The Devilish Mr. Danvers: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (12 page)

Shifting his attention to Hedley, he saw her gaze dip to his mouth.

“I think I should like to try one,” she said.

Montwood missed a note but recovered. Rafe missed a breath
and
a heartbeat. And he wasn’t sure he
could
recover. Not at the thought of Hedley wrapping those berry-stained lips around the tip of a . . . cheroot.

Hedley’s eyes widened. “
Oh dear
. Is it not an occupation for a lady?”

“It depends on the lady,” Rafe said unable to shake free of the images sprouting in his mind. “Though many in society would frown upon it.”

“Oh.” She looked so disappointed that he was tempted to offer her one anyway. And teach her exactly how to hold it, light it, draw on it . . .

But then Montwood interrupted a perfectly good fantasy. “Why don’t the two of you dance?”

“I’d much rather hear you play,” Hedley said quickly.

Though thankful for the rescue, Rafe pressed his hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

Montwood laughed. “Yes, my dear, you must allow Danvers to step on your feet
before
you refuse him.”

She pursed her lips as if in thought. “I suppose I should have confessed that I do not know
how
to dance, rather than wound your ego.”

“There is no shame in that. You are among friends,” Montwood added, pouring on the charm. “And if the notion of dancing with Danvers lacks appeal, then I’d be more than happy to be your first partner.”

Rafe growled at the thinly veiled innuendo.

Montwood would
never
dance with Hedley. Prepared to tell him just that, Rafe opened his mouth. But then he closed it again. This was what he
wanted
. Why did he need to keep reminding himself?

“I’d prefer not to dance at all, if you don’t mind. I’m not graceful like Calliope.” Hedley gazed at the couple with something akin to longing in her expression. “They move as one.”

Relief washed over Rafe. While he knew he needed to encourage a romance between Montwood and Hedley, the idea of watching Montwood become the first to dance with her turned Rafe’s stomach to stone—much like the undercooked potatoes in this evening’s meal.

Just as he was about to lift his hand to discreetly press it against his gut, Boris appeared beside him and angled his head underneath that hand, begging for a scratch. Rafe complied, appreciating the distraction. But only for a moment, because then Boris ambled over to the piano bench and wedged his nose between Montwood and Hedley. If Rafe didn’t know any better, he would swear that the dog was looking at him with expectation.

Hedley scratched Boris’s head absently as she continued to study Montwood’s fingers over the keys. Behind him, Everhart and Calliope had likely forgotten anyone else was in the room as their dance went on and on. And Rafe felt like an outcast.

He didn’t like it.

Rafe turned to the window. As if Mother Nature mirrored the sentiment, a flash of lightning lit up the gray dusk. In the reflection of the glass, he saw Hedley stand, her expression wide with worry.

“It’s later than I thought,” she said. “I’d better return to Greyson Park before the storm arrives. Thank you all for your wonderful hospitality.”

Montwood ceased playing instantly. “Nonsense. You must stay.”

Calliope moved apart from Everhart. “We cannot let you risk your health in this weather. Surely the storm will be upon you too soon. Please stay. I’ve so enjoyed our time together and don’t want it to end.”

“Woof,”
Boris offered, earning another scratch behind the ears.

Hedley turned to Rafe, but he didn’t say anything at all. If she decided to leave, he would insist on walking with her and seeing her safely inside. The temptation to linger, light a fire, and wait out the storm would likely develop into something far more scandalous.

Yet if she stayed, then she would be sleeping in a room beneath the same roof as he. The temptation to pad down the hall and rap on her door, solely to see to her comfort, would likely lead him down the same path of ruin.

There was no way he could win.

CHAPTER TWELVE

H
edley had never slept better in her life. For the first time in years, she had a feather pillow and mattress—both as soft as clouds—instead of rough, lumpy straw that made crunching sounds each time she shifted.

Heavy blue satin bedclothes trimmed in white fur had kept her warm all through the night. This morning before dawn, a maid had even entered her room to light a fire in the hearth and sweep out the old ash. Hedley had thanked her, which ended up startling the maid because, apparently, people usually slept while she went about her work.

Hedley felt safe here at Fallow Hall and comforted by the lack of groaning and creaking coming from the walls surrounding her. Sometimes, she feared that Greyson Park would collapse on her.

Calliope’s chambermaid had found more clothes in the attic. Apparently, another crate hosted scores of day dresses, underclothes, shoes, and hatboxes. One of the dresses was a walking dress. Although more than a decade out of fashion, as Meg had told her, Hedley couldn’t wait to see what it looked like.

Throwing back the covers, she raced across the room and washed. Donning this design of dress took her quite a bit longer than she imagined. In the end, however, she enjoyed the fit.

The bright plum-colored muslin hugged her torso in a way that might have been scandalous if not for the short velvet-trimmed jacket that hosted two rows of buttons. At her waist, the dress fell in thick pleats down to the floor. There was even a pair of half boots. Of course, these too pinched a bit, reminding her that these clothes weren’t truly hers. But when she saw her reflection in the mirror, she didn’t mind at all.

This was all such a wonderful dream that she never wanted to wake from it.

Outside her bedroom door, she was surprised to find Boris, sprawled out and looking like a spilled vat of lumpy gray gravy. Lifting his head, he yawned before assembling himself into a standing position.

“Were you my guardian last night?” She reached out to run a hand from the top of his head down the length of his spine, earning a tail wag. “I don’t suppose anyone else is awake this morning.”

Boris’s tail wagged faster. He looked at her with his head tilted to one side. Then, as if he’d understood, he headed down the hall for a time before he looked back over his shoulder.

“Do you want me to follow you?”

She received a low
woof
in reply. So, with nothing better to do, she followed.

After a series of long halls adorned by polished tables topped with fresh flowers, beautiful landscape paintings on the walls, and even a statue or two, Boris suddenly stopped in front of a door.

Hedley knew enough from her tour of Fallow Hall to realize that this was a bedchamber door. “No, Boris, you shouldn’t have brought me here,” she scolded in a whisper.

But before she could lure him away, the dog lifted a massive paw and scratched the door.

Hedley reached down and took his paw in her hand. “I didn’t expect you to wake someone.”

Was she actually having a conversation with a dog? Perhaps she was mad after all. Yet just as she turned to slip away unnoticed, the door opened.

“Boris, is that—” Rafe Danvers appeared in the doorway, wearing nothing more than a pair of perfectly snug buff breeches.
Perfectly
. . . she swallowed . . .
snug
.

For an instant, they both simply stared at each other—lips parted, breathing halted, squishy
pwum-pum-pum
heartbeat. At least, on her part. She didn’t know about Rafe, but he didn’t appear to be breathing either.

Even though she knew it was rude to stand there, she couldn’t move. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Her eyes moved. Several times, in fact. At first, it was nothing more than a glance. And then a more
lingering
perusal.

Rafe Danvers was magnificent.

“You have hair on your chest,” she said, the words tumbling out unheeded. Short, dark curled hairs dusted the defined muscles of his chest and down the ridges of his abdomen, disappearing beneath the waist of his breeches. She wondered if the hair continued. Then, as her gaze slid down to the heavy fall of his breeches and past those thickly muscled thighs, she saw that the bottom half of his legs and even the tops of his feet were dusted with dark hair too.

Why the sight of it caused her stomach to dip and her body to heat, she wasn’t certain. But she didn’t mind at all.

Lifting her gaze, she took in the sight of his arms, the breadth of his shoulders, the tight cording of his neck, and prominence of his Adam’s apple. Hedley knew, from this point forward, she would never be able to look at Rafe without imagining him just . . . like . . . this.

She let out a slow, appreciative breath. Her palms grew damp and suddenly, she wanted to unbutton her jacket in order to breathe easier.

The cording of Rafe’s neck tightened as his Adam’s apple shifted. “Have you come to my door to barter yourself for Greyson Park?”

The gruff sound of his voice cut through the thick fog in her mind. Yet his words didn’t make sense.

“I already hold Greyson Park. It would make more sense for you to barter yourself.” Suddenly, she realized what she’d said. With a start, her gaze flew to his. She covered her mouth with her hand. “I did not mean to suggest that . . . I don’t even know why I’m here . . . Forgive me.”

And then, Hedley was even more thankful for the extra fabric of the walking dress, because she picked up her skirts, turned, and ran.

A
quarter hour later, Rafe found Hedley in the music room. Sitting at the piano bench, she stared blankly down at the keys. The image of her admiring every inch of his form was burned into his mind. He wondered if the image of his body was burned into hers.

He doubted he would ever forget the heat and hunger he’d witnessed in her eyes. They’d turned dark, like indigo cloth. In that moment, he would have willingly—foolishly—taken
her
over the promise of Greyson Park. Then he would have regretted it for the rest of his days.

Thankfully, she’d run away and saved them both.

“I am appalled by what I said to you,” she whispered, apparently having noticed him after all.

He stepped into the room. “But not appalled by how you stood there, imagining me undressed?”

Her head snapped up as she glared at him. “You were already undressed.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

Carnation pink flooded her cheeks and she pursed those lips. “I am unwilling to bargain for Greyson Park, no matter the currency.”

“Pity.” He grinned and let his gaze wander over her form—what little he could see of it from her position behind the piano.

She straightened and pressed a hand over the buttons of her jacket, as if to protect them from his perusal. “Do you expect recompense?”

“No,” he said, though pure carnal desire made him amend his answer. “Not at the moment, at least.”

Her eyes grew wider as he stepped closer. “I was not offering.”

He sat beside her and put the topic aside for now. In order to keep his hands occupied, he played a simple tune that he’d first learned as a child. Or at least, it had been simple when he was a child. Now, his fingers trolled awkwardly over the keys, and he wished he hadn’t played at all.

“As you can see, I do not have Montwood’s innate ability to string notes together into a harmonious melody.”

“He is rather skilled,” she remarked.

Her blunt statement kindled a spark of jealousy within him. It was ludicrous to keep feeling this way when having her admire Montwood suited his own primary goal. “Perhaps you would care to try.”

Her fingers floated reverently over the surface of the keys. “I wouldn’t want to spoil it.” She whispered the words so softly that he almost didn’t hear them.

“Montwood bangs away on these keys day and night. I hardly think—” The rest of what he was going to say died abruptly when he saw her stark expression. She actually believed what she’d said. “You’re serious? No. That is utter nonsense.”

He shook his head and took hold of her hands. For an instant, he forgot his purpose. The feel of her bare flesh against his distracted him. Her skin was soft and cool but marked with tiny abrasions. He rubbed his thumb over the nearly healed scratch on her middle finger. Then tenderly, over another that marked her knuckles. Her palms began to heat as his fingertips caressed the barest of calluses. Placing her hands beneath his, he pressed down on the keys and made a harsh, discordant noise.

Hedley cringed.

“There. Nothing spoiled,” he said, lifting away his hands.

Looking down, she touched the keys, but barely. Her slender fingers mostly hovered over the ivory. Her breasts rose and fell in quick shallow breaths, as if she felt like a thief, afraid of being caught. “You don’t think he would mind?”

“Not at all.” Rafe was arrested by the sight of her. Had he once regarded her face as odd? Impossible. Especially now, with her eyes so bright and eager that it made him ache. The air around her hummed, and those copper strands in her hair seemed to possess their own light. Her world was fresh and new, every moment a first step. A first glance. A first touch. A first
kiss
. . .

A heady, drunken feeling arose inside him, making him dizzy and begging to be part of each one of her firsts.

“All right then.” She spread her fingers, each touching a different key. Starting with the little finger on her left hand, she pressed down, one note at a time. When she ended with the little finger on her right hand, she drew in a quick breath and faced him.

“That was . . . ” Her smile seemed to make her words evaporate.

“Lovely,” he supplied. “Now, try it again.”

She did. And then she repeated the motion in the opposite direction. “Oh, listen. These were the notes his melody started with. Do you remember?” She played three notes, two from her left hand and one from her right.

Distracted, Rafe found himself nodding.
Were
those the same notes? “Surely you couldn’t have remembered the first three notes after hearing the melody played only once.”

“It went like this.” She pressed her lips together and hummed a perfect representation of the cotillion that Montwood had played the night before.

The flesh of his brow furrowed. “How are you doing that?”

“I’ve always been fond of music.” She smiled and found a fourth and fifth note among the keys. “I used to hide behind the tapestry that concealed the servants’ hallway and listen to Ursa’s piano tutor for hours.”

Ursa’s piano tutor but not hers
, he thought. A familiar rush of anger aimed at Hedley’s family filled him. She’d been kept a secret from the outside world and all because of a tragedy that had caused her to fear carriages. He could only imagine how accomplished she could have become with the right instruction. And yet . . .

If she’d had a different life, then he wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing her in this beautiful, unguarded moment. His utter enjoyment of watching her clashed with his complete loathing for her family. The feelings within him were as harsh and discordant as that first press of the keys had been.

He felt a keen separation in his thoughts. There was Hedley. And then there was her family.

He didn’t see her as the enemy, but she was still an obstacle in his path to getting what he wanted. He couldn’t risk losing Greyson Park when he was so close to achieving his goal. “Montwood would be an excellent piano tutor for you.” He bit back the bile that collected at the back of his throat.

“I wouldn’t want to impose. People have taken too much from him already.” She shook her head. Humming softly, she somehow managed to find the next note and then beamed. “I never knew it would be this easy.”

“It isn’t.” He laughed, trying to ignore the fresh wave of jealousy that rushed through him when she’d come to Montwood’s defense. Surely they couldn’t have formed an attachment already. “Otherwise, I would be able to play. Instead, all I do is whistle.”

Her attention on the piano ceased and she angled toward him, her knee brushing his. But she didn’t seem to notice—or mind—because she didn’t pull away. “I’ve heard you, and I’ve heard the servants whistle before, but I could never understand how it was done. Show me.”

“Demanding bit of baggage,” he teased, shaking his head. “It isn’t something you learn from watching. It is something you learn from practicing.”

She huffed. “I
have
practiced, but only air comes out, and I sound like a leaky window in a storm.”

Because he saw how earnest she was, he tried not to laugh. He wasn’t entirely successful. Holding up a finger, he said, “Now imagine this holds a candle flame you wish to blow out.”

He realized in the next moment that this was a terrible idea.

She puckered those lips and blew on the tip of his finger. A swift jolt of arousal tore through him.

“Like that?”

Yes. I like that very
, very
much
. He cleared his throat and shifted on the bench. His hand grazed one of the folds of her skirt, directly above her knee. He tried not to linger, but the contact made him abruptly aware of the soft muslin of her dress. He’d noticed earlier how it matched the color of her lips. Those temptingly sweet lips . . .

Hedley looked down at his hand and then met his gaze. “As you know, I’ve had no experience with societal rules. Right now, you have that same look about you that you had last night when I expressed a desire to try a cheroot. It makes me wonder if I’m doing something improper.”

“You shouldn’t sit so close to me,” he warned, though still unable to draw his hand away.

She searched his gaze. “I sat this closely to Montwood last night, yet he did not rest his hand on my knee or look at me the way you are looking at me now.”

Her unguarded honesty was going to kill him. It was only fair that he give her some of his own. “Because I’m a scoundrel, Hedley. I cannot be trusted to do the correct thing. Not where you’re concerned.”

“You are leaving proper conduct up to me?” She frowned. “Essentially, you’re saying that I—or any young woman in society—is expected to draw back, even when everything inside of her is telling her not to. I don’t understand. Why am I meant to ignore the fact that I like the feel of your hand on my knee?”