“And instead you found me.”
“Y-yes. I do apologize sincerely.”
“That’s quite all right.” He slowly tucked his shirt into his pantaloons—and watched Miss Davenport’s eyes follow his hands as if trying to learn the steps to a new dance.
He turned away briefly to finish his task—and adjust his inconveniently enthusiastic cock.
“What, ah, what do you think they were doing in that room, Lord Haywood?”
He stared at her. She was twenty-six. Surely she could guess what they’d been doing.
She flushed. “They could just have been, er, chatting.”
“Yes.”
Like the two of them were.
Unfortunately.
That was his cock talking.
“But you don’t think that’s what they were doing, do you?”
“Miss Davenport, it is usually best not to speculate about other people’s intimate relationships.”
Speculating about one’s own possible intimate relationships, however—
Shut up, Cock!
“It’s still daylight, Lord Haywood. People don’t do, ah, that during the day, do they?”
There’s a lovely, broad bed just a few feet away. You could show her exactly—
Shut up, Cock.
“If we are talking about what I think we are,” he said a bit abruptly, “then, yes, they do.”
“Oh.” Miss Davenport blinked at him and then looked at the bed. Her thoughts must have traveled the same path as his—with a somewhat different result.
She pressed against the door again and spoke quickly. “You must think me very naïve, Lord Haywood. I am naïve. I’ve spent most of my life in Loves Bridge, where people don’t do the shocking things they do in Town.”
He took leave to doubt that. Town or country, people were people, and having sexual congress in the daylight was hardly scandalous. Even the fact that Davenport and Eleanor weren’t married wouldn’t raise many eyebrows, as widows were given far more latitude in such matters than spinsters.
And, furthermore, he suspected they wouldn’t remain unwed much longer.
“I . . . I should go.” Miss Davenport bit her lovely lower lip. “I do apologize once more for bursting in on you like this. I assure you it won’t happen again.”
He stepped over to her, putting a hand on her arm. “Calm yourself, Miss Davenport. There’s no harm done.”
Now she was staring at his naked neck, and he was enveloped in the sweet scent of lemon and woman. He was close enough to kiss her.
I won’t touch her mouth. I’ll just brush my lips lightly over her cheek—
No.
“Before you erupt into the corridor,” he said, “let’s be certain it’s empty.”
“Oh, yes. That’s a very good idea. We don’t want people to know I was here in your b-bedroom, d-do we?”
He just smiled and cracked the door open to listen. He could tell her about the dressing room they shared, but he was strangely reluctant to do so.
Likely his stupid cock was hopeful that before this visit was over, Miss Davenport would invite him to use that connection to visit her unobserved.
Which was not going to happen, even if she begged.
Which she wouldn’t.
Opening the door even just an inch pushed her closer to him. He allowed himself to skim his lips over her hair before whispering, “All’s quiet. I think it’s safe for you to slip out.” He stepped back. “I’ll see you downstairs, once I’m presentable.”
That, of course, directed her gaze back to his throat, where his shirt still lay open.
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” She tore her eyes away from him to peer out the door herself. Once she confirmed there was no one about, she was gone.
He eased the door closed and leaned against it, breathing out a long sigh.
This is going to be a very interesting house party.
* * *
Anne was seated between the marquess and the Earl of Inwood in Lord Banningly’s family dining room. The arrangement could best be described as cozy. The table had not been designed to seat fourteen people comfortably.
Well, perhaps everyone else was comfortable. She was trying valiantly not to brush up against Lord Hellwood, and so was squeezing to the left side of her chair—which brought her too close to the portly earl.
“Would you care for another slice of mutton, Miss Davenport?” Lord Inwood asked, a slice of that meat already balanced precariously on a serving fork and advancing toward her.
“No, tha—”
The meat plopped onto her plate, on top of the slice that was already residing there.
“You need to eat to put some flesh on your bones, girl. No one likes a scrawny female.” He leaned across her. “Isn’t that right, Haywood?”
Her fingers tightened around her knife. If the fat earl didn’t move immediately, he was going to learn how it felt to—
Lord Hellwood’s hand came down on hers, gently but firmly trapping her fingers.
She stared at it, and all thought of eviscerating Lord Inwood evaporated, to be replaced by explicit images of a certain marquess’s naked chest and shoulders and neck.
Lud! This will never do!
She glanced around to see if anyone noticed her odd behavior. No. Everyone was conversing normally—including Papa.
What had he and Mrs. Eaton been doing in that bedchamber?
She would not think about it. Lord Hellwood was correct. Some things were best left uncontemplated.
“I wouldn’t call Miss Davenport scrawny, Inwood.”
Her eyes snapped back to glare at the marquess. He had better not call her scrawny. She would—
His thumb started rubbing—well, caressing, really—the knuckle of her little finger, and her thoughts scattered.
The motion was slight, but it was making her feel very, very odd. Her feminine parts were suddenly strangely . . . expectant.
Good God! She snatched her hand away. “Neither of you had better call me anything other than Miss Davenport.”
Inwood chuckled. “She’s a feisty one, Haywood. You’ll have your hands full.”
Inwood was about to have his lap full—of mutton. Anne grasped her plate.
And felt Lord Hellwood’s hand on her thigh!
“You mistake the matter, Inwood. Miss Davenport and I are merely acquaintances.”
His hand was heavy and . . . hot. Her feminine bits started . . . throbbing.
Lord Hellwood needed to remove his trespassing body part immediately. She eyed her knife, propped against her plate. Could she pretend to drop it—
His marauding hand departed.
Her thigh felt cold and bereft.
Ridiculous.
“Try to ignore Inwood,” the marquess murmured as he leaned close to examine a dish of prawns next to her plate. His new position gave her an excellent view of his long lashes and strong jaw with its vague hint of stubble. “He is Banningly’s cousin, so if you take him to task, you will cause unnecessary discomfort.”
“For whom?” She could smell the soap he used.
“For everyone.” He finally selected a prawn—and then went back to study them again.
“Do leave a few for the rest of us.”
He grinned—and plucked an especially large, plump specimen from the dish. “And I believe the earl had one—or two—too many preprandial glasses of sherry, which may account, at least in part, for his behavior. May I serve you some prawns?”
“Does he make a habit of over-imbibing? And no, thank you. I have far too much food as it is.”
“Not that I’m aware of, but we don’t run in the same circles.” He looked at her plate. “Have you eaten anything?”
She put a bite of mutton into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” His face was expressionless—except for the amused glint in his eyes.
She pointed her fork at him and hissed under her breath. “I did not appreciate Lord I
nwood discussing my person. It was extremely rude.”
“Yes, but the man has fifty years in his dish. He likely thinks of you as a daughter.”
Her stomach twisted. “My father is fifty, Lord Haywood, and Mrs. Eaton is a year younger than I.”
He flushed. “That’s different.”
It wasn’t. He knew that as well as she did.
“And I don’t appreciate you mentioning my, er, size either or, or even thinking about it.”
Lud! She shouldn’t have added that last part. The marquess’s look of embarrassment vanished in a slow, suggestive smile.
“Oh, Miss Davenport, you can’t keep a man from thinking.” His voice dropped, and his eyes gleamed with mischief. “But you don’t wish me to tell you what I think, so of course I shan’t, except to say that when my unruly male thoughts do stray in your direction, scrawny is not one of the many adjectives that come to mind.”
Blast it all, now she was the one embarrassed—and, worse, she wanted to ask what adjectives did occur to him.
Fortunately, at that moment, Lord Banningly stood and knocked his knife against his wineglass to get their attention.
“Lord Haywood, Lord Davenport, Miss Davenport—Lady Banningly and I wish to welcome you to our home.”
“What about the rest of us, Banny?” called out Lord Inwood, who had definitely imbibed too enthusiastically.
“The rest of you—with the exception of our local vicar and his wife”—he nodded at Mr. and Mrs. Huntley—“are family and have been running tame here for years—or at least since I inherited.”
Everyone laughed—everyone but Anne.
“And because you are all family or”—the viscount looked at Anne’s father—“almost family, we’ve not planned any specific activities for the week. Feel free to stroll the grounds or”—he looked at Lord Hellwood—“go off fishing at some dreadfully early hour or”—he looked at Papa again and then Mrs. Eaton—“lie abed all day.”
Everyone sniggered, Mrs. Eaton blushed—as did Papa—and the vicar—the vicar!—slapped Papa heartily on the back.
She made a strangled sound and looked down at her plate, hoping no one had heard her.
Someone had. Lord Hellwood’s hand landed on her thigh again, but this time in a bracing way.
She reached for her wineglass, and his fingers tightened.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “You don’t want the wine to go to your head. And it would. You’ve hardly eaten a thing.”
She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t pick up her glass, either. “Perhaps I wish it to go to my head.”
“Bad plan. You’ll likely say something—just as Inwood did—that you’ll regret later.”
Her eyes narrowed. “If I say something, I won’t regret it.”
“Hmm. Well, you’ll regret the pounding head you’ll have in the morning. Eat something so you aren’t drinking on an empty stomach.”
“Very well.” Not that her head or her stomach were any of Lord Hellwood’s concern.
Her more feminine parts, however . . .
No! Of course not.
She ate a few bites of mutton—the slice she’d chosen, not the one Lord Inwood had forced on her—and some peas. Lord Hellwood, the dastard, put a few prawns on her plate as well as some stewed carrots, and she ate those, too. But she also drank her wine, and when she finished that glass, she had the footman pour her another.
Lord Hellwood didn’t approve—she could tell by the way his mouth tightened—but he had the good sense not to try to stop her.
She took a healthy swallow of wine and then another. This was good. She was feeling happier, a bit detached, almost—
“Could you pass the cheese, Miss Davenport?”
That was the annoying Lord Hellwood again. She’d like to refuse, but even in her slightly fuddled state, she recognized that would be silly. She was above such things.
Way above.
She put down her glass to pass the cheese—with proper disdain—but somehow the plate jerked sideways as she handed it to the marquess, knocking over her glass.
“Oh!” He put his napkin down to stop the river of red from reaching her, but that wasn’t necessary. He’d managed things so the liquid flowed harmlessly into the middle of the table. “How clumsy of me. My apologies.”
“That’s quite all right, Haywood,” Lord Banningly said as the servants moved in with cloths to mop up the mess. “I believe we’re done here. Let’s adjourn to the drawing room”—he looked from Papa to Mrs. Eaton and waggled his brows—“where I believe we’ll hear an announcement that will require champagne.”
Oh, God.
Anne tried to catch Papa’s eye, but he studiously avoided looking at her.
Is he really going to announce his betrothal to That Woman without telling me first?
“Allow me to escort you, Miss Davenport.”
She blinked up at Lord Hellwood. He looked quite . . . kind.
“Everyone else has already left the dining room, Anne,” he said gently.
His use of her Christian name should have been shocking, but it was surprisingly comforting. She blinked again and looked around. He was correct. Everyone else had left—and they’d probably all given her a pitying look as they’d passed her.
She nodded—she was horribly afraid she’d cry if she tried to speak—and stood, stumbling slightly. His hand came up to steady her.
She held tightly to his arm as they walked to the drawing room.
Chapter Nine
Oh, hell, this is bad.
Davenport and Eleanor took their place at the front of the room next to Banningly as footmen came round with trays of champagne. Nate steered Miss Davenport—Anne—toward the doors to the terrace, positioning himself to put her in shadow and, he hoped, give her a little privacy. At least she’d replaced her stricken expression with one of polite boredom, but he could still see the hurt and panic in her eyes.
Damnation! Davenport should have told her privately before telling everyone so publicly that he was going to wed Eleanor. Not that Anne would have taken it well even then—he was quite certain she’d have berated her father like a fishwife—but it was cowardly not to give her the opportunity to adjust to the news away from curious eyes.
The couple did look rather revoltingly besotted. And Anne had seen them coming out of a bedchamber together. The impending announcement shouldn’t be a complete surprise.
Surprise or not, it was clear it wasn’t something Anne welcomed.
He glanced down at her again as she took a glass of champagne. She’d already had too much to drink, given her mostly empty stomach—he’d been forced to spill her wine in the dining room to keep her from making a bad situation worse—but it would look odd if she didn’t toast the news that was surely coming. She should pretend to be happy, if she could manage it.
He took his own glass as Banningly called for their attention.
The viscount wasted no time getting to the point.
“I’m sure none of you will be surprised by this news, but I still take great delight in telling you that Eleanor has accepted Lord Davenport’s offer of marriage.”
“Wonderful!”
“Splendid!”
“It’s about time you found some happiness, Eleanor.”
Banningly put his hand on his sister’s arm at that comment. “Yes. We all know Eaton was—” He stopped, shook his head, and started again. “We all know Eleanor’s first husband, may he rot in hell, was a complete blackguard. Davenport here will cherish her as she deserves and care for her and the boys properly.”
Davenport nodded, taking Eleanor’s hand and raising it to his lips. “Indeed I will,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You have healed a hole in my heart, Eleanor, and have made me so very happy.”
All the women sighed at Davenport’s words—except the woman standing at Nate’s elbow. Anne gasped—fortunately not loudly—and stiffened.
Banningly held up his glass. “A toast: May Eleanor and Davenport
have years of happiness together”—he winked—“and be fruitful and multiply.”
“Hear, hear!”
“Don’t delay on the fruitful and multiply part.” That was Inwood. At least Lady Inwood was now at his side, though she showed no signs of reining him in.
Nate took a sip of champagne and watched Anne do the same. Her hand shook, and she swallowed more than she’d intended. She choked a little and then coughed.
He moved to pat her on the back, but she stepped out of his reach. He glanced back at her father.
Davenport was laughing, and he and Eleanor were both blushing. “Well, as to that,” the baron said, “and since we are among family—”
Oh, God, no!
“I’ll tell you that Eleanor believes she’ll be presenting me with our first child in roughly eight months’ time.”
The room erupted into cheers. The women rushed to hug Eleanor, the men to slap Davenport on the back and make a variety of predictably ribald comments.
Anne drained her glass and snatched another off the tray a footman had left behind.
I have to get her out of here.
“The room’s rather stuffy, don’t you think, Miss Davenport? Let’s take a turn about the terrace.”
She looked at him as if he were speaking Greek, but she let him take her arm and usher her outside.
“Give me your glass, and I’ll put it down on this table,” he said as they stepped onto the terrace.
“No.” She held her champagne against her chest and turned away so he’d have to wrestle with her to get it.
“Miss Davenport—Anne—if you drink the rest of that, you really will get sick.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll care in the morning.”
“No, I won’t.”
Clearly, she’d already drunk enough that it was going to be impossible to reason with her. Now she was staring through the windows at her father and Eleanor and looking like she was going to scream or cry—or go back inside and slap someone.
He’d better get her even farther from the party.
How to Manage a Marquess Page 12
