Sinfully Yours

by Cara Elliott

  Suppressing a grin, Devlin turned his attention to Caro. “I see that your sister is not with you. I trust she is not feeling ill?”

  “No, no, she is simply taking a little longer than usual in dressing for supper,” Caro assured him. “Which is rather odd.”

  “Indeed? I was under the impression that most young ladies spend an inordinate amount of time on their toilette.”

  “Not Anna,” replied her sister. “Fashion bores her. She’s much more interested in…um, other things.”

  What things?

  His curiosity piqued, he quickly asked, “Such as?”

  A guilty flush flooded her face. “B-books.”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Devlin.

  “I’m not supposed to mention it,” mumbled Caro. “Mama says gentlemen do not like ladies who are too clever.”

  “Your mother’s pronouncements on what men like or don’t like should not be taken as gospel,” he said softly.

  Caro expelled a harried sigh. “To be honest, even if she were right, it wouldn’t matter. Neither Anna nor I would ever feel compelled to give up our interests just to please a man.”

  “Why should you?” murmured Devlin.

  A look of surprise flickered in her eyes, only to be chased away by a flash of mirth. “Your ideas on the subject ought not be taken as gospel either, sir. It’s well known you go out of your way to break every rule of propriety.”

  “True. That’s because, like you and your sister, I don’t feel compelled to behave according to the strictures of a gaggle of narrow-minded prigs.”

  Caro looked uncertain of how to reply.

  “And it appears that neither does Lord McClellan,” he added, as they passed through the entrance of the drawing room. The baron stalked in several moments after them and went to stand by himself in the archway of one of the side alcoves. “Though I daresay he’d bristle at the notion of having anything in common with me.”

  “You, at least, are entertaining,” said Caro frankly. “While he is an odious, obnoxious oaf.”

  “You forgot ‘opinionated.’ It, too, begins with an ‘O.’”

  Her chin took on a slightly defiant tilt. It was, noted Devlin with an inward smile, an unconscious imitation of her older sister’s look when she was annoyed.

  “You may go ahead and mock me, sir,” said Caro. “But I enjoy the rhythms and sounds of language.”

  “I wasn’t mocking you, Miss Caro, I was merely bantering.” He plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and handed one to her. “Your sister mentioned you had an interest in poetry.”

  Caro choked on a swallow of the wine. “Sh-sh-she did?”

  “In the library,” he reminded her. “When the two of you were looking for some books of Robert Burns’s verses, as well as the sonnets of Shakespeare.”

  “Oh, er, yes.” A laugh, which for some reason sounded a little forced. “That’s right.”

  Oddly enough, her blush was back. Though why the mention of verses and sonnets should be making her jumpy as a cat crossing a hot griddle was puzzling.

  “There’s nothing overly shocking about a young lady having an interest in poetry,” he pointed out. “So there must be some other reason your face is now the same shade of crimson as Lady de Blois’s gown.”

  “The wine,” she stammered. “It must be the champagne. I am a little unused to strong spirits.”

  He refrained from smiling. Barely. “Would you prefer ratafia punch?”

  “No, no, I shall just…sip it more slowly.”

  “Now that we’ve established your interest in poetry, I can’t help but be curious as to what sort of books your sister prefers,” he said, once she had taken a tiny swallow without further ill-effects. “She doesn’t strike me as a truly serious, scholarly bluestocking. I can’t quite picture her working on translating Homer from the original Greek or studying Newton’s laws of motion.”

  “True, she’s not overly interested in ancient classics or arcane science. Her tastes run to more modern works.”

  “Such as?”

  Caro gave a vague wave. “Oh, you know, all the popular novels—the works of Mrs. Radcliffe and Charlotte Smith…that sort of thing.”

  “Novels.” Devlin nodded. “Yes, what young lady doesn’t enjoy an entertaining tale?”

  And yet, something didn’t feel quite right about the reply, though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was because Miss Anna Sloane was not at all like the silly, simpering misses who paraded through the drawing rooms of Mayfair. For the most part, they were colorless pasteboard cut-outs, each one indistinguishable from the others.

  Whereas Anna was unique. Interesting. Intriguing. Unpredictable…

  Unlike Caro, he did not feel compelled to choose his adjectives for alliteration.

  “Indeed, sir,” responded Caro brightly. “We ladies do tend to be passionate about writing. That is to say,” she hastily added, “the written word, and how authors can, if they are talented, transport us to a different world for a certain interlude.”

  “Because for ladies the real world is so very limited compared with the world of the imagination?”

  She now looked utterly flustered. “I…I…” Caro heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, look, I see that Anna has finally come down.”

  Devlin turned.

  And his heart leaped into his throat.

  Thump, thump.

  In that single, pulsing moment, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

  The dark colored silk of her gown seemed to ripple over her body like a puff of exotic smoke. Several gold-sparked tendrils capered free of her upswept tresses, as if a lover had caught her in a quick caress. They danced down the arch of her neck, curling and kissing up against the bare skin.

  That fabric and a few finespun wisps of hair could be so exquisitely erotic was a revelation.

  His gaze then slid from her throat and his lungs had no choice but to suck in a much-needed gulp of air. That hitch of movement seemed to kick his brain back into working order.

  How in the name of Lucifer had her mother allowed her to appear with such a plunging décolletage?

  The answer was of course obvious. Lady Trumbull was determined to hook an impressive title and fortune for her second daughter. And the baroness wasn’t above using Anna’s considerable charms as bait.

  All the gentlemen in the room had turned to stare as she passed through the portal, and now they were whispering among themselves. That was to say, Devlin saw their lips moving, and yet the only sound he heard was the thrum of his own blood rushing through his veins.

  Anna, seemingly oblivious to the effect she was having on half the guests, made her way around the display of flowers and came to stand by her sister.

  As they exchanged a quick greeting, Devlin quaffed a swallow of champagne to lubricate his throat. “Perhaps you ought to consider hiring a new lady’s maid,” he said when they were finished. “She seems to be a trifle careless.”

  Anna turned and fixed him with a challenging stare. “You don’t like the way I look?”

  Actually I would rather remove every stitch of clothing from your body.

  “She forgot a few hairpins.” His gaze slid back to her breasts. “And a lace fichu to keep men from letting their eyes rove to places where they should not stray.”

  “Some men,” she said slowly, “rove past all boundaries of propriety.” With that, Anna turned to Caro. “What do you think of Josette’s creative efforts with brush and comb?”

  Her sister studied the casual creation. “Well, as Lord Davenport hinted, you do look a little rumpled. But strangely enough I think it suits you.”

  Rumpled. Caro’s choice of word was all too fitting. Anna looked like she had just risen from bed. There was a heavy-lidded languor to her eyes—a touch of kohl, perhaps, wielded by a hand skilled in seduction.

  “As Josette says,” mused Caro. “A lady with nary a hair out of place is awfully bland.”
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  This French maid was highly dangerous, decided Devlin. Highly dangerous to a man’s peace of mind. But even more dangerous was Anna’s sudden transformation from her usual self to a sultry Siren. He considered himself a savvy judge of woman, but she had him off balance.

  “Um, do you think she could do something different with my coiffeur tomorrow night?” continued Caro. She had lowered her voice, but not quite enough.

  McClellan’s rough-cut voice rumbled in a low laugh as he moved out from the shadow of the curio cabinet. “Aye, I daresay one of those towering designs from the previous century would look very fetching. You know, the ones that feature things like real fruit and stuffed songbirds woven into an elaborate nest.”

  “Ah, it appears that you do possess a sense of humor after all, McClellan,” said Devlin lightly.

  The baron’s mouth curled up ever so slightly at the corners. “It wasn’t meant to be funny.”

  “No,” said Caro tightly. “It was meant to be beastly.” Setting her wine glass on the display pedestal, she turned on her heel. “If you will excuse me, I had better go see what’s keeping Mama.”

  “Is your sister always so excitable, Miss Sloane?” asked McClellan, after watching Caro storm off. “This afternoon I overheard her reciting poetry in one of the side parlors. Not bad poetry, though I didn’t recognize the author, however her emotions do tend to become enflamed.

  “Only when provoked.”

  “Quite deliberately provoked,” murmured Devlin.

  “That,” said Anna, turning her frown on him, “is rather like the pot calling the kettle black, sir.”

  “On the contrary. When I choose to wield my tongue like a rapier, I do so only against opponents who know how to defend themselves,” he replied.

  McClellan’s eyes darkened to a shade of gunmetal grey. “Just what, precisely, are you accusing me of, Lord Davenport?”

  “Bad manners,” answered Devlin. “I don’t know you well enough to say for sure whether you are a cowardly cur.”

  “I should call you out for that insult,” snarled McClellan through his clenched teeth.

  “It would be a waste of breath. As I told you, I consider duels to be a nonsensical waste of energy as well as sleep.”

  “There are other ways of settling a matter of honor,” growled McClellan. But before he could elaborate, Lady Dunbar approached with Count Rupert and Colonel Polianov in tow.

  “Alec, might I draw you away from your present company to answer a few shooting questions these gentlemen have?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he muttered. Inclining a curt bow to Anna, he moved off to join his cousin.

  “Well, well,” remarked Devlin, as the Russian envoy began to argue loudly with McClellan over what type of gunpowder performed best in the damp conditions of the Scottish moors. “What a jovial group of guests have been assembled here. It will be a miracle if the only blood shed this month is that of the game birds.”

  Chapter Eleven

  You appear to have made an enemy of the baron,” said Anna.

  Devlin shrugged. “I assure you, he is not the first.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” Despite McClellan’s boorish behavior, a part of her was grateful to him for the distraction. The exchange of heated words had kept her from feeling unspeakably awkward in her first meeting with the marquess since…

  “But I find it curious that you went out of your way to defend Caro,” Anna went on. Or perhaps she had only imagined the spark of real anger in his eyes. At the moment, her usually solid judgment was subject to question. “You keep insisting that you have no sense of gentlemanly honor.”

  “Don’t mistake my needling for nobility,” shot back Devlin. “McClellan takes himself too seriously. I merely felt his pride needed a prick or two.”

  “You are not concerned that he possesses a volatile temper and a dislike of English aristocrats?” asked Anna.

  “Not particularly.”

  “And yet,” she replied, “it seems to me that he has a great deal of anger seething inside him.”

  “Oh, yes, he is angry.” A sardonic twitch pulled at his mouth. “Mostly at himself because he is attracted to your sister and doesn’t wish to be.”

  Anna wanted to dismiss the statement as absurd, but a momentary reflection on the baron’s behavior around her sister compelled her to admit that the marquess raised an interesting point. “You think he’s deliberately seeking to make her dislike him, so that there’s no chance of an acquaintance developing?”

  “Something like that,” said Devlin, looking rather smug.

  “You have a devious mind, Lord Davenport.”

  “Well, apparently we think alike.”

  For someone who took pains to appear a frivolous wastrel, he had a very clever wit.

  To go along with his very clever imagination. And his very clever hands.

  At the thought of his skilled fingers, and how adept they were at manipulating the most delicate of mechanisms, Anna felt her flesh begin to prickle with heat.

  Don’t, she warned herself. Don’t blush. Don’t betray how much his maddeningly masculine presence affected her rebellious body. Forcing her thoughts back to the baron, Anna suddenly recalled the list she had found in his work room.

  “Speaking of devious, McClellan was one of the names you had marked with an ‘X’ on the paper hidden in your book. Why the interest in him?”

  “Miss Sloane, as I’ve said before, you really ought to cease poking your nose in places it doesn’t belong.”

  The condescending comment made her forget any lingering feelings of embarrassment. “Oh? And just how do you propose to stop me?” she challenged. “Here, in the drawing room, you can’t resort to the same sort of distraction you used earlier today.”

  Devlin leaned in, a fraction closer than was proper in polite company. “You call what went on between us a distraction?”

  “What would you call it?” demanded Anna, then immediately decided she had made a tactical mistake. “No, no, don’t answer that,” she muttered.

  A devilish glint hung for an instant on the dark curl of his lashes…

  The small valley between her breasts suddenly began to bead with sweat. Really, it was most unfair of the Almighty. No man ought to be blessed with such sensuous eyes.

  And then he smiled.

  Had he noticed her involuntary reaction? The dratted man seemed to have a sixth sense for Sin.

  “Miss Sloane, there are a number of words I could use to describe our encounter. But no matter how softly I whisper”—his breath was now tickling her cheek—“none of them ought to be uttered in public.”

  She edged back a step, hoping he couldn’t hear the quickening thump-thump of her heart.

  “Miss Sloane, Lord Davenport, might I join you?” Prince Gunther paused politely by the display of roses. “Or am I interrupting a private conversation?”

  “Not at all,” responded Anna.

  “Excellent.” He came to stand by Devlin, who had assumed a bored slouch. “I wanted to tell you that I found a lovely fourteenth-century illuminated Book of Hours in the manuscript section of the library. The colors and gold leaf detailings are exquisite, and I thought you might like to see it tomorrow when I return from the moors.”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t plan any leisure activities,” drawled Devlin. “Our Scottish Huntmaster has made it known—with fiendish delight, I might add—that he intends on driving us into the ground. To begin with, he demands that we assemble in the Gun Room at the God-benighted hour of five in the morning.”

  “Oh, I am quite used to early hours and vigorous exercise during a hunting excursion,” replied the prince. “It’s quite bracing.”

  “You are clearly a better fellow than I am.” Devlin gave an exaggerated shudder. “I had better go find another drink to fortify myself for the coming ordeal.”

  Anna deliberately avoided meeting his gaze. “Retiring at an early hour after supper might be a better option, Lord Davenport.�
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  “Sleep? What a tiresome thought,” replied Devlin. “Especially when a house party presents so many more enjoyable activities to engage in.” With that he sketched a bow and sauntered off.

  “An interesting fellow,” observed Prince Gunther.

  Anna expelled an exasperated sigh. “That is a very charitable description.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “I had assumed the two of you were good friends, given how often Lord Davenport seeks out your company.”

  “Not exactly.” She wasn’t quite sure how explain their relationship. “As you have noticed, the marquess finds it diverting to needle people. That I react to his barbs seems to amuse him, so perhaps that’s the reason.”

  The prince raised a brow. “That sounds rather ungentlemanly.”

  “Yes,” agreed Anna. “So it does.”

  “Have you finally tired of young innocent girls?”

  Devlin looked up from the amber-dark depth of his whisky.

  “They are so naïve, non?” went on Lady de Blois. “I confess, it surprised me that you paid them any attention.” With a graceful little flourish—a gesture that had likely been perfected in front of a looking glass, he thought cynically—she tapped her fan lightly against his shoulder. “Until I heard that the elder one has recently been gifted with a very generous dowry.”

  He smiled, though his hand tightened around his glass. “Yes, money is very seductive.”

  A low, trilling laugh rippled through the air. “Yes, indeed.” Sidling closer, she toyed with the fringe of her shawl, shifting its folds just enough to expose a better view of her gown’s low-cut bodice. “But so are other things.”

  “Like baubles?” he suggested.

  Another laugh. “Oui. I like things of beauty, like precious gems, gleaming gold.” A pause. “And handsome men.”

  It was a blatant invitation to strike up a more heated flirtation, which fitted perfectly with his duties for Thorncroft. And yet, he found himself ignoring the opportunity.

  “Has your missing emerald been found?” he asked.

  Her mouth pursed to a pout. “Not yet. The servant quarters have been thoroughly checked, however Lord Dunbar is reluctant to offend his other guests by ordering a search of their rooms. He has, however, offered to reimburse me for its loss at the end of the house party if it hasn’t been found.”