Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2)

by Nicola Davidson

Louisa stared up at him, her eyes wide. “What’s wrong, George? Kildaire is in the Tower. That bloody madman can’t hurt either of us now.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps I’m being foolish, but…”

  “He’s dead. Sir Malcolm must be dead. A man that loathed by so many people, why would he be kept alive? He doesn’t have money, either.”

  “You’re right,” he said, exhaling slowly. “I’m just too used to thinking the worst. Especially now, when life is good and I have…plans.”

  “Oh? How good? What plans?” she replied with a saucy grin that swiftly turned into a yawn, and he laughed.

  “I’ll tell you in the morning. I’m sure you can wait a few hours. But I hope…I hope you’ll be pleased.”

  “George. Take me to bed.”

  His cock twitched at the thought. Idiot appendage. Every other part of him was pleading for sleep. “I’ll take you to your bed. Which is that one over there. And then I will continue on to my room.”

  Louisa pouted. “You aren’t going to stay? George, the rake of all rakes, is going to leave me naked and alone?”

  “Mmmm hmmm. Yes,” he said as perspiration gathered at his temples. Fuck, the way she’d licked his cock and ridden him in the storage room…no. Sleep. Sleep was good.

  “Well then. At least help me with my gown and stays.”

  George tried his best to undress her with a brisk, impersonal efficiency, but when she stepped out of her ball gown and discarded her stays, his willpower began to ebb. When she held his gaze and took off her chemise to fully reveal her perfect slender curves, it disappeared almost entirely. When she slid naked under the bedcovers, holding them open and beckoning him to her, he groaned in defeat and began to undress.

  Perhaps he wasn’t quite as tired as he thought.

  ~ * ~

  It was the light on her face that eventually woke her.

  Blinking, and raising a hand to shield a ray of stark winter sunlight from shining directly in her eyes, Louisa raised herself onto one elbow and looked around the unfamiliar bedchamber. Ah, yes. She was at Forsyth House. Caroline was the mama of twin girls.

  And, best of all, George lay next to her in bed, fast asleep. She’d never actually seen him sleep before, then again, the only other time they had shared a bed was at the country estate, and he hadn’t even dozed, as he’d been concerned about leaving her room before the servants were all up and about. Now, she could study him in repose.

  Gracious, his eyelashes were long. How had she not noticed that before? The hair dusting his chest was a slightly darker color than that on his head. Embarrassingly, faint scratch marks lined his chest and abdomen around his now-discolored bandages, and she blushed at the memory of her fingers struggling to find anchor as she’d taken his cock deep and ground herself against him. In fact, there was a lingering tenderness between her legs, and rather copious sticky evidence that they had climaxed together on several occasions.

  “I can feel you staring at me.”

  Startled from her musings by George’s gruff, sleep-hoarse voice, she wobbled on her elbow perch, then fell face-first onto his chest. “Ow. I wasn’t staring. I was, ah, studying.”

  “Studying what?” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips.

  “Your bandages,” she replied primly. “They are in a bad way and need changing.”

  “Well, that was the plan, but I was waylaid by a certain red she-wolf. Look, you can still see the marks of her attack on my flesh. Woe!”

  Louisa rolled her eyes. “Shakespeare, you are not, my lord.”

  “’Tis true,” he said, his eyes glinting. “Perhaps you might advise what talents I do possess?”

  A sensual shiver passed through her. “I’d say book purchasing.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, you are quite useful when it comes to bonnet selection.”

  “Anything else?” he said, as one fingertip circled her nipple.

  “Ummm…dancing. Yes, you are a wonderful dancer. And…oh…boxing. Mmmm, yes. An asset in a fight, certainly, with those…oooh…hands.”

  George grinned. “Allow me to refresh your memory—”

  A sharp knock sounded on the door, and Louisa barely had time to yank the blankets up over them both before it burst open.

  “Good morning,” said the Duchess of Mannering as she marched into the chamber.

  “Mama, how youthful you look for a grandmother,” said George lazily, but a faint blush highlighted his cheekbones.

  “Do not attempt such flim-flam with me, George Henry Grenville.”

  “Oh dear,” muttered Louisa. “It is never a good sign when they use your full name.”

  Emily Grenville gave her a stern look. “Be quiet, young lady. I’m here to inform you that there’ll be no more unwed shenanigans. We have been…generous…in our boundaries, because we were well aware that you two are an unconventional pair and needed to resolve some issues in your own way. But like it or not, as a ducal family we are a central part of society, meaning we must observe some rules. And one rule insists that weddings occur before babies. I will not have premature grandchildren. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, your grace,” said Louisa, gulping.

  “So, George, what will you be doing today?”

  “Making an appointment to see Mr. Donovan,” he said solemnly.

  “Excellent,” said the duchess with a beaming smile. “Breakfast is waiting downstairs. Howard, Jane and Stephen are eating already. Caro is still resting. But we shall expect you in no more than a quarter hour. See you shortly.”

  And with that, she was gone in a swish of skirts.

  “Er…well,” said Louisa awkwardly.

  “Some might call her a lady tyrant, I am inclined to be more generous and say Mama has taken rather a shine to the whole duchess malarkey,” said George.

  She smiled, but forced herself to meet his gaze. “You…you don’t have to, you know.”

  George frowned. “I don’t have to what?”

  “Meet with my father.”

  “It is a little difficult to ask his permission to marry you if I don’t. My handwriting is more on the chicken scratch side of legible, so I try to avoid notes.”

  “I’m not a ton lady. And I have means.”

  “True,” he mused.

  “And…and…I hit you.”

  “Yes, you did. Not your finest moment. Are you sorry?”

  “Of course I bloody am,” she snapped. “I felt bad enough at the time, but when I saw your back…I nearly died inside.”

  “Well then. All settled.”

  “It’s not in the slightest bit settled. I was never looking for a husband, that was my parents’ wish. So if you just want an affair…”

  He sat up. “Louisa Eleanor Donovan, I hope you aren’t saying you want me for my body and not my mind. I’m outraged. Especially coming from a woman of science.”

  Louisa bit her lip. “I enjoy science very much.”

  “I know you do. That’s why I got you the bloody book by Sir Humphry bloody Davy.”

  “I like experiments.”

  “Yes,” George said, his brow furrowing. “But we’ll have to purchase you some proper protective wear like they have at the Royal Institute. Heavy aprons and whatnot. I’ve experienced a singed eyebrow, it is not pleasant. And I certainly would want you losing any more hair. A wife looking like a plucked chicken is not at all the thing.”

  Hope curled around her heart and clenched it tight. “You…you wouldn’t mind, then? If I kept it up?”

  “Louisa, we’ve already had this conversation. You are going to make some epic chemistry discoveries, and I shall be feted to the world as the muse who inspires you with wicked Latin words and countless orgasms.”

  “Such inspiration would be critical,” she said slowly, a joy so powerful surging through her body she could scarcely contain it. “And I note you aren’t alarmed by the scent of Sicilian sulphur.”

  “Ha. Bring forth the brimstone. I can easily
manage that…if you can manage seeing my back.”

  Wordlessly, she leaned down and pushed at his shoulder until he rolled slightly. Then she pressed soft kisses to the maimed flesh, the lasting evidence of unending courage. “Easily.”

  George resettled onto his back, visibly swallowing. “So…what do you say, then? Can I go to your father and say I would like to be the flame to your gunpowder?”

  Louisa beamed. “I think we might be able to come to a most satisfactory arrangement. Now, we’d better get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast before the nice lady tyrant reappears.”

  Twenty minutes later they joined Howard, Emily, Jane the dowager, and Stephen in the smaller, intimate Forsyth House dining room. Louisa usually preferred toasted bread and honey plus tea for breakfast, but today she was so hungry she went straight to the warming dishes and added a helping of coddled eggs, two slices of bacon, and one grilled tomato to her plate. George piled his plate high with the same foods in twice the quantity, and added some rare beef slices, kippers, and fried potato as well.

  When their plates were half-empty, Emily cleared her throat and gave them both a meaningful look.

  “Sounds like you need some lemon and honey, Mama,” said George innocently.

  Howard put down his teacup. “Any news, son?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to read the scandal sheets yet. I wonder what they have to say about the ball. Other than the fact it was a great success, thanks to the dowager.”

  Ignoring the compliment, Jane’s pointed glance darted between him and Louisa. “Trentham, dear, are you or are you not engaged to Miss Donovan?”

  “Not,” said George, and Louisa pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle her laughter when four sets of horrified eyes turned on him. Dear God. This could get bloody.

  “What do you mean…not?” said Stephen in a frigid voice.

  “Louisa says I’m not the right man for her,” said George sadly. “She had her heart set on a wizened, destitute marquess.”

  “Oh, you!” said Emily, and suddenly slices of toasted bread were flying at him from all directions.

  Howard grinned. “Welcome to the family, Louisa. I know you are going to fit in just splendidly, and look forward to witnessing some interesting experiments.”

  She inclined her head. “That I can guarantee. And thank you. I never thought I’d be so happy to be marrying into an aristocratic family like the Grenvilles with the added bonus of the Forsyths.”

  “When will it be official?” asked Jane, clapping her hands together.

  “Hopefully soon after I go and see Mr. Donovan. Which will be as soon as I’m allowed to finish my breakfast,” said George with a mock glare.

  Once they had eaten their fill, Louisa and George returned upstairs to freshen up. She would return to the Donovan townhouse immediately, and George would follow as soon as he had his wounds checked and redressed by Dr. Murray.

  “I’ll see you soon,” said Louisa, winding her arms around George’s neck and kissing him soundly.

  “Count on it,” he replied.

  She almost skipped her way downstairs and through the foyer. Innes, the Westleigh butler bowed and opened the front door for her. “At Lord Trentham’s request, one of the Grenville carriages has been summoned to take you home, Miss Donovan. And may I offer my heartiest congratulations to you both.”

  “Thank you.”

  Making her way outside, she took a deep breath of invigorating air. Surprisingly quickly, the sound of horse hooves approaching made her turn her head, and a smaller carriage with the familiar Grenville crest pulled up beside her. A footman jumped down off his perch and opened the door for her.

  Smiling her thanks, she climbed into the carriage.

  “If it isn’t Miss Donovan. Or more accurately, my stepson’s rich whore.”

  Louisa froze, and in that one moment where she could have hurled herself back out onto the safety of the snowy footpath, instead the carriage door locked behind her, and all she could do was scream and pound on the glass as it sped away from Forsyth House.

  Because the man sitting across from her in the carriage was none other than Sir Malcolm Edwards.

  Not dead. Not in pieces. Just very, very angry.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Whitechapel was certainly an innocuous name for the center of purgatory.

  Holding a scented handkerchief to his face, Percival peered out a grimy window to the teeming streets below. Everything was so ugly, from the shabby, near-derelict buildings, to the smoke and ash that seemed to hang in the dank air, to the snow and ice colored far more snuff than white.

  Sir Malcolm had again shown his lack of breeding, choosing this cold, damp building to hold the Donovan heiress while he prepared a note to lure George to the location. They hadn’t needed to go this far away from civilization. For God’s sake, there were immigrants everywhere. Even from the second story height he could hear rapid, coarse Italian and overloud Gaelic amongst the Cockney and occasional northern accents as men fought and traded and shared stories. Worse were the peasant women, laughing and chattering as they hung patched laundry and scolded children and gossiped about the ridiculous things they had seen while working for “them damned Quality”.

  His fists clenched. That they dared such insolence, dared to even discuss their betters, should result in a sound whipping in the stocks. All of them made to publicly suffer by those who ruled the Rookeries with an iron fist. But for an area of London supposedly the heart of all crime, he’d witnessed very little. Perhaps one possible pickpocket. Certainly nothing as entertaining as a rape or murder.

  “Uncomfortable with the scent of the East End, are we?”

  Percival turned at Sir Malcolm’s mockery-laden words. “Not at all,” he lied, discreetly inhaling another whiff of lavender. “Just something new to get accustomed to.”

  He would never become accustomed to it. It was the scent of lowborn filth, and the most common of trades. Tanneries. Foundaries. Slaughterhouses. Staying at a substandard hotel in Piccadilly after Howard had thrown them out of Grenville House was bad enough, but spending time in Whitechapel was quite beyond all reason. For anything lesser than getting rid of George, he would have firmly declined. Charity had flatly refused to set foot outside the West End, so had taken on the responsibility of having both the Grenville and Donovan townhouses watched. She promised to send hourly updates after Sir Malcolm had abducted their prize, and they were expecting their first one very soon.

  Pleasingly, not even a quarter hour later, a knock sounded on the door.

  Sir Malcolm ambled over, peered through a small hole at eye level, and then unfastened the heavy latch to take a written note. Unrolling the paper, he began to read, and a smile twisted his lips. “Excellent. George is on his way to the Donovan townhouse.”

  Percival moved away from the window and over to a threadbare mattress on the floor, where their ticket to wealth and title restoration lay, with her wrists and knees bound tightly. “Did you hear that, Miss Donovan? George will very soon be learning that you never made it home to your parents’ townhouse. How do you think he will react?”

  “He’ll kill you,” she snarled, and spat on his perfectly polished boot.

  Sir Malcolm chuckled. “A feisty one, isn’t she? They are always the most fun to break. You should have seen her in the carriage. Like a hawk in a cage. I had a merry time persuading her to submit to the lengths of rope.”

  “Indeed,” said Percival, crouching down. Hauling Louisa up by one shoulder, he calmly backhanded her across the face, then admired the contrast of the bright red blood as it trickled from her nose down onto the white and silver ball gown she hadn’t changed out of from the previous evening. “You will need to learn some manners, Miss Donovan, if we are to get along. Spitting is not at all a proper habit for a young lady.”

  She scowled at him. “George will kill you for everything that you did. And I’ll help him.”

  Smiling politely, he encircled her throat with one ha
nd and began to squeeze. Oh, how he loved to hear the gasps, the pleas, to watch their eyes widen and gush tears when he did this. Of course, it was even better when he took a maidenhead at the same time. But Louisa was a lowborn whore who, rather than waiting for the wedding night as appropriate, had already spread her thighs for George. Irritated at being robbed of pleasure, he gripped her tighter, until she began to choke.

  “Let her go,” said Sir Malcolm coldly. “The little bitch must be kept alive until George has been lured here, at least.”

  Pursing his lips in distaste, Percival shoved her back onto the floor. Pleasingly, she curled into a ball, her breathing ragged. Good. Perhaps the lesson had been learned that he was entirely in control here, as fitting for a future duke.

  “If you want to make it all sound more realistic so they don’t grasp that it is George whom we actually want, why not include a ransom demand?”

  The magistrate tilted his head. “Not a bad idea. How much, Miss Donovan? How much are you worth to your father?”

  Louisa just glared at the man, then turned her head in a distinct cut direct.

  “So very impolite toward her betters,” said Percival softly.

  “Indeed. I think she might need another reminder at how precarious her situation is. Perhaps we don’t actually need to keep her alive after all.”

  Percival leaned down, and this time pulled her head up by winding her hair around his fist and jerking hard before administering another brutal slap. Ah. That was better. Tears were leaking from her eyes, and her skin had gone that delightful stark white of fear. “Miss Donovan, do answer Sir Malcolm’s question before I get truly angry with you.”

  Louisa coughed, and more blood trickled from her nose down onto her gown.

  “One hundred thousand,” she croaked. “My father would pay that.”

  Percival stared incredulously at her. Even now, with bruises darkening on her neck, and her nose and mouth dripping blood, the lowborn whore was telling them outright lies.

  Excitement coursed through him at her defiance. “I want her.”

  “Excuse me?” said Sir Malcolm, looking up from his parchment.