To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2)

by Kristen McLean

  Apparently, Lady Dumonte was one of those who confused him with Sade.

  Nick took a deep breath and stepped toward her. “My social habits were accepted just swimmingly before you decided to crusade against living, my lady.”

  “You call ruining a woman’s life living? I call it dishonorable, despicable, and completely unacceptable for society.” Her eyes flashed behind the calm façade, but still, she stepped back when he advanced, keeping at least two steps between them until she was backed against the pillar.

  He had apologized, spouted ridiculous compliments, and nearly walked a marathon around the ballroom with her. What more did the woman want? Should he beg on one knee and recite poetry?

  Nick leaned to look around the three-foot wide pillar. She had inadvertently stepped back between the drapes. Now she was cornered between the pillar, the drapes, and him. If anyone happened to walk behind the pillar, it would look as though he had trapped her there. If it hit the papers, he would either be run out of Paris or locked up in an asylum.

  Nick had never been fond of asylums. They were cold and dark, and they always smelled as atrocious as their century-old décor. Along with all that, one must not forget the lunatics who might stick a knitting needle in one’s neck at any moment.

  Nick shuddered.

  He wanted to turn around and never step foot in this house again, but if he did, he would be leaving much more than this ballroom. He would be leaving Paris, his mission. She would destroy any chance he had at gaining entrance into Parisian high society, and his investigation would be over.

  It was worth a short stint in an asylum to keep any more children from being taken.

  He took another step, closing in what little space was left and completely disappearing behind the drapes.

  Little wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows.

  “Ruining a woman’s life is dishonorable, despicable, and completely unacceptable for society,” he repeated her words back to her. “I agree with you on that point. I have never left any woman ruined, only satisfied.”

  Nick waited for her to reply, but she turned her face away from him.

  He cocked his head to catch her attention again, and let out a frustrated breath when she still wouldn’t face him.

  Back to the silent treatment, was she?

  “Is it such a crime to have cared for the natural hungers women are forced by society to ignore?”

  He appreciated a well-behaved lady as much as the next gentleman, but the cost of one liaison was too harsh and wholly unfair. He had always taken great pains to keep his mistresses a secret for that very reason unless she had no reputation to lose, or the entire point of the affair was to create a scandal.

  “Love is as natural as breath,” he muttered. He wished he could capture the feeling and implant it into her frozen heart so she could understand. “If anything is right in this world, it is lying in a tangle of sheets, hot and perspiring from exertion, satisfied and spent from hours of pleasure. Bodies still tingling and trembling, drifting off to the most tranquil slumber you have ever known with a lover in your arms, languid and content. Ah, my lady. None hath lived who hath not yet loved.”

  Her eyes widened and focused on him, her lips pressed in a thin line.

  He couldn’t make her understand a feeling. He would have to appeal to her intellect.

  “How many of your ladies dancing in this very room do you suppose have lovers? Ten? Twenty?” His brows lifted in inquiry. “I would say fifty, at least. I wonder what they would think if their lovers were suddenly absent from their boudoirs. How quickly would they turn on the one who chased them away?”

  She glanced away again, but not before he saw her mind working. He was getting to her.

  Bracing his hand on the pillar behind her, he leaned in, his breath stirring the small hairs curling around her ear that had somehow gotten free from their pins. “Think of yourself, love.

  “This decorous ballroom’s a chessboard,

  ’Tis naught but a game we play.

  Your guests, being pieces you strike with,

  Could easily win this day.

  But know this battleground’s a crossfire,

  Both parties will suffer pain.

  You will worry your pieces conspire,

  And I shall ne’er be seen again.

  Still, there is time for amity,

  Aye, a chance for peace,

  For this sinner seeks your pity,

  and your soul begs release.”

  His lips brushed her ear to whisper the last line before moving away. Gad, but she smelled marvelous.

  The touch was made to seem like an accident, but nothing Nick did was an accident. Usually.

  Obviously, he was not great at pulling sonnets out of thin air. Though, the sonnet being subpar was more an unfortunate side effect of poor planning than an accident.

  He stepped back a few inches and tilted his head to see her eyes, which were squinting at the floor—not exactly the reaction he had been expecting. That heady, half-sleeping look was probably too much to ask for, and a slap to the face, while most probable, would be highly undesirable.

  The expression he received when she finally did look up at him was more of utter shock and incredulity.

  Good Lord, he had charmed her stupid. Perhaps a sonnet had been a bad idea, even a poorly thought-out one. All he had wanted to do was explain that he wasn’t her enemy, and she was more than likely upsetting a fair amount of her fellow Parisian elite.

  He studied the wide eyes looking up at him, noticing the specks of green in their honey-brown depths. They were intelligent eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, settled perfectly over a small, refined nose and a set of full lips.

  His eyes dropped to her lips. How easy it would be to sneak a kiss in this little alcove. He could wrap his arms around those slender curves and feel her pressed against him. The only person to know would be Lady Dumonte.

  That thought was like taking a much-needed bucket of ice water to the groin, bucket and all.

  He straightened and took a full step back. Twice. He was now completely viewable by at least a small portion of the room.

  “The only reputation I have ever ruined is my own,” Nick said, hoping to snap her out of it so he could save himself and get the hell out of there. “Your innocent lambs are safe from me.”

  “That—that was a poem,” she stated, watching him with that disturbing expression.

  “Are you not fond of poems, Lady Dumonte?”

  Had he truly just waxed poetic to Lady Dumonte, the woman bent on destroying every rake in Paris? Had he completely lost his mind?

  “You called me ‘love.’”

  Oh, dear.

  “Part of the poem,” he lied casually. “If I were truly a devil, I would call you ‘my sweet’ and ‘blossom.’”

  She shook her head slightly. “It was not a full sonnet. You are missing the last two lines,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “Though your voice rumbles so smoothly at that volume one almost forgets to count.”

  “Is that so?” he asked with a knit brow, unwilling to believe his ears.

  “Mm.” She nodded. “And when your breath warms the ear, it is extremely difficult to concentrate.”

  “Uh-huh.” Now it was Nick’s turn for incredulousness. At least he managed to cover it with a wobbly smile as he took another step away from her.

  Scoundrel or no, being alone with that woman for too long would drive any man to deplorable acts of depravity… or homicide.

  Perhaps he could just make her disappear. Surely, she had done something heinous in her lifetime. Starved helpless children. Trampled old men with her carriage. Drowned puppies whilst laughing maniacally. Or who knew, maybe she was the blackguard he had been looking for this whole time. He doubted it, though.

  The waltz ended seconds after he had stepped away from her, and the guests were now shuffling back. They filed in around the pillars, chairs, and refreshments, brushing by him on their way.

 
With a sizable audience now at hand, he managed the few steps required for a normal speaking distance with the woman who, for some strange reason, was still standing between the confounded drapes.

  “I am afraid I must go.” He smiled apologetically. Before stress drives me to strangle either you or myself. “’Twas lovely, Lady Dumonte. Good evening.” He bowed over her hand.

  “What? You have given up so soon?”

  His jaw tensed. “Pardon?”

  “What a cream puff,” she muttered, a half smile pulling at one side of her lips.

  “A cream—” He blinked, surprised. By gad, the lady was toying with him. “You are, indeed, a cruel woman, my lady.”

  “How am I to know what kind of a man you are if I do not see how you act under pressure?”

  He still couldn’t quite believe it, but it was true. The lady had played him for a fool.

  “Did I disappoint you?” Nick asked, his brows rising with a reluctant hint of amusement.

  “No, not really,” she mused with a blush so slight Nick almost missed it. “I thought you might try to seduce your way out. Although, I certainly did not expect the desperate attempt at a sonnet.”

  “That was not my best moment,” Nick admitted. He pulled his quizzing glass from his waistcoat pocket, swinging it in tiny circles around his hand. “But since you have played cruel games with my pride and lured me into showing my true colors, do you now plan to slay the wolf?”

  “I was not aware you were attempting to hide your colors.”

  He raised his quizzing glass to his chest and knit his brow. “It has been a trial, but I have managed to behave myself tonight.”

  “That was behaving?” she asked incredulously. “I am surprised you came at all.”

  “Yes, well, I could not very well turn down an invitation from the most beautiful—” At Lady Dumonte’s raised brow of serious doubt, he stopped and chuckled. “A favor to a friend.”

  “It must have been some friend for you to risk so much.” She glanced over him dispassionately. “I do not like you.”

  “You are too kind,” he drawled.

  When she swept past him, Nick followed and fell in beside her.

  “We elite are not a kind people, Lord Pembridge.”

  “I must disagree with you,” Nick said. “I have the good fortune of knowing many very kind people.”

  “Then you are very fortunate, indeed,” she replied. “I only know two.”

  “Between you and Béarn, I begin to wonder where Parisian society meets their friends.”

  The music changed pace again and struck up the first chords of a country-dance.

  The crowd along the outer wall began to thin as the couples took their positions once more.

  “They are good ton, and if they have unsavory habits, they keep them to themselves. Whether I find them kind or not is irrelevant,” she said simply.

  “If I chose my comrades based on social status alone,” Nick warned, “I might find myself surrounded by a worse sort than the kind you are fighting so desperately to weed out.”

  “I highly doubt it.”

  “I have known rakes and racketeers who were more honorable and trustworthy than some of your fellows here.”

  “Honorable rake,” she drew out. “Does that not sound contradictory to you?”

  Nick grinned. “Only to those who are not familiar with the skill.”

  “That wouldn’t take skill,” she said flatly. “It would take magic.”

  “Take the duke, for example,” Nick went on, ignoring her sarcastic remark. “Béarn is a gentleman to his very bones. In fact, if he were alone with a lady, he would be more likely to preach politics than love. Still, he understands the phenomena of the honorable rake.”

  “Does he?” she asked. “Perhaps he simply indulges you.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!” Nick returned with mock horror.

  She donned a secretive smile. “Speaking of my dear friend Béarn, you were right before. I was acknowledging the duke. Perhaps you should determine where your friend’s loyalty lies before you grant yours so blindly. Good evening, my lord.”

  Without another word, she turned to join a group of chatting tabbies several feet away, a group in which he was obviously not welcome, and that was fine with him.

  A few things were immediately very clear. First of all, this whole mess was Béarn’s fault. The only satisfaction: a round of fisticuffs. Secondly, Nick had needlessly made a fool of himself whilst somewhere that double-dealing traitor watched. He was sure of it. Having a good laugh, too, Nick would wager. Thirdly, Lady Dumonte was the most aggravating woman he had ever met, and he hoped never to meet her again.

  He turned around and weaved his way through the crowd to the exit. The night was young, but he had been working long days and could use a few extra hours of sleep, especially after this evening. Once he was rested, he needed to focus on the Comte de Chouvigny, the man he and Béarn suspected of organizing the prostitution ring and the kidnappings.

  On the street, he whistled loudly in a short burst. Thirty seconds later, he was in a carriage and on his way to his temporary home of five years now.

  Nick had the esteemed privilege of residing at the Soubise. It seemed the Home Office claimed Nick was a historian and collector who would be best placed over the Imperial Archives during his stay in Paris, however long. Receiving a little bribery was never on Nick’s list of unforgivable sins, and since they had offered, it would have been rude of him to refuse. He had to work this prostitution case in exchange, but he felt it was a fair trade. It did not interfere with his own private reasons for being in Paris—his self-assigned mission to find the Bonapartists who had conspired with his father against England.

  Nick was thoroughly impressed with the arrangements, even more so once he had seen the place. Very few could compare with its elegant beige and gold plated walls, ceiling murals, marble fireplaces, and incredible attention to detail. The only residence he had noticed that came close to its splendor had been Lady Dumonte’s, of course.

  A chuckle caught in his throat when he realized his traitorous mind had slipped back to thoughts of the woman.

  He whistled a lighthearted tune as the carriage stopped, and he alighted to the grand building.

  “Good evening, my lord.” An elderly man in a black coat and trousers took Nick’s hat, greatcoat, tailcoat, and cane.

  “Good evening, Jacques. Is André here?” Nick turned to a large mirror and straightened his waistcoat and shirt points.

  “In the kitchens, your lordship,” he replied with a sniff of disdain.

  Nick’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. He had the stuffiest butler in Paris, but the poor man would simply have to adapt. For all Nick’s fashion, he wanted his home to be a haven of comfort, which meant if one wished to eat in the kitchens with the servants, they may. If one wished to walk about without one’s coat on, so be it. Nick had few rules at home: be clean, be comfortable, and—above all—be a gentleman.

  Now that Nick was comfortable in only his silver and blue embroidered waistcoat, shirt, and tan trousers, he made his way to the kitchens where the aroma of fresh bread and roasted plum jam wafted through the halls to prod him on. He picked up his pace at the promise of a late night snack, the din from the cook and André filling the hall as he approached.

  He strode in and plopped down at the table next to André, a boy of about thirteen. He licked his lips as he reached for a roll and a jar of plum jam while the boy continued his loud conversation with the cook. After Nick devoured the roll in a few savory bites, he poured himself a tall glass of ale from the pitcher on the table.

  “Did you make fresh bread this late?” Nick asked before biting into another soft, steamy roll.

  “I did, my lord,” the cheery cook replied.

  “Tastes like heaven,” he muttered around the bite. Then he turned to the boy. “Mrs. Brice, have I given permission for you to feed your tasty fresh bread to this brat?” he asked with a mischievous gri
n.

  “You know, if I didn’t feed the boy, he would steal it,” she replied.

  “Gad, I suppose I do,” Nick said as he removed the boy’s hat and mussed his hair. “Only because he knows he would get away with it.” He tossed the hat behind him, then picked up his half-eaten roll. “We do not wear our hats inside, my boy, and certainly not when we are eating.”

  André grinned back at him, flashing teeth too big for his mouth.

  “You didn’t happen to see Chouvigny tonight, did you?” Nick asked as he slathered on more of the plum jam.

  “Oui, he was at the brothel with Monsieur Cuendet and looked especially exhausted by the time he returned to his home. She must have been une très bonne pute to leave him so.”

  Without warning, Nick reached out and pulled André by his shirt collar off his bench seat and onto the floor. He still sat, eating his roll while André picked himself up and sat back down.

  “What was that for?” the boy asked indignantly. “You brought it up. It is safe to talk in this room. Il est privé ici.”

  “A gentleman does not mention vulgarities in the presence of a lady,” Nick replied simply.

  “What lady?” André asked as he took a large bite of a sweet roll.

  “Mrs. Brice, of course.”

  “Ah! My lord!” Mrs. Brice exclaimed with a blush from the other side of the kitchen. “You two and your games!”

  Nick grinned boyishly at the sight of the large woman beaming. “You are a lady if I ever saw one, Mrs. Brice.” Then he threw a side-glance at André. “Every woman is a lady. Do you understand?”

  “Not every woman,” André argued with a confident smile.

  Nick twisted in his seat to fully face the boy. “Every woman you are with is a lady if you are a gentleman, André. If you are good, you can make the lady you desire believe she is a queen. The woman you love, a goddess.” Nick smiled and took another bite of sweet roll.

  “What if I don’t find a woman to love?” André’s brow knit.