With a wink, Upperton melted back into the crowd. Benedict handed Nefertari off to a footman with orders to attach her to their carriage and turned to find roses blooming in Julia’s cheeks. He cast a glance at the crowd and grinned down at her. Taking her by the waist, he pulled her into a lazy kiss. A collective gasp rose from the gawkers, punctuated by the inevitable snap of a lorgnette.
“I don’t know when I’ve ever seen a more disgraceful display of affection,” Lady Epperley grumbled. “In my day, husbands and wives showed each other a suitable level of indifference.”
When he released his bride, the color in her cheeks had deepened, but her eyes sparkled with promise. He ushered her toward the conveyance, but he had to wait while she pulled her sister into a warm hug. He tamped down his impatience and shook Highgate’s hand, but his mind was elsewhere.
A little Revelstoke. Yes. For once, Upperton had come up with a good scheme, one Benedict intended on putting into immediate action.
To Marian, for all your encouragement,
for recognizing in me, over ten years ago,
a talent I am loath to recognize in myself,
and for always reminding me
to make things worse.
To the rubber chicken, just because.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A project of the breadth of a full-length novel is never undertaken alone. I owe a huge debt of thanks and love to the following:
To Carrie, Caryl, Clemence, Lizzie, and Marian for being my first readers and telling me when my ideas are worth pursuing.
To the members of the Hearts Through History Romance Writers critique group for catching my stupid typos, constant repetition, and extra spaces, and for making me push myself to improve.
To the Lalalas, sisters and brother, for unfailing encouragement and support. More specifically to Valerie Bowman for bringing us together, and to Carla Kempert, aka God, for kicking my behind when it most needed it.
To Vanessa Kelly for challenging me.
To Sara Megibow for being the most awesome, enthusiastic agent an author could ask for.
To Caitlin and Junessa for all your help and encouragement.
To my husband and daughters for putting up with a messy house and less-than-inspired suppers (why, yes, we are having spaghetti again) so I can write.
Read on for an exciting preview of
A Most Devilish Rogue
By Ashlyn Macnamara
Published by Ballantine Books
LONDON, 1820
IF THE key to announcing bad news lay in the timing, George Upperton’s mistress knew when to deliver.
“What’s that?” Some odd emotion invaded the haze of post-coital bliss, and he rolled to his side. “For a moment there, I could have sworn you told me you were with child.”
Lucy Padgett closed her long-lashed eyelids. Strawberry blond hair tumbled over her bare shoulders and breasts as she ducked her head. “I did.”
Like a fist to the gut, her affirmation sent the air rushing from his lungs. He frowned and pushed himself up on one elbow. “Are you certain? This could make for a very bad joke.”
She shifted to her back, arms crossed, and her eyes snapped open, sparkling with blue fire. “Joke?” Her usual melodic tones hardened to ice. “This isn’t a joke. How could you be so cold-hearted as to question me?”
“I only …” The fist was still planted in his gut. It settled into the pit of his stomach, hard and leaden, yet managed to expand until breathing became a chore. He pulled a lungful of air in through his nose and tried again. “I thought it took a while before a woman knew.”
“It’s been two months since I last had my courses. They’ve never been late before.”
George counted back the days in his head. Two months … eight weeks … A lot could happen to a man in that time. In his particular case, a lot had happened. Quite enough to drive from his mind thoughts of Lucy claiming she was indisposed.
Watching, stunned, while an old school chum put a pistol in his mouth tended to do that to a man.
“I thought …”
She wasn’t going to like his next comment, but damn it, he had to say it. They weren’t likely to pass the rest of the evening in more agreeable fashion. Not after her announcement. The mere thought of engaging in additional bed sport now made that weight in his gut twist until he rather felt like casting up his accounts.
“I thought you’d taken the usual precautions.”
“Precautions?” She yanked the sheet free of the mattress and wrapped herself in it, the same way she draped herself in indignation. “Precautions?” She squeaked a high note on the final syllable. “You know very well the usual precautions are no guarantee. Last I looked, I didn’t create a brat all on my own. I had help.”
George had no clue how to reply to this. She was right, of course, but truth was, he’d never considered the matter. He’d assumed she’d protected herself because that’s what wise women of her standing did—ensured no unpleasant consequences might cost them their protector.
The heavy sensation intensified until beads of sweat broke out on his brow. How cold-hearted he’d become. How cynical. He thrust aside an image of Lucy cradling a tiny, gray-eyed boy with waves of light brown hair. His son. Who’d have thought? Of course, he couldn’t cast the poor woman off at a time like this. Bitter experience had taught him just how that felt.
“No sense in arguing over the matter now that it’s too late.” He was amazed at how reasonable he sounded, voice low, steady, almost comforting. It nearly set him at ease.
Nearly.
The idea of raising a child made him want to carve out a neat hiding spot in his liquor cabinet and remain there for the next few decades.
Blast it all, he couldn’t afford this. He could barely afford Lucy, especially since she’d revealed quite extravagant taste where her wardrobe was concerned. The latest bill from her modiste had sent him straight to his club.
She glared at him. “What do you plan on doing about this?”
“Doing?” Damned if he knew. The bottle of brandy in the sitting room was calling at the moment. A deuced siren it was, just as seductive as the Lorelei.
“You … you don’t want me to raise it, do you?” She sniffed. “I shall require some form of compensation. How else will I live? I certainly won’t find another gentleman once I’m fat with your get.”
“No, no, of course not.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and plucked his dressing gown from the heap of clothing on the floor. How blithely he’d shed it an hour before. How blindly. “When you mention compensation, what did you have in mind?”
He paid close attention to his dressing gown as he awaited her reply. He slipped his arms through heavy velvet sleeves. Easier to concentrate on the weight of the fabric on his shoulders than to witness her calculated assessment of what she might gain from him.
But he owed her now, didn’t he? He’d taken his pleasure in her body and now he must pay a much heftier price than he’d ever imagined.
“I’ll need the house, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed. He was already behind on rent.
“And I’ll need to keep on the cook and my maid. Oh, and a new wardrobe.” He imagined her ticking items off on her fingers. He couldn’t bring himself to look. “In a few months, I won’t possibly be able to wear my gowns.”
The weight in his stomach plummeted, and he sank to the mattress. He covered his mouth with one hand until he was certain his dinner would stay where it belonged, then slid his fingers down his chin. “Lucy, my dear, I meant to tell you … I mean, I really ought to have said something before now. That’s entirely my fault. But honestly …”
The words wouldn’t come. George Upperton was known among his circle of cronies as a prime wit, but now, when it mattered most, he couldn’t summon the means to reveal the truth.
“How dare you!” She leapt from the bed, dragging the sheet along with her. “You utter, utter cad. How could you possibly?”
“I’ve just announced to you that I’m in a delicate condition and you have the colossal nerve to hand me my congé?”
At ‘delicate,’ he almost snorted. The notes she’d just hit with that shriek were nearly pure enough to shatter crystal or set nearby dogs to howling. Lucy was anything but delicate. But then the rest of her accusation struck him in the gut. “Congé? I’m not as cold-hearted as all that. What I was trying to tell you—”
A pounding on the bedroom door cut him off. “What the devil?”
Lucy stared at him, round-eyed, and drew the sheet more firmly about her breasts. The pounding increased until the heavy oak plank rattled on its hinges.
George tightened his belt, rose, and strode across the room. “Here now. What is the meaning—”
He whipped the door open and found himself face-to-face with a tall, dark-haired man. His pristine collar and impeccably tied cravat bespoke his wealth.
Behind the intruder, Lucy’s maid cowered. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but he insisted.”
George narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at Lucy. “Might I ask what another gentleman is doing, demanding entrance to your private chambers?”
“I didn’t come here looking for her,” the newcomer growled. He grabbed George by the front of his dressing gown and whipped him about. “I came here looking for you.”
Him? What the devil? George forced a grin to his lips. “You could just as easily have found me at my town house during regular calling hours. Now you’ve caught me completely unprepared for company. Suppose we might persuade the maid to put the kettle on, but I’m afraid we’ve finished the biscuits.”
As he clattered on, he sized up the stranger—an old strategy of his that had extricated him from any number of tight situations. The man’s face was squarish, topped by a slash of dark brows and with a firm line of a mouth at its base. Nothing familiar about it. Certainly not one of his creditors. And yet the man’s accent suggested breeding just as much as his clothes.
The stranger gave George a shake. “I didn’t come to pay my respects.”
“Yes, I’m getting that impression.” He allowed nonchalance to infuse his tone. It was too difficult to inspect one’s nails when a great oaf had one by the lapels. “But suppose, before you beat the stuffing out of me, you tell me who you are and explain why. Then I may or may not take it like a man, depending on whether or not I agree with you.”
Another shake, this one hard enough to rattle his back teeth. “You talk too much.”
“So I’ve been told.” He grinned—winningly, he hoped—while balling his hand into a fist. He’d learned the trick as a schoolboy. Make the opponent think he’d try to charm his way out of a fight until said opponent succumbed to a false sense of security. That strategy, combined with an innate sense of when to duck, had saved his nose on more than one occasion. “Can’t seem to help myself, though. I have a tendency to natter on when threatened. See? There I go again.”
“Shut your gob and listen. You’ve put my sister in a delicate condition, and I’m here to see you pay.”
“Sister?” In spite of himself, he glanced over his shoulder at Lucy. “You never once intimated you had any family.” Well-born, possibly well-connected family to judge by her brother’s appearance. “My dear, you’ve been holding out on me.”
The instant the words were out, something akin to a sledgehammer slammed into his jaw. His head snapped back. Pain exploded from the point of contact and rattled through his body. The floor tilted, and he stumbled back to land in a heap at the foot of the bed.
Right. Lucy could wait. Time to concentrate on the danger at hand.
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the ringing in his ears, and waded in, but his opponent was clearly in better practice when it came to fisticuffs. Lucy’s brother danced lightly on the balls of his feet, left fist raised to block, while the right hovered menacingly at chin height.
George feinted left before jabbing with his right, but his opponent anticipated the move and weaved out of range. The blow met with mere air, and George staggered once more, off balance, his guard dropping. Another punch whizzed past his ear, but the second jab caught him squarely on the chin.
Stars danced before his eyes, and the room reeled. He stumbled sideways into something soft and yielding. Lucy steadied him, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He kept his gaze pinned on his opponent, who stood back for the moment, red in the face, perhaps, but his breathing steady and even.
The arrogant bastard.
With a roar, George lunged.
“Roger!” Lucy screamed.
George ignored the ungrateful wench and went for Roger’s throat. The ape dodged, but George anticipated as much and mirrored the move, grasping his enemy about the waist and hauling him to the floor. He applied his weight to the other man’s belly, planted a hand on his throat and pulled back his fist.
“George! Stop it! Now!”
Lucy’s terrified cry made him hesitate a moment too long. Roger heaved his bulk and George’s hand slipped. The next thing he knew, the back of his head struck unforgiving oak floorboards. Roger’s weight bore him down and forced the air from his lungs. He gasped but pulled in nothing. Blackness shrouded the edges of his vision.
“Stop,” he croaked. The weight on his chest eased just enough. “What do you want from me?”
“That’s simple enough,” Roger growled. Not even winded, the scoundrel. “You’re to do right by my sister.”
A raw jolt of panic speared his gut. Roger couldn’t possibly insist on a marriage, not when any number of protectors had preceded him in Lucy’s bed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Simple. You got her into trouble. You’re going to get her out. The proper compensation ought to hush things up.”
“That’s blackmail.”
Roger smiled, an evil sort of leer that disrupted the square lines of his face. “That’s good business. And you might have avoided the matter entirely if you’d kept your prick in your pocket.”
“If I’d kept … What about all—”
Roger tightened his grip on George’s throat and gave him a shake. “The others didn’t get caught, now, did they?”
“She can have the house, and I’ll settle a sum on her to see to her upkeep. Beyond that …” He couldn’t admit to his true financial situation. Not with an ape sitting on his chest.
“Beyond that, you’ll cough up a tidy sum. My sister deserves a decent life.”
“CHIN up, dear, we’ve almost arrived.”
George suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at his mother. Gads, how could the woman beam so after hours of jostling in a carriage through the Kentish countryside, crammed in with his sisters?
He exchanged a glance with Henrietta. “And not a moment too soon,” he said. “I can barely stand the excitement. We’ll go from being packed into this carriage to being packed into a house with entirely too many people.”
How he dreaded the thought of a house party, even if the host was his oldest friend. Worse than a ball, because the blasted things lasted days rather than mere hours. He could only escape to the card room in the evenings, while the rest of the day he’d have to find more creative means of avoiding his mother’s attempts at matchmaking.
Mama’s smile wavered not at all. “Sarcasm does not become you. How many times must I tell you? You’d do better to put on a bright outlook. I imagine you’d attract a bride if you did that.”
His left eye twitched, as it always did when his mother brought up the topic of matrimony. “I’ll keep that in mind, should I wish to attract one. What do you recommend? Something like this?”
He pulled an exaggerated face that doubtless exposed his back teeth. God knew his cheeks would ache soon enough if he maintained the expression. It didn’t help matters that he’d tweaked a few bruises in the process.
“It’s sport.” He’d explained the state of his face away with a minor lie about an incident at his boxing club. The truth would only give Mama the vapors.
“Be that as it may, I am certain you will meet your future wife at this party. See if you don’t.”
“Ah yes, and Henny”—he winked at his sister—“will announce her engagement to the head groom at the same time. Why, I think a double wedding at Christmas will be just the thing.”
Mama made a valiant attempt at creasing her brows, but an eruption of laughter quite ruined the effect. “You are completely incorrigible.”
“But endlessly diverting.”
“And if you turned that charm on a few young ladies …”
He held up a hand. “Madam, I believe I’m not the only incorrigible one in this conveyance.”
“Nonsense.” Mama tossed her head, and the feathers on her bonnet scrubbed across his sister Catherine’s face. “I’m simply determined. There’s a difference.”
Single-minded and obsessed were the terms that immediately leapt to George’s tongue, but he swallowed them back. Of course his mother wanted to see him wed. It was what mothers did once their children reached an appropriate age. Unfortunately, his idea of an appropriate age didn’t agree with hers by at least ten years.
He caught Henrietta’s eye. Her mouth twitched into a smirk that spoke volumes. Better you than me. But Mama would turn her attention back to her eldest daughter soon enough. No doubt the moment they reached the conservatory where Revelstoke housed his pianoforte. Coupled with what Catherine passed off as singing …
In spite of himself, he winced. He prayed Revelstoke had laid in a good supply of brandy. He was going to need it in vast quantities if Mama insisted on her daughters being part of the entertainment.
A Most Scandalous Proposal Page 30
