The Devilish Mr. Danvers: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (5 page)

Then, she made the mistake of looking over her shoulder.

The majority of the carpet was still rolled in a log, taking up half the staircase. She issued a sound of disgust. This work was beyond exhausting. Yet she refused to stop. This was her home. She wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Ursa to arrive and threaten to take possession of Greyson Park. Hedley was prepared to fight for it.

At least, she
hoped
she was prepared. Battling her sister had always been next to impossible.

Ursa had learned the power of manipulation early on in her life. Not only that, but the family greed had the strongest hold on her. It was no secret why Hedley had never received clothes of her own. Ursa had blackmailed Mother with threats of revealing Hedley’s
ailment
to society, as well as the common suspicion that she was not a true Sinclair.

Wanting no reminder of Hedley’s existence to disrupt her position in society, Mother had submitted to Ursa’s demands time and time again, until there had been no further need for blackmail. Until it had become common practice to pretend Hedley didn’t exist. And soon enough, people simply forgot that she did.

Even the servants had grown used to looking through her.

“But that is over,” Hedley reminded herself. Grandfather had given her a home of her very own. Still, she wondered why. Now that he was gone, however, she would never know. Looking around at the slanted doorways and cracked walls, she smiled, regardless of the reason. Hers. This was all hers.

At least, for now. Until Ursa . . .

Before she could finish the thought, Hedley heard the unmistakable jangle of rigging. Her ears were always tuned to the sound of a horse and carriage. And each time she heard it, she relived part of her worst nightmare.

It took a moment before she could draw a breath. She told herself that it was merely Mr. Tims returning from the market. Then, however, she remembered that the caretaker’s rheumatism had a “fierce hold” on him today. Which meant that he would remain in his cottage for the day.

Perhaps it was Rafe Danvers, dropping by to
notice
her again. Yet that wish was altogether foolish and abruptly crushed the moment she heard Ursa’s unmistakable laugh.

A shock of panic froze Hedley to the spot. Earlier, she’d left the front door open to air the house. The last thing she wanted was for Ursa to see that as an invitation.

Another sharp peal of laughter broke through, sending Hedley into motion.

Scrambling down the stairs, half straddling the rolled carpet, she tried not to lose her footing. Her stockings snagged too many times to count. The hem of her dress ripped . . . again. And now, a hunk of tattered muslin drooped between her feet, tripping her as she rushed across the foyer and over the threshold. She slammed the door closed behind her.

At the end of the path, Ursa’s head quirked toward the sound. Her dark eyes narrowed. Slipping a hand into the crook of her husband’s arm, they continued forward with the appearance of having come all this way for a stroll.

Nathan Cole was a handsome, robust sort of man, broad shouldered and barrel-chested, with wavy light brown hair and a square jaw. He’d made a fortune in fur trading. Ursa could have done no better, especially when her husband’s calf-eyed gaze made him appear as though he worshipped the ground she walked upon.

Beside him, Ursa was as beautiful as ever. Dark, lustrous hair. Dark, exotic features.
Dark, greedy soul
.

Beneath a smart burgundy hat, which matched her velvet pelisse, Ursa’s expression turned mocking with the purse of her lips. “Surely this
creature
before me couldn’t be Hedley.”

“None other,” Hedley replied, hating that her voice quavered. If she had learned anything from her sister, it was that a hint of cowardice only whetted Ursa’s appetite. Therefore, Hedley stood her ground, hoping to hide the fact that her legs were trembling. The tremors were so violent that she feared the narrow stone landing beneath her feet would begin to crack.

“Mother said you’d turned quite
cowish
while I was away. Of course, I didn’t believe her. Until now. What have you been eating—aside from
everything
?”

Hedley drew in a breath. Her ill-fitting stays and dress cinched around her breasts like barrel straps. “It’s
always
a pleasure to see you, Ursa, and you, Mr. Cole.”

“Miss Sinclair,” Mr. Cole said with a pasted smile, enunciating the
r
at the end of her name in a way no native Brit would.

“Dear, dear simpleton”—Ursa trilled another high laugh—“you should curtsy before us. Mr. Cole is fourth in line for a baronetcy.”

The first time they’d met, six years ago, Mr. Cole had been
seventh
in line. Hedley couldn’t help but wonder if her sister had since killed off the other three. In fact, Hedley could almost hear Ursa laughing over the dead bodies as she crossed their names off a list.
“Only three more to go
,
darling,”
she’d likely say while blowing a kiss to Mr. Cole.

Hedley did not curtsy. Even though she wasn’t at all certain about the rules of society, she instinctively knew that Ursa did not deserve one. Not only that, but she didn’t trust her legs not to buckle beneath her. “If you came all this way for a visit—”

“Not far at all,” Ursa interrupted. “You see, we decided to stay with Aunt Corliss. Her home is not four miles away. It is such an easy distance, in fact, that we may drop by whenever we choose.”

Hedley’s stomach churned. “Greyson Park is in no state for company. It had been abandoned and untended for too long.”

“Hmm . . . yes. And doesn’t that make one wonder why Grandfather would choose such a place for you?” Ursa’s mocking gaze swept over the façade. “Truly, this is not an improvement over the attics at Sinclair House. You should return home, where you belong, and leave this hovel to rot. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Cole?”

Nathan Cole cast an appraising—and far less condemning—gaze over the structure. “Greyson Park is not as fine as Sinclair House. Although if we were to find that it is still part of your dowry, then we could tear this down and build a hunting box.”

Tear down Greyson Park! A new shock of terror gripped Hedley’s lungs in a vise. She staggered back a step until she was pressed against the door. Even though she was outside, she felt like a cornered stable cat. It took a good deal of effort not to bare her teeth. “Ursa never wanted Greyson Park.”

Mr. Cole did not respond. Her sister’s lips slowly spread into a smile. “I want it now. That is all that matters.”

“All that matters is my name on the deed,” Hedley replied.

Her sister’s eyes glinted in the sunlight. “I thought perhaps you would be smart enough by now to realize how pointless it is to fight against me. But I see nothing has changed.” She clucked her tongue. “Part of me is glad, you know. I so enjoy teaching you your place.”

“My place is here.”

Ursa looked up at her husband and batted her eyes. “Darling, doesn’t she sound just like that parrot we saw on our travels—the one that kept repeating the same inane phrase over and over again?”

“Yes,” he answered with a pitying glance at Hedley. In that moment, she realized that Mr. Cole
believed
she was the family lunatic, one who did not know her own mind. “I believe the bird’s owner kept it locked in a cage all its life for its own protection.”

Locked away
. . . Hedley swallowed. Her throat had gone impossibly dry. She was unable to say anything before Ursa and Mr. Cole turned and walked the path toward their carriage.

Leaning against the door for support, Hedley realized she couldn’t fight them alone. She needed help.

Unfortunately, the only person who valued Greyson Park as much she did was Rafe Danvers. But if she asked for his assistance, she might end up losing her home anyway.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
he sky darkened ominously as Hedley approached Fallow Hall the following morning. She didn’t want to enlist Rafe Danvers’s assistance, but Ursa had left her little choice.

Hedley didn’t believe there was treasure at Greyson Park. She’d searched every room she could. There were a number of them, however, with the doorframes tilted in such a way that wedged the doors in their jambs. No amount of budging had worked so far.

She’d like nothing more than to open every door, just to prove to Ursa that there was no treasure. Yet even Hedley knew that if Ursa was determined to find treasure at Greyson Park, seeing empty, treasure-less rooms would not deter her. Not at all. Because then, Ursa would simply tear it down. She would stop at nothing.

As if sensing her thoughts, Boris offered a supportive
woof
beside her.

She wished he’d been around yesterday. Although he’d likely gone into hiding the moment he’d heard Ursa’s piercing laugh. Now, pausing in front of the wide oaken door, Hedley scratched Boris behind the ears.

A large iron knocker in the shape of a ring of twisted rope hung from the center of the black door. It almost resembled a noose. Her throat seemed to tighten as she reached for it. Could she really go through with this?

Before she found her answer, Boris yawped.

In the next instant, the door opened as if under his command. A stately, somber-faced man, dressed in black finery and a pristine white cravat, answered the door. In such attire, she knew he couldn’t be the butler. The butler at Sinclair House—in fact, all the servants—dressed in green livery and appeared as if they all belonged to a traveling carnival.

Therefore, this man must be one of the other gentlemen living here. “Yes, miss?”

Hedley glanced down to her shoes. Though soiled from the wet path, the red color offered a sense of assurance. After yesterday’s reminder of how little she knew about the proper rules of society, she did what she imagined anyone in her position would do. She curtsied.

It wasn’t until her knees were bent, with one leg positioned behind the other, that she realized she didn’t know how
long
to hold a curtsy. Just in case, she remained that way while she spoke. “Miss Hedley Sinclair of Greyson Park to see Mr. Danvers.”

The man’s thin gray eyebrow twitched. “Right this way, miss, if you please.”

“Thank you.” Assuming it was safe to rise, she did so. Boris traipsed in ahead of her, while the nice gentleman stepped aside and even held the door for her.

Gray stone walls rose up to a lofty arched ceiling. Above her, an immense chandelier hung suspended from a black chain with myriad branches shooting off from the center like a dark spider web. The front hall opened up like the chapel at Sinclair House. Only the chapel was far more ornate—with plaster moldings, gilded mosaics on every wall, and harp-playing cherubs overhead—to the point of being suffocating. She found the dark, masculine simplicity of this hall appealing.

The gentleman escorted her inside. She wanted to ask his name but to inquire seemed to go against what Rafe had said about proper introductions.

“Please wait here in the drawing room, Miss Sinclair,” the man said and summarily disappeared.

A wide expanse of windows took up the far wall, revealing a view of the darkening sky. The rolling green landscape gradually blended into the budding treeline that separated Fallow Hall and Greyson Park.

From this vantage point, her home looked like a quaint cottage with tiny curls of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney. In truth, the manor was much larger than even she warranted, and it had turned out to be quite a bit to manage for one person. With seven rooms on the ground floor and eight bedrooms upstairs—not to mention the cellar, the cook’s chamber, and the butler’s pantry—she still hadn’t cleaned it all. As for the attic, she was determined
never
to step foot in there.

Distracted by her thoughts, she turned away from the window and sat down on the midnight blue sofa. Opposite her stood an immense glass-fronted armoire. Inside, an assortment of colorful vases, crosscut stemware, and bowls that resembled flowers captured the meager light from the window, transforming the cabinet into a wondrous display of color.

Captivated and unable to sit still, she crossed the room for a closer look. She didn’t dare open the cabinet doors. Instead, she simply looked her fill, gazing from one shelf to the next.

“Mr. Danvers for Miss Hedley Sinclair of Greyson Park,” the gentleman announced from the door, inclining his head.

Hedley quickly curtsied again and rose just in time to watch Rafe Danvers stroll into the room. Instantly, her heart squished in that
pwum-pum-pum
sensation. His hair fell in rakish waves over his forehead, and his darkly rich brown eyes were lit with a devilish gleam that made her stomach bobble.

“Why are you curtsying to Valentine?” he asked, his mouth curling into a smirk. “While I’m certain it’s high time someone paid him respect, I do not believe he expects the guests to address him as if he were lord of the manor.”

Hedley felt her cheeks grow warm. So then, he was the butler after all? But with his impeccable dress and manners she . . .

She looked down at her worn clothes, to the frayed hem of yet another dress that was beyond mending. It had once been a cheerful buttercup yellow but was now the color of a dying leaf from an overwatered plant. Soon enough, this garment would meet a similar fate.

She hoped that Valentine had simply recognized her as a recluse with no social graces, instead of someone who intended to mock him. “Please forgive me. I meant no offense.”

“None taken, miss,” he replied with the same stoicism as before. Then, without another word, he turned and left her alone with Rafe.

Clearly, she didn’t belong here. She knew nothing of this world, other than how to blend in with the shadows and slip through doorways unseen. She’d never paid attention to what mattered, to social customs, or even manners of address. Now, she was surprised that Valentine had let her inside at all. It made her wonder at the state of Fallow Hall’s
other
visitors.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company so early in the morning?” Rafe asked, drawing her attention.

She glanced to the small rosewood clock on the mantel and noted that it was nearly nine. The servants would have been up for hours by now. Although at Sinclair House, her mother and sister had usually slept past noon. Was that the proper way of things? “Is it too early to pay a call?”

Rafe moved deeper into the room, fishing out the cuffs of his shirt sleeves from beneath his fitted gray coat. The open front exposed a cerulean waistcoat with brass buttons over his lean torso. His breeches, a shade lighter than his coat, were tucked into a pair of glossy Hessians.

Then, before she had the chance to truly appreciate the flex of his muscles as he walked, he stopped in front of the cabinet and faced her. His amused countenance made it clear that he noticed her perusal.

Her cheeks grew warmer.

Even though the door of the parlor remained open, she suddenly felt as if the room were shrinking. As she’d foolishly hoped only a day ago, Rafe was indeed noticing her. From the top of her head—no doubt noting her hair’s dampness because she’d walked in the drizzle without a bonnet—to the fringed knot of her shawl over her breasts, and then all the way down to the tips of her shoes.

His gaze made an equally thorough assessment on the way up. “Yes, it is too early to pay a call.”

“It won’t happen again.” She would have to learn these things gradually, she supposed. It would help if she would stop ogling Rafe Danvers as if he were leg of mutton on a table set for her dining pleasure. At the wayward thought, she bit her upper lip and turned back to the cabinet of glass. “This is quite a lovely collection.”

“And that was a clumsy change of topic,” he said, moving beside her. “A young woman in society usually flirts when given the opportunity.”

How was she supposed to flirt when she could barely think? He stood close enough that she could feel the alluring heat rising from his body. She drew in a breath in an effort to think of a response. When she did, however, her nostrils filled with a pleasant scent that only made her want to draw in another breath. It was
his
fragrance. From their previous encounter, she recognized the woodsy essence and a trace of sweet smoke.

Hedley caught herself rocking onto the balls of her feet to get closer but then quickly fell back onto her heels. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “I am not in society. Nor am I likely to be. Therefore, I have no reason to flirt.”

“You don’t need a reason.” He leaned in, his voice low. The angular cut of his side whiskers seemed to direct her gaze toward his mouth. “Flirting is a skill. You use it to get what you want.”

Hedley forgot why she’d come here . . .
to get what you want
. . .

The more she stared at Rafe’s mouth, the heavier her eyelids seemed to weigh. Why was she suddenly so tired? Perhaps it
was
too early to pay a call. Or perhaps it was because he stood so close that his warmth blanketed her. It would only take a single step to rest her head against his shoulder. “Like a type of currency used in society?”

“An astute observation.” He grinned.

She was definitely out of her element. The least she could do was
try
to keep her wits about her. “Then, I should assume that you want something from me.”

He moved closer, but she dared not imagine that he was under the same trance. No, he was far too skilled in the ways of society for that.

Even so, the curve of his knuckles brushed her cheek. “What shade of pink do you suppose this is?”

“And that was a terrible change of topic.” Believing that he was speaking of one of the colored glass vases in the cabinet, she looked them over. She found deep red, the color of merlot; a blue vase, bright and clear as a summer sky; and daffodil yellow, among other hues. “Besides, I see no pink.”

“No, this color. Here.” His thumb caressed her cheek, his fingers settling beneath her jaw.

Was it possible for a man to have eyelashes that looked as if they were smudged with soot, all soft and curled up at the ends? It didn’t seem possible to her. Yet that’s exactly what she saw as he studied her. Knowing that her skin had betrayed her thoughts in a blush should make her want to shy away. Yet she’d gone too long without being noticed to feel an ounce of shame. Instead, she reveled in the attentiveness of his gaze, the nearness and warmth of his body, and the contact of his flesh on hers—even if it was a false show for him.

While not entirely certain that he expected her to answer, she indulged him. “Some roses are pink.”

“True.” He tilted her chin. Four thin, horizontal lines appeared above the bridge of his nose as if he truly were studying her. “Though when I think of rosy pink, it is darker, redder than this.”

She tasted his breath on her lips. Other than their clumsy spill on the ice, this was the closest she’d ever been to a man. Heat poured from his body, sweeping over her, compelling her to draw nearer to the source. She couldn’t help it.

“Berries are sometimes pink,” she whispered, wondering if he could feel her breath as well.

He licked his lips. “Only
unripe
berries are pink, and you are a most decidedly ripe fruit, sweeting.”

The tone of his voice changed ever so slightly. The silky timbre turned deeper, indulgent, like slipping into a pair of warm velvet slippers.

She wanted to sink into that sound. “Pink carnations.”

“Yes. That’s it.” His hand slipped away. “A carnation pink blush, and berry-stained lips.”

Missing the contact, her chin tilted of its own accord. His gaze slowly dipped to her mouth. Whatever this game was, she wanted it to continue. “Is this a lesson in flirting, or is the color of actual importance?”

Abruptly, he turned from her and headed toward a tasseled bell pull on the far wall. It was almost as if he suddenly wanted to put as much distance between them as possible.

She had her answer. He was only flirting in order to gain something. The only thing she possessed that Rafe Danvers wanted, however, was not for sale. No matter how tempting the currency, she would not give him Greyson Park.

W
as
this a lesson in flirting? If so, then he was the pupil.

Rafe held fast to this spot on the carpet, tempted to wrap the bell-pull strap around his wrist to keep him from standing too close to Hedley again. Yet even a distance apart from her, his blood pulsed hot and heavy in his veins.

Apparently, the long journey from London had left him addle-brained. He’d only planned to test her ability to tempt Montwood. He needed to discover if Hedley knew anything about flirting or teasing, enough to ignite Montwood’s interest. Unfortunately, what Rafe had discovered when he’d held her face and stood recklessly close was that she knew nothing of artifice. Her responses were too open and unguarded.
Far too beguiling
. He’d never witnessed such a curious mixture of desire and innocence before.

It was more alluring than he wanted to admit.

Clearly, he never should have driven so far without a rest. He’d changed horses at Stampton, but nothing more. And all so that he could be reassured by the sight of Greyson Park from this very window.

Standing here in this room, however, he had to wonder why his gaze had not strayed to the window. Not once.

He needed to end their encounter quickly and before he was tempted by another Sinclair.

“And why wouldn’t the exact shade be important? I come from a family of artists, after all.” He tugged the bell pull again for good measure. “And if they were to ask me to describe the wicked Sinclair woman who holds Greyson Park hostage, I would have to be precise.”

“It must be thrilling to come from such a family.” She turned toward the window and clasped her hands. “The freedom. The acceptance.”