To Love a Scoundrel (Zebra Historical Romance) (3 page)

With a scowl, he stepped into his breeches. "I'm
afraid it will have to do for now. Surely you'll survive a
sennight without me. I have no doubt you'll find someone else to warm your bed in my absence"

"Is that what you think of me, Frederick? That I entertain other men, here in the home that's paid for with
your coin?"

He shrugged as he reached for his shirt. Hell, it didn't
matter to him if she did. With a start, he realized that he
had no feelings whatsoever for the woman, save an appreciation for her carnal talents.

Which, he had to admit, were considerable. No, perhaps he wasn't quite ready to cut her loose-not just yet.

Reaching for his coat, he fished in the pocket and retrieved the ruby and diamond bracelet he'd purchased
only that morning in Bond Street while he'd been out
choosing a betrothal ring for his intended. In haste, he'd
taken the bracelet and a matching ruby and diamond
ring without much consideration. The ring remained
tucked safely away in his traveling case, but he'd shoved
the bracelet into his pocket before heading off to the
townhouse he shared with Molly on Jermyn Streetindeed paid for by his own coin.

With a flick of the wrist, he tossed the bracelet to the
bed. "Here, let this bauble smooth your ruffled feathers"

Just as he expected, Molly squealed in delight. She dangled the bracelet between her forefinger and thumb, the waning sunlight reflecting off the jewels, casting flamecolored prisms of light across the smooth, white walls.

"Oooh, Frederick! It's simply exquisite." Her eyes
danced with greedy pleasure as she slipped it over her
wrist. "Come now," she purred, patting the bed beside
her. "Must you really go so soon?"

"I'm afraid I must." His father did not expect him for
a fortnight, but it wouldn't do at all for him to arrive as
expected. No, timely comings and goings were far too
respectable for Frederick.

Besides, it would vex his father greatly to have his
only living son and heir arrive quite unexpectedly, and
Frederick took perverse pride in vexing the man. And
why not? The Baron Worthington was universally displeased by his son regardless of what Frederick did or
did not do. Therefore, he might as well put a bit of effort
into earning his censure. He hastily pulled on his boots,
then turned to face Molly once more. "But don't fret.
Soon enough I'll be back in Town and in your bed."

The sooner the better, he thought, making an exaggerated bow to the lady before striding purposefully
toward the door.

"Au revoir, mon amour," Molly called out after him,
as if she were a French courtesan instead of the
Whitechapel-doxy-turned-stage-actress that she was.

More than he deserved, really.

Eleanor sighed as she clipped a brilliant red aster and
laid it gently in the basket she carried on her arm. A sparrow dipped beside her ear and she looked up, watching
the bird's flittering path through the branches that fanned
gently in the breeze. Tipping her face up to the sun, she
smiled, allowing the golden rays to heat her skin.

It was pleasantly warm for early September, with
only the smallest trace of autumn chill in the air. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air redolent with the
sweet scents of the garden around her. No sounds save
the buzz of insects, the chirruping of birds, and the occasional bleating of sheep in the distance spoiled the
fine afternoon.

And yet Eleanor was restless. Dissatisfied. Why did
her life have to change so? She'd been happy enough
with the sometimes dull routine of her days-too happy,
in fact, to have taken a husband before now. Two Seasons had passed rather uneventfully, and yet she hadn't
seen fit to accept any of the offers of marriage she'd
received. Not that there had been all that many offers,
but still ...

She shook her head. Just what had she been waiting for? She hadn't sought love-that much was certain. Or
at least she hadn't thought she'd sought love. It seemed
to her that, more often than not, love was a one-sided
affair, leaving one party unaffected and the other pining
away miserably for an affection that would never be requited. Her own parents were a perfect example, and
theirs was not what Eleanor would term an agreeable
marriage.

Instead it seemed perfectly reasonable to allow her
father to choose her husband, now that two Seasons
had passed unsuccessfully-at least her mother had
termed them `unsuccessful.' Eleanor had found them
perfectly pleasant and diverting, even without an acceptable proposal.

However had her father managed to choose the one
man who would put his daughter in danger of suffering
the same fate he did? Eleanor tried to deny any knowledge of her mother's infidelities whenever her brother
was vulgar enough to bring them up, but she knew. And
she knew how her father suffered for it.

There must have been a dozen eligible bachelors he
could have chosen from, gentlemen who might have accepted her. Men who fit the carefully detailed description she'd given him of her ideal husband. Why had fate
seen fit to play such a cruel trick on her?

The distant sound of hooves drew her attention
toward the road. Perhaps she'd call on Selina today-it
was nearly an hour's walk to Marbleton, but some exercise would do her good.

She clipped another fragrant bloom and added it to
her basket. Yes, she would go to Marbleton, but perhaps
she'd take the carriage, instead. It seemed a silly indulgence as she generally enjoyed the walk, but her anxiety mounted most uncomfortably by the hour.

Frederick was expected in less than a fortnight and Eleanor was going mad with nervous anticipation.
Selina's soothing presence and sisterly advice might
help settle her nerves and lend her the confidence
needed to defy her father's wishes.

Were she to flatly refuse to marry Frederick, she supposed her father would not force her to do so against her
will. No doubt his intentions had been well-meaning.
Mama had told him that Frederick Stoneham was the
most elusive and secretly desired bachelor for miles
about, and Papa had no doubt delighted in securing such
an eagerly sought match for his only daughter. Foolish,
foolish man.

But were she to confess the truth to him-tell him exactly why she could not marry Frederick-then he
would surely understand and extricate her from the
agreement. Of course, to confess that she harbored such
silly, romantic notions about a man who hadn't given
her a second thought would be humiliating at best.

Yet the alternative-marrying Frederick-was simply
out of the question. Her only hope was that the past few
years had robbed him of his near-legendary good looks,
leaving him fat, prematurely balding, and wholly unappealing. Entirely unlikely, of course, but if it were so,
then perhaps she would be immune to his charms.

For there was no denying that it was only his appearance that attracted her so, that stirred her blood beyond
reason. Nothing more. There was certainly nothing of
merit to his character-nothing whatsoever to recommend him. Which, of course, made it all the more puzzling that her parents should think this a suitable match.

She resolved to speak with her papa immediately upon
his return from Kent. When he'd first given her the news,
she'd been far too stunned to put forth an effective argument. She must do so at once, before Frederick arrived.

Grasping the stem of a flowering chrysanthemum, she savagely ripped off its blossom and tossed it into her
basket with a scowl.

"Might I ask what that flower did to deserve such
cruel mistreatment?" a decidedly male voice called out,
surprising her so completely that she dropped the basket
to the gravel path at her feet.

"Oooh, sir, you frightened me half out of my wits,"
Eleanor cried, bending down to retrieve the basket.

"Pray forgive me for startling you," the deep voice
said silkily beside her ear, the hint of an Irish brogue
vaguely evident. Their hands met on the basket's handle
and, at last, Eleanor's gaze rose to meet the stranger's.

No! Eleanor snatched her hand back, rising to her feet
with a small gasp. No, it couldn't be. He was not expected for a fortnight-Lord Worthington had said so
quite plainly only two days past. Yet, inexplicably, there
he stood-an older version of the boy who'd haunted
her dreams. And, dear Lord, looking more darkly and
devilishly handsome than she'd remembered.

Grinning at her discomfiture, Frederick Stoneham
bent into an exaggerated bow. "Allow me to introduce
myself I'm-"

"I know who you are," Eleanor snapped.

One black brow arched in surprise. "Is that so? Well,
then, I see my reputation precedes me. In that case,
might you direct me to Lord Mandeville? We've some
business to discuss"

Eleanor swallowed hard before replying. "I'm afraid
Lord Mandeville is not at home. He has removed to
Kent, and isn't expected back for a sennight. Good day,
Mister Stoneham" More than anything, Eleanor wished
to quit his company as expeditiously as possible.

"Ali, but you have me at a disadvantage, one which I
cannot abide. Would it be too much to ask for your name?"

"My name?" Eleanor asked, her voice faltering. Did he not remember her? Her fingers rose involuntarily to
her lips, her cheeks burning with remembered shame
and humiliation.

"Aye, I was under the impression that Lord Mandeville has but one daughter, and you are clearly not that
lady." His eyes narrowed slightly as his gaze slid up
her body, pausing briefly at her decolletage, then rising
to her face. "Though there is a familial resemblance. A
cousin, perhaps?"

Eleanor shivered slightly, uncomfortable under the
weight of his impenetrable stare. His eyes, a darker
brown than she'd remembered, unnerved her. Must he
look at her so directly? She shifted her gaze lower, to his
full lips, to his chiseled jaw in desperate want of a
shave.

His unruly hair reached his shoulders-terribly broad
shoulders-in soft black waves. He looked positively ...
uncivilized. She found herself taking two steps back,
wanting to increase the distance between them. Looking
around wildly, she realized she hadn't even a proper
chaperone about. Wherever had Mama gone off to?

And then the full weight of his insult descended upon
her consciousness. She was clearly not that lady? He'd
stolen a forbidden kiss when she'd been naught but a
girl-a kiss that, try as she might, Eleanor hadn't been
able to banish from her thoughts, even after all these
years. And now he did not even recognize her? Had she
changed so much since then? Or was she just so very
forgettable?

A heated flush climbed her neck as she straightened
her spine and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. "I am
Lady Eleanor Ashton," she said, her voice as haughty
and cool as possible. "And I'll ask that you remove
yourself from my presence at once"

Frederick was sure his mouth hung open like a blithering fool's, yet he could not help but gape. No, this
could not be her-Lady Eleanor, his intended. The Lady
Eleanor he remembered was tall, ungainly, unexceptional at best. But this woman ... No. He shook his
head. Was his memory so very faulty? For this woman
was the essence of feminine grace, the epitome of classic beauty. Drape her in folds of white and she'd be a
goddess. Or a mere mortal Helen of Troy.

She was tall; that much hadn't changed. Frederick
was a solid six feet in height, and yet the top of her head
reached his shoulder. But ungainly? No. Her slender
neck was long and proud as a swan's, her limbs perfectly proportioned. If the generous swell of creamy
bosom that rose from her bodice's neckline was any indication, he was certain that beneath the folds of her
gown lay a deliciously curved figure, exactly as he preferred. The body of a courtesan-not the willowy frame
exalted by the beau monde.

Still, she was every inch the lady. Her carriage
exuded grace and noblesse, even as she glared openly at
him with eyes the color of indigo ink. Round and
thickly lashed, he'd never before seen eyes quite the
same hue. Only a fool would have forgotten them.

Her skin was likely too tanned to be considered fashionable, yet it lent her an air of healthy vigor and vitality. Her face was a perfect oval, not in the least bit long,
as he'd so uncharitably remembered it. Her mouth was
wide, her lips sensually full and rosy, even while curved
into a frown. And her hair ... her hair was as black and
glossy as a -raven's wing.

Bloody hell, she was nothing as he remembered.
Nothing. It sent his mind reeling in confusion even as
his thoughts rambled on in silent appreciation. With a
concentrated effort, he at last recovered his composure
and mercifully found his voice. "You cannot be Lady Eleanor Ashton," he said, realizing how foolish the
words sounded even as he said them.

"Perhaps, then, you should find my papa in Kent and
give him the news. He'll surely be surprised, won't he?
After all these years, thinking I was indeed his daughter." She shook her head as she knelt and reached for her
basket. Setting it into the crook of her arm, she rose to
face him once more.

Silently, he studied her face again, seeking something
recognizable in her countenance-for her disposition
had surely changed. "You must forgive me, but you are
not at all as I remembered. Not the girl I knew." Sweet.
Compliant. So easy to coax into a kiss in order to win a
wager.

"Don't presume to know me, Frederick Stoneham,"
she snapped. "It's been four years since we last met. I
was naught but a girl then."

Fours years-had it really been so long? Time
enough for a girl to grow into a woman. "Might I be so
bold as to ask your age?"

"I am twenty," she answered coldly. "And what is
your age?"

Impertinent woman. Still, he answered her. "Three
and twenty."

"You see, then, far too young to marry. Are you just
out of university?"