Sinfully Yours (14 page)

After reaching the bottom, he made himself go over it again before turning to the next page.

Perhaps he needed spectacles, for the words weren’t making any sense. Unless…

No.
Impossible.

Devlin made himself finish a few more pages, then took a random look at various sections throughout the manuscript, just to be sure he wasn’t mistaken.

“Bloody Hell.”

This time he said it aloud. Of all the things he had imagined that Anna was hiding, this was certainly not one of them.

And yet, the truth was undeniable. Even if the names “Emmalina” and “Count Alessandro” hadn’t been familiar, the prose style was immediately recognizable.

He wondered what the
ton
would say if they ever learned that one of the most popular gentlemen in all of London was not a “he” but a “she.”

On second thought, it was too gruesome to contemplate. Gossip was a blood sport in Town. The tabbies would tear her limb from literary limb.

Frowning, Devlin considered what he ought to do about his discovery. But as he contemplated the conundrum, his gaze couldn’t stop from straying back to the writing on the page…

Good Lord, where had she learned about a man doing
that
in the throes of amorous arousal. He quickly turned the page.

Or
that
?

His brows shot up. This would no doubt be Sir Sharpe Quill’s best-selling novel yet. Assuming the printed pages didn’t ignite in spontaneous combustion before they reached the bookshops.

And yet, despite all the heated passion, there were several little things that Anna did not seem to get quite right.

Which for some reason was rather pleasing.

Devlin was about to continue—in spite of its small flaws, the scene was becoming irresistibly interesting—when he heard the outer door open and shut.

Damnation.
The chambermaids had no reason to be entering the rooms at this hour. Moving silently across the carpet, he peeked through the half-open connecting portal.

Improvise!
He had a moment—maybe two—to decide on a strategy.

S
tepping back to the center of the room, Devlin shot a quick look around and then squared his shoulders as he made up his mind to take the bull by the horns. Flight was not an option. And besides, the coming confrontation should prove extremely…

Explosive?

Anna shouldered open the door, her attention focused on the open notebook in her hands. “Drat,” she muttered, not looking up. “What a pity there are no wolves left in Scotland. Their howls would have added a nicely menacing touch to the midnight scene on the moors…”

She would have bumped into him if he hadn’t made a sudden noise.

“Grrrr.”

Her feet stilled, her head snapped up.

“Why not simply add a pack of predators?” said Devlin. “After all, you are writing fiction, not fact.” He gave a little wave of the manuscript. “Readers will allow you a little leeway with the truth if it adds to the story.”

Anna’s mouth went through a series of tiny contortions, ending in a perfect “O” of outrage.

Seeing as she had not yet mustered the powers of speech, Devlin pressed his advantage. “Speaking of stories, what an interesting plot twist we have here. Who would have guessed that the angelically prim and proper Miss Anna Sloane is really the wildly adventurous—and aggressively erotic—Sir Sharpe Quill?”

She had the grace to blush. Or perhaps it was fury that was bringing the beguiling shade of pink to her cheeks.

“Not I,” he went on. “Even though I am considered to have a
very
evil mind.”

A shiver of silence hung between them, as Anna slowly drew in a measured breath. “You are not only evil,” she rasped. “You are wicked.”

“Talk about wicked.” He waved the pages again, setting off a crackling of paper. “Tsk, tsk.”

Teasing her was irresistible. It was delightfully delicious to watch the play of emotions animate her lovely face. Normally, she kept her feelings hidden beneath a mask of polite good cheer, but at the moment, her features were far more expressive.

If those alluring green eyes were daggers, he would be flayed alive.

“You have had your fun, sir. Now hand back my pages,” snapped Anna. “At once.”

He pulled them back out of her reach.

“Do
not
trifle with me, Lord Davenport,” she warned.

“Or what, Miss Sloane? You’ll shoot me with one of Manton’s pretty little pocket pistols?”

Sparks flashed on the tips of her golden lashes. “I have a deadline to meet. So yes, I’m prepared to cut out your liver with my book knife if need be.”

“I believe you would,” he murmured.

She held out her hand.

“And what would be my fate if I were to make your little secret known to the public?”

“Oh, fie, sir. You wouldn’t dare!”

The challenge stirred some Inner Demon. He felt a devilish smile form on his lips. “
Moi?
The Devil Davenport.” He lowered his voice to a taunting whisper. “Surely you know by now that I have no scruples. About anything.”

Anna’s eyes flared wide in alarm and then steeled to a razored stare. “Give. Me. Back. My. Manuscript.”

The demand awoke several more imps of Satan, who promptly joined the Demon in chorusing yet another provocation.

“But I haven’t finished this chapter.” He glanced down at the page and began reading aloud.

“Stop it,” muttered Anna.

His smile stretched wider as he picked up where he had left off:

“Hmm, not bad. But don’t you think it might be even more provocative if it read ‘quivering mound of peach-colored flesh’ instead?”

Anna uttered a very unladylike oath. “Why does every creature in Creation think he—or she—is a writer?”

Instead of responding to the remark, Devlin resumed reading aloud:

“Hmm, sounds very much like me. Dare I hope that I’ve served to inspire your artistic imagination?”

“You flatter yourself, sir,” said Anna tartly. “Ah, but wait, now that you mention it…”

Devlin wasn’t sure he liked the new gleam that suddenly came to life in her eyes.

“Perhaps I shall have Emmalina discover that Alessandro has a secret passion—that of fashioning intricate
automata
.” She tapped at her chin, letting the words sink in. “I wonder, what should I say he does with them? Sell them to the Sultan for a fortune in precious gems?”

All at once, the game of teasing was no longer proving quite so amusing. “Miss Sloane—”

“No, wait! I have it!” she exclaimed. “Alessandro will design an ingenious winged eagle, complete with real feathers, and just when the dastardly Prince Malatesta and his cohorts have Emmalina and Alessandro trapped at the top of a remote castle tower, he will push all sorts of intricate levers and buttons—and lo and behold, it will whir to life and fly them to safety.”

“Let’s return to the current story, shall we?” growled Devlin.

For the first time since she had entered the room, Anna smiled. Or perhaps it was better describe as a smirk. “Oh, but we authors are always anxious to capture future plot twists and work out the details before they slip away. Trust me, ideas can be slippery as eels.”

“I would rather see this one wriggle out of your fingers.”

“The manuscript, Lord Davenport.” Once again, she held out her hand. “I’m willing to negotiate. You keep my secret safe and I shall do the same with yours.” A regretful sigh. “Though I really do like the eagle idea.”

“Are you blackmailing me, Miss Sloane?” Ye god, writers were more ruthless than he had imagined.

“Call it a meeting of creative minds.”

Watching the heated rise and fall of her bosom was enough to make a man’s brain go blank. If that weren’t enough, several honey-gold curls had come loose and were caressing the shapely curve of one shell pink ear.

If only a meeting of bodies would follow the cerebral connection.

Pulling a pained grimace, he handed over the pages.

“Thank you.” Anna quickly returned the manuscript to its original hiding place and relocked the drawer with a small brass key pulled from a concealed pocket in her cuff.

“Clever,” he commented.

“My maid is a very talented designer. She tells me that in France, it’s called a
poche de billet-doux
.”

“A pocket for love notes,” he murmured.

“Yes, well, ladies must learn all sorts of little subterfuges.” Anna smoothed the lace back in place. “That is, if they wish to have the same freedom as men to be a little adventurous.”

“You have certainly created an inspiring example for those of your sex in Emmalina. However, speaking of sex, your characterization of Count Alessandro leaves a little to be desired.”

Her expression turned a little wary. “In what way?”

“For one thing, a real rake wouldn’t put his hand
here
.” Devlin traced a fingertip along the ridge of her collarbone. “He would put it
here
.”

She squeaked and backed up a few steps, then edged around the corner of the armoire.

Devlin followed, all primal male instincts now fully aroused. “You see, we men are, at heart, primitive creatures. The trappings of civilized manners often yield to the basic hunter-gatherer behavior of our ancient ancestors.”

“M-my father was an expert on primitive cultures,” said Anna. “I’ve read all about your primal urges.”

“Reading is all very well, Miss Sloane. But if you wish to capture the real essence of animal attraction between a man and a woman in your novels, you ought to experience it in the flesh.”

“I don’t need to actually load and fire a cannon to comprehend what it must feel like, Lord Davenport,” she countered. “I can do research and read first-hand accounts—”

Her voice cut off as he hooked a finger in the “V” of her gown’s neckline. “Trust me, certain details get lost in the translation.” Probing a little deeper beneath the fabric, Devlin drew a caress along the top edge of her corset.

She let out a little gasp.

“You see, certain sensations are not easy to describe in words.” Delving past the lacy trim, his teasing finger dipped into the narrow gap between her breasts. “They require a skilled writer who understands the nuances of language.”

Her skin began to quiver as the beat of her heart turned into a pulsing
thud, thud, thud.

That she responded to his touch sent a surge of savage satisfaction through his body.

Oh yes, I am evil and wicked.

“Now pay attention,” he whispered. “If a man were truly bold, he might even attempt…”

Anna pulled away and made another skittish retreat. She was now backed up against the far wall.

“You seem to have run out of room to maneuver.” Devlin grinned as he closed the gap between them. “Now, I wonder—what would Emmalina do?”

Anna swallowed hard, mesmerized for a moment by the fire-bright gleam of his amber eyes. This must be how a helpless fawn felt when coming face to face with a prowling panther in the dead of night, she thought.

But I am not a helpless fawn.

“If you recall from
The Orphan’s Revenge
, Emmalina knows some
very
underhanded and effective ways for dealing with aggressive men.”

“Ouch,” murmured Devlin. And yet, like an arrogant beast, supremely sure of his superior strength, he came a little closer. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She shifted her knee. “That’s exactly the wrong thing to say to an intrepid female who has been forced by Cruel Fate to learn how to defend her honor.”

Devlin began to laugh.

Anna tried to scowl, but instead her lips twitched upward. “Really, sir, this is absurd.”

He seemed to be staring at the tiny pulsepoint beneath her jaw. She felt her blood begin to thrum and her heart kick up to an even faster beat.

“Is it?” he asked, lowering his mouth to within a hair’s breadth of her throat.

Thump, thump.
Her flesh began to tingle as heat spread from the pulsing point and spiraled downward.

“By the by, you have a very lovely neck. Its arch is as graceful as that of a regal swan.”

Her breath seemed to stick in her lungs for just an instant. “D-do you always attempt to seduce your women by comparing them to birds?”

“That depends.” Devlin touched the tip of his tongue to the throbbing spot and let out a soft chuckle on feeling her shiver.

“O-on w-what?”

“On the woman, of course.” He licked again. And again.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.” Anna drew in a shuddering breath. “
I
shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Consider it research.” He raised his head, and she was instantly aware of the loss of his warmth. “As I said, it’s important to apply the same meticulous attention to detail that you show toward inanimate objects—like pistols—to your hero and heroine.”

“Are you really criticizing my love scenes?”

“Merely saying they could be even better.”

Anna tried to spear him with a daggered look, but feared that amusement was dulling its edge. “Really, sir. No novelist likes to hear that her prose leaves something to be desired.”

“Your prose is delightful. I am simply trying to expand your knowledge of the subtle details of lovemaking.”

“I suppose I must defer to your greater experience in the matter.” Anna slanted a glance at the door. “However, what you suggest is too…dangerous.”

“I distinctly remember you saying that a lady ought to be a little dangerous.” Devlin leaned in again, this time to feather a kiss down to the base of her throat. “Besides, Emmalina is more than a little dangerous.”

“I’m not Emmalina.” Her hands, however, seemed to disagree. They crept up the front of his coat and set on the slope of his shoulders. “Well, not really.”

“You don’t sound very certain. I think, perhaps, we ought to engage in a spot of character development. Isn’t that what authors do?”

“But—”

Devlin pulled away and in the space of several heartbeats he rebolted the door and returned to her side. “I doubt that any of the castle servants are as proficient as we are in lock picking,” he murmured as he gathered her into a more intimate embrace. “Now, what page were we on?”

“I—I don’t know. I seem to have lost my place.” Anna swallowed hard. “I think we must start a new chapter.”

“Ah, an excellent suggestion.”

Do I dare?

The Inner Saint was warning that nothing but trouble could come from unleashing untamed passions. While the Inner Sinner was urging that caution—along with all the cursedly confining rules of Society—be cast to the wind.

“I’m not Emmalina,” she whispered again, hoping that voicing the reminder aloud would help her resolve just who she really was.

Devlin pressed a kiss to her brow. “The Creative Muse might have an argument about that.”

“I—I can’t think straight when you do that,” protested Anna.

“Sometimes it’s best not to think, but to simply trust your feelings.”

“But primal passions can be so very dangerous.”

She felt his mouth quirk against her skin. “Ah, that word again.” A note of humor shaded his voice, along with a softer undertone she couldn’t quite define. “You must decide for yourself how much risk you are willing to take.”

For a ruthless rake, he was acting with surprising gentleness. As if, in spite of all his predatory wiles, he was just as uncertain as she was about what scene ought to be written on the page.

Passion
—their actions would be inscribed in indelible ink. There would be no chance for revisions, no crumpling of the paper and starting from scratch.

“Lord Davenport…”