it, I believe I did dance with her. She was playing the wallflower and so I asked her. I do that sort of thing. But half through the dance I realized she’d taken notice of my sympathy for the shy, unpopular girls, and put on the part in order to snare a dance. She and her mother swooped in, hoping to trick me into taking the girl to supper. I pleaded a headache, which by then was very real, and escaped. It seemed for a while that everywhere I went, there they were. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Put me off dancing for months.”

  She leaned a little closer under the guise of looking into the room for someone. He followed suit. How silly they must look, searching for no one. “I overheard her telling one of her little friends that her mother is making inquiries about my past. About my late, unlamented, and completely fictitious husband, to be exact.” She bit her lip, then forced herself to stop. What a horrid habit. She hated it. “I’m worried.”

  “Why? You’ve no husband to be found.” Hilary stopped pretending and looked at her. “She’s not going to find a thing.”

  “Exactly. And won’t that seem odd? At the very least, they’ll denounce me as a charlatan. At the worst, they’ll draw the attention of the very real husband I do have.”

  “I don’t see why everyone insists on complicating matters,” he muttered. “What does she hope to gain?”

  “You.” Eleanor continued to scan the drawing room rather than look back at Hilary. “For her little girl.”

  “Then I shall simply make it clear the girl has no chance,” Hilary said. He had that menacing look about him again, frowning fiercely.

  “It must be without malice,” Eleanor told him. “She’s young and foolish. Her mother may not be—young, that is—but there’s no need that the girl should pay for her mother’s poor judgment.”

  “Of course, without malice,” Hilary agreed as if she’d insulted him. “But you’ve really taken all the fun out of it.”

  “What do you know of a Miss Rosalie Hatton?” she asked as they were called in to supper. “Which one is she?”

  Hilary indicated the other side of the room with a small jerk of his head. “The tall, rather gawky one over there. Light-brown hair, white dress with green accents. Sensible girl, bookish, too serious for her age. Her father is an acquaintance from the Royal Society. Again, why?”

  “She defended me in there,” Eleanor told him, observing the awkward Miss Hatton. “Of course, she didn’t realize I was there. She called me an amazingly well-preserved forty.”

  “But you’re thirty-three,” he said. “How is that a compliment?”

  “The amazingly well-preserved part,” Eleanor told him, exasperated.

  “Ah,” he said. “Then Miss Hatton shall be added to the friend list, and Miss and Mrs. Deeds to the foe list.”

  “Just so,” she said, and then hung her head in despair. She’d sounded just like Hilary. Oh, Lord. What a mess she’d created with her wanton wiles. “Let us go chat with our friend, Miss Hatton.”

  Chapter Ten

  Hil impatiently paced the floor of his bedroom, waiting for Eleanor. She’d been afraid to come the last two nights, convinced that Mrs. Deeds had someone watching her every hour, ready to pounce. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. She’d been through that before, hadn’t she? But this was a different situation. Even if Mrs. Deeds did have an investigator following Eleanor—and his men had seen no one—she wasn’t going to learn anything she hadn’t already guessed, namely that he and Eleanor were lovers. Hardly a revelation to half the people in London, at least the ones who could read a paper.

  When he heard the coach wheels on the street he paused, hoping the coach would stop at his house, and that Eleanor was inside. When it did, and he heard a soft voice speaking to the coachman right before his door was opened by Jennings, he took a deep breath, enjoying the thrill of anticipation coursing through his veins. She was here. She’d come. They had the night ahead of them. He no longer questioned his attraction to her. She felt … right. When he was in her arms, every other consideration paled in comparison.

  “Good evening, Jennings,” she said quietly, her voice floating up the stairs to him. He experienced a little shiver of desire at the sound, which was ridiculous. She was greeting the footman, for God’s sake.

  He continued to stretch the anticipation out, standing there with his eyes closed, listening to her footsteps on the stairs. She was a light walker, stealthy. Was that because she’d learned not to draw attention to herself over the years? He frowned at the thought and wondered how he could make her walk like an elephant, heavy and sure and unafraid.

  “Why are your eyes closed?” she asked, her voice bewildered. He opened them and drank in the sight of her framed in his bedroom doorway. She no longer wore the black cloak she’d worn the first time she came to him. Tonight she wore a simple dress of green, the color of a fresh sprig of mint, with a square neckline, and a matching spencer over it to protect her from the chill night air.

  “I was enjoying the anticipation of seeing you,” he told her, practicing the honesty he preached.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, pulling off her gloves, “I hope I didn’t disappoint.”

  “Never,” he said, walking over and kissing her newly naked hand.

  “Playing the gentleman as always,” she said, dismissing his compliment as she had a habit of doing. “My finery cannot compare to yours.” She waved a hand down as if to display him. “I love that robe. The red silk and gold embroidery make you seem so exotic, somehow. Even more so with your red hair.” She winked at him.

  “My banyan is red,” he corrected her. “Not my hair.”

  “Hmm,” was her noncommittal response. She walked over on light feet to set her gloves and reticule on a table next to the chair by the window.

  “You walk so lightly,” he observed with a frown. “As if you fear detection.”

  “I do,” she glibly answered. “Fear detection, that is.”

  “Too lightly,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. She was unbuttoning her spencer and her hands stilled as her eyes flew up to look at him. “You needn’t tiptoe around here, Eleanor. There are no ears other than mine that will hear you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said with forced lightness. “I never imagined there were.” She began to button up her spencer. “Perhaps tonight is not a good night.”

  Hil was taken aback. “Why not? Have I offended?”

  She sighed and stopped. “No.” She faced him head on.
“But I’m afraid I take any criticism to heart. Too often in the past it was accompanied by unpleasantness.”

  Her honesty humbled him. “I’m sorry, then. I was trying to put you at ease, not create discomfort.”

  She laughed and unbuttoned her jacket again. “Apology accepted.”

  “But you do walk too lightly.”

  She sighed again. “Fine. But in my defense, it’s the way all ladies are taught to walk.”

  “Is it?” he asked in genuine surprise. “I wouldn’t know. Never thought much about it, really. How odd. It’s a wonder you’re not all recruited for espionage work.”

  “Yes,” she drawled, “isn’t it?”

  He came over then and she turned her back to him so he could undo the laces on her dress. They were hastily tied, and loosely, too, so it was a simple matter. It was almost a routine between them now. “What would it take to make you walk like an elephant?” he asked curiously.

  “An elephant?” she asked, disbelief coloring her voice. “Why on earth do you want me to walk like an elephant?”

  “Because it would show you have no more fear.”

  “Would it?” she asked, highly amused and showing it. “I think it would show poor breeding, but I’m funny that way.”

  Her dress slid down her arms with a slow glide of his hands along her shoulders. It pooled at her feet and she stepped out of it. She wore a small petticoat underneath. When she picked up her dress and draped it across the chair, over the shirt and cravat he’d tossed there earlier, he had an idea. He grabbed her hands before she could untie her petticoat. Her problem, he surmised, was trust. She didn’t trust the world. “Do you trust me?” he asked, fervently hoping the answer was yes. He thought she did, she had said so in the past, but she didn’t really understand what that meant yet.

  “Of course I trust you,” she replied immediately, stepping closer and resting their joined hands against his chest.

  Hil let go with one hand and leaned over and grabbed his discarded cravat. “Close your eyes.”