The Earl of Davenport

by Maggie Dallen

  Earl of Davenport

  Wicked Earls’ Club

  Maggie Dallen

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Earl of Grayson

  Earl of Grayson

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The sound of a carriage coming up the drive had Anne and her chaperone hurrying toward the drawing room window in a manner that was entirely unbecoming for two proper young ladies. Although, it seemed to Anne that being late to one’s scheduled meeting with two proper young ladies was equally unbecoming, so perhaps it could be overlooked.

  Her chaperone, Betsy, went so far as to peek through the curtains, while Anne contented herself by leaning a bit to the left so she could see through one of the cracks where the curtain fell away from the wall.

  “Here comes the devil himself,” Betsy murmured.

  Typically, Anne would have scolded her former governess for the breach in etiquette. The man was an earl, for heaven’s sake—he should be referred to by his title. But she kept her mouth shut. The entire country knew him as the Devil of Davenport. Scolding Betsy wouldn’t change that.

  Besides, Betsy didn’t know the earl the way that Anne did. As far as Anne was aware, she was the only one who knew Davenport’s well-kept secret.

  He wasn’t a devil, not really. Not at all.

  In fact, he was every bit a gentleman.

  She watched the gentleman in question stride into the house with a few muffled orders to the footman who’d met him at the carriage door. Anne could only wonder if he would make them wait much longer.

  Now that he was here, the butterflies in her stomach went into a flurry of activity. Drawing a deep breath, she reached for the back of a nearby chair to try and calm her nerves.

  There was no need to be nervous. This was Davenport, not some beastly rake as the scandal sheets would have one believe. As the owner of the land neighboring her family’s, she’d known him since forever, it seemed. If anyone could help them, it was him. And surely he would help. He had to.

  He was their last hope.

  “I cannot imagine what you were thinking coming here this morning, Anne,” Betsy said, interrupting her thoughts, her voice filled with disapproval.

  Anne held back a sigh. Her friend was not helping to fortify her courage.

  “You have done a great deal of silly things in your day, miss, but this is the most ludicrous of them all.”

  Anne pressed her lips together and stared with determination at the door where he would enter. She should not have brought Betsy. She wished she hadn’t. But of course, she’d had to. Who else would have come? As a young, unmarried woman it would be unseemly to visit any gentleman alone, but to visit the so-called devil himself?

  That kind of ruination could never be undone.

  Anne might not have had much of a reputation in society to begin with, thanks to the rumors about her family, but she refused to provide additional fodder for the gossips. “Betsy, do try to understand—” Her plea was interrupted when the door to the hallway swung open with undue force.

  Anne’s breath left her in a whoosh, the way it always did upon seeing him. No one could deny that Frederick William Belford, the Earl of Davenport, was a striking man. And now, standing here in the doorway—posing, really, as he leaned against the doorframe and openly assessed his visitors—Anne decided that striking didn’t begin to describe him.

  He was beautiful.

  No, perhaps beautiful wasn’t quite right either. That sounded far too feminine and delicate. And handsome seemed far too mundane. Definitely not pretty, that did not describe him at all. His features were too sharp for that, his shoulders too broad.

  But he had an air about him that reminded her of one of the Arabian stallions her brother, Jed, liked to race. All sleek lines and barely restrained power. He moved with an easy grace and his strong jaw and firm mouth seemed to always be set in a way that spoke of strength and power.

  There was an elegance about him, despite the fact that he didn’t seem to heed the latest trends. Like now, for instance. His black hair was just a bit too long and the jaw she so admired was clearly in need of a shave. Despite his haughty expression, his clothes were ruffled and mussed. Almost like he’d slept in them, or….

  Her throat grew dry as it became very clear why he was late to an early morning appointment at his own home.

  He hadn’t slept there.

  The earl was just now arriving home, and it appeared he was wearing yesterday’s clothes. By the smug look on his face, he didn’t seem to care who knew. In fact, his smirk made her think he enjoyed the discomfort it caused.

  Cheeky devil. No, not devil. She refused to use that awful nickname even in her thoughts. But just because she knew he was not the heathen the ton claimed him to be, that didn’t mean he was a saint, either.

  The Earl of Davenport was merely a man.

  She licked her lips and took a steadying breath as she repeated that to herself. He was merely a man. But then he shifted and his shirt strained across the hard muscles of his chest, his breeches molding to his thighs as he moved. She tried to swallow. He was a man all right, but there was no merely about it.

  His eyes moved over her just as studiously as she’d eyed him, but what he found did not seem to leave an impression. His gaze roamed over her bright red hair, her pale gray morning gown, all the way down to her slippers. She stood there stoically, as if awaiting some sort of judgment. But when his eyes met hers, there was nothing there. No verdict, no emotion… and no sign of recognition.

  “Ah, my morning visitors,” he said as he pushed himself away from the doorway and entered the room. His pace was slow and his tone held more than a hint of mockery. “How could I have forgotten the urgent summons from Miss….”

  He reached the settee and fell onto it, his questioning gaze once more returning to Anne. Her eyes narrowed on him. What was he about? Of course he knew who she was. He was acting obtuse just to be a boor. Why he insisted on acting like a fiend when she clearly knew the truth about him, she would never understand.

  “Miss Anne Cleveland,” she finished. “And this is my dear friend, Mrs. Elizabeth Bawdry.”

  She’d very nearly pointed out that he knew exactly who she was—her family had been living on the property adjacent to his their entire lives, but she refrained on Betsy’s account. The woman had suffered enough by coming along with her this morning. Despite her protests, Betsy was being a good sport. So, rather than risk being rude and causing Betsy more discomfort, she’d answered the unspoken question politely.

  Davenport gave her friend a peremptory nod before turning back to her. His arm was slung over the back of the settee as he lounged there, looking for all the world like a sultan with his harem.

  Her heart thumped erratically. Now where had that thought come from? Her admittedly overactive imagination hurried to provide her with an image to accompany the wayward thought. A shirtless Davenport lounging on a bed of pillows. Those dark gray eyes watching her as she undressed for him….

  His low voice cut into the errant daydream. “Miss Cleveland, I find myself extraordinarily curious to know where your thoughts have gone.”

  She started, her mouth falling open in an unladylike manner as heat bloomed in her cheeks. Sweet heavens, she had been caught ogling the man.

  He tilted his head to the side as he stared up at her. “You have remarkably expressive features, has anyone ever told you that?”

  She shook her head. “No, my lord.” Blast. That was a lie. Everyone had told
her that. She was one of seven siblings and each and every one had commented on multiple occasions on their ability to read her like a book.

  From the way he was smirking, she had the horrible sensation that he’d seen exactly where her mind had wandered. But then, he must have been used to women eyeing him like that. She rarely attended society events but she knew from her sister, Claire, that he was considered quite the catch.

  He’d developed a reputation for his reckless behavior but that only seemed to enhance his appeal among the young ladies, and even their mamas overlooked his bad deeds on behalf of his title. Mothers looking to wed their daughters were capable of overlooking any number of things when it came to wealthy, titled gentlemen.

  This line of thought brought her back to her senses. That was exactly why she was here. Because of good marriages and overbearing mamas, but most importantly, because of Claire.

  Steeling her spine, she turned to Betsy. “Mrs. Bawdry, I do believe I’ve left my shawl with the butler and I seem to have developed a chill. Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”

  The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock as Betsy glared at her, her eyes attempting to convey every lecture she’d already given a hundred times over. Anne met her stare with raised brows. They’d been over this and over this. She understood Betsy’s objections, but this was the only way. She needed to speak with the earl and the conversation had to be done in private.

  It would be difficult enough to get through to the man by herself but if he suspected he had an audience to impress with his ridiculous devil façade, her plight would not stand a chance.

  After several long moments, Betsy conceded, but not without a grumble of warning before she headed back out the way they had come in. The door closed behind her with a click.

  They were alone.

  She was alone with the Devil of Davenport.

  Shaking her head slightly, she turned back to face the man who was not a devil. His look of amusement had her blushing all over again.

  “I must confess, I’m intrigued,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the otherwise silent room. “Why would a proper young lady like yourself wish to be left unchaperoned with the likes of me?”

  He came to a stand and once again, Anne was reminded of a beast. But not the black stallion in her brother’s stables. This time he struck her as a predator. As he moved toward her, she backed away. It wasn’t until the back of her legs hit an end table that she came to a stop.

  She thought he would stop too, but he kept advancing until he was standing just in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. The scent of soap and leather filled her senses and she clasped her hands together, partly to keep them from shaking with nerves, but partly because she had the ridiculous desire to reach out and touch him. He was so close that she could lift her hand and he would be there, his warm skin under her glove, his hard muscles pressed against her.

  She shivered as a foreign sensation swept over her body, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

  “Yes,” he murmured softly. “I do wish I could read that mind of yours, Miss Cleveland. Though I’m not entirely sure I need to.”

  She forced herself to lift her gaze to meet his. Oh mercy. She wished she could look away from those eyes, darkened with an emotion so primal, she recognized it deep in her bones. Desire.

  “I-I need to speak with you, my lord.” Her voice had grown ridiculously breathy but she was proud that she had at least managed to get the words out.

  He took one step back as some of the intensity eased from his demeanor and a smile hovered over his lips. “I gathered that from your missive.” He turned his back on her to walk over to the settee once more and she found herself once again able to breathe.

  “So tell me, Miss Cleveland. What can I do for you today?”

  She took two long, deep breaths to steady her nerves before responding. “You see, my lord, you are in need of a wife.”

  His eyes widened with surprise before his head fell back with a short, harsh laugh. He lifted his head to face her. “I see. And that is why you are here.” He leaned forward on the seat so his elbows were resting on his knees. “And tell me, are you offering yourself up for the role of countess?”

  Her cheeks burned with humiliation. She’d gone about this all wrong. She’d rehearsed her speech for hours in the mirror yet she’d been too flustered to get it out in the proper order. Shaking her head, she whispered quickly, “Of course not, don’t be silly.”

  Everyone knew she was not wife material—not for a gentleman, at least, and certainly not for an earl. She had been raised as one of the Cleveland children, but it was widely known, though never confirmed, that the Clevelands fell into two categories—the legitimate and the illegitimate. Their father had been kind enough to give them all his name and his wife had raised them as though they were her own, but none of that mattered to the ton. Aside from the eldest three, whose lineage had never been in question, the rest were the subject of gossip and scorn. There were questions about Roger and Delia, the middle two—no one knew for certain whether they were legitimate. She and her brother Caleb, however, were in a category all their own thanks to their blazing red hair. Everyone knew who their mother was. Apparently Kitty Furlong had been quite a star on the London stage at the time their father took up with her. Kitty was known for three things: her extravagant tastes, her notorious affairs, and her bright red hair.

  The red hair left no doubt in anyone’s minds about who her real mother was. So, despite the Cleveland name and the fact that no one could disprove her parents’ claim that she was legitimate, she would never truly be considered a lady.

  Which was fine by her. She’d become accustomed to her lot many years ago when her eldest sister Claire—one of the legitimate siblings—had explained to her kindly and gently why Anne was so often slighted by their peers. Since then, she’d come to embrace her life away from the watchful eyes of society. Though hardly enviable, her disreputable position came with a certain amount of freedom. Claire, on the other hand, had all the benefits of a good reputation as well as the name and the breeding.

  Claire was the reason she was here, and that thought kept her going despite the nearly overwhelming flood of embarrassment. “As I see it, you are in need of a wife.”

  She winced slightly as her second attempt came out just as ineloquent as the first. Judging by his narrowed eyes and the mocking glint in his eyes, she’d do best to return home and start all over again on another day. Preferably many years from now when he’d long forgotten this bungled mess of a meeting.

  Clearing her throat, she tried to put her thoughts in order, firmly ignoring his all-seeing gaze and those dark eyes that had always fascinated her. This was absolutely not the time to be admiring his finer qualities, not if she were to make it through this interview with any sort of success.

  “What I mean to say,” she said slowly, taking her time to find the right words on this next attempt, “is that it is no secret that you are looking for a wife.”

  He didn’t argue and she hurried on before he could. She had no way of truly knowing about his matrimonial intentions, of course, but she heard enough gossip to know that he was in need of a countess. And an heir. Preferably one before the other, she’d imagine.

  His estate did not require the money from a dowry and he was powerful enough that he did not need another title, which was one more reason why this could be just the match Claire needed. No, by all accounts, what Davenport required was a wife. A proper wife who could give him an heir and help to restore his reputation.

  She clasped her hands together as she made her proposition. “You see, my lord, I believe that my eldest sister, Claire Cleveland, would be the ideal candidate.”

  His eyes widened slightly but that was the only reaction. She assumed that was her cue to continue.

  “I know it is very forward of me to come here like this, but—”

  “But what, Miss Cleveland?”<
br />
  She stilled. Oh sweet mercy, his voice was a menacing growl, at odds with his casual demeanor as he leaned back in his chair.

  Terror struck, making her shiver. Perhaps she’d overstepped her bounds. Maybe Betsy had been right and she was making a fool of herself in front of an earl, of all people.

  But as quickly as terror came, it abated. Reason stepped in as soon as she drew her next breath. This wasn’t just some member of the gentry. Davenport was far from the typical earl, and that was precisely why she was here.

  She knew what no one else did. Much as he pretended to be a devil, he’d always been her savior. Her personal champion. The boy she’d adored from afar growing up, and now the man who she was certain would help her and her family.

  Still, even knowing that didn’t help to dispel the nerves that had her clasping her hands together for courage. “I know that despite the rakish persona you’ve adopted, you are a good man.”

  His lips twisted in a mocking grin that made her tremble. She refused to let that stop her from speaking the truth. “You have always been kind to my family, and it is that kindness that I am appealing to now.”

  She felt his hesitation, almost as though his instinctual mockery and disbelief were tempered by curiosity. Maybe even concern. She let herself be buoyed by that hopeful thought. “You see, my lord, my family is in dire straits. We are on the verge of losing everything and most of my siblings have given up any chance of saving our home or our land, but—”

  He finally interjected, his voice droll and his eyes revealing nothing. “But you think that I could swoop in and save you. Your entire family. The whole incongruous lot of you.”

  She felt blood rushing to her cheeks at the scorn in his voice. Anne was used to hearing derision when it came to her family, particularly her and her younger siblings. But to hear it from him—from the man who had shielded her from the ton’s mockery years ago. From the kind neighbor who she’d always thought of as friend, in an odd sort of way.