London's Perfect Scoundrel Page 4

  Saint had a difficult time not laughing. His guest looked like a deer surrounded by a pack of wolves, not knowing which direction to run. Undoubtedly she’d thought to spend the morning gossiping with the troll, Mrs. Whatever. The idea that Miss Ruddick would actually have to confront some of the orphanage’s inhabitants and view their living quarters must have been horrifying to her.

  Her expressive gray eyes studied him and the doorway beyond as though she were weighing her chances of going in and coming back out alive. It would have been amusing, if it wasn’t so predictable.

  “Very well, my lord,” she said, gesturing for him to lead the way.

  Saint exited the foyer, swiftly covering his surprise. With her falling in beside him, they entered the downstairs hallway. Hm. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as predictable as he’d thought. That made her an exception among females. So far. “These were for the most part administrative offices. This used to be an army bar—”

  “Barracks for George the Second’s Coldstream Guards,” she finished. “What do you use them for now?”

  “You’ve done some research,” he said grudgingly.

  “Surprised?” she asked coolly.

  And becoming more so by the moment. “I’ll let you know.” He returned his attention to the long corridor. “The orphanage uses the rooms for storing old furniture and for the odd accountant.”

  Nodding, she made a note of some sort on the top page of the stack of papers she cradled in her left arm. “How many offices are there?” she asked. “And how large are they?”

  So now the timid Miss Ruddick was all business. He gazed at her profile. “As for quantity, about a dozen. Size, I don’t know. Let’s go inside one and explore, why don’t we?”

  She swallowed, looking up from her scribbling. “I…don’t think that’s necessary. I don’t have anything with which to measure, anyway.”

  “Ah.” And now she became the timid virgin once more. “Would you care to go to the music or drawing room, then? Or perhaps the ballroom. You would find that more pleasant, I’m sure.”

  Evelyn stopped so abruptly that Saint had to turn around to face her. For a long moment she glared at him. Women didn’t do that very often, and he had to admire it for that reason. In a moment, though, she would no doubt begin crying, and he detested that.

  “Let me make something clear,” she said, her voice quavering a little, as it had when she’d accepted his invitation to waltz. “I am not afraid of seeing something unpleasant. I couldn’t very well do anything helpful for an establishment that didn’t require any assistance. What I don’t want is for this venture to ruin my reputation. Being escorted by you is a risk in itself, but at least in the hallway we have witnesses. Going into a storage room with you would be both stupid and useless on my part.”

  He took a slow step back in her direction. “It might be stupid,” he murmured, “but it wouldn’t be useless. I could teach you a great many things. Isn’t that why you’re here? To learn?”

  Color flooded her cheeks. Saint studied her expression, her stance, the language of her slender, petite body. Despite his experience with women, he wasn’t all that familiar with virgins. He’d made it a point not to be; their clinging hysterics complicated things far too much.

  This one, though, made him curious.

  She turned on her heel. “Good day, my lord.”

  “Giving up already?” he asked, forcing himself not to stalk after her. He wasn’t finished with her yet, but neither would he allow her even the momentary advantage an apology would give her. That wasn’t how he played the game.

  “I am not giving up. I’ll continue the tour with Mrs. Natham. At least she won’t attempt to seduce me in the broom closet.”

  Apparently she’d heard the rumor about himself and Lady Hampstead. Nearly everyone had. “Continue with me. I promised you a tour, and you shall have one.”

  Evelyn faced him again, the stack of papers she carried clenched so tightly that the edges curled. “A tour of the orphanage, my lord. Not of your…private parts.”

  “Agreed—for today.”

  She assessed that statement, then turned to the nearest closed door. “Storage?”

  “Yes.”

  Disliking the idea that she might yet change her mind and scurry off, Saint kept his distance as she opened the door and stepped inside. A moment later she reemerged to scribble further notations in her book. “Are they all the same size?”

  Saint stirred, beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable as she continued to make notes. Good God, an innocent chit asking innocent questions and attending to an innocent task, and he was going hard. “Relatively.”

  “Excellent. Shall we continue?”

  So she meant to take him at his word. Another surprise, and with even more agitating results. Part of him thought continuing the tour was useless, since he’d given his word not to seduce her. The other part, though, was practically pointing the way down the hall. “What are you scribbling there?” he asked in an attempt to distract himself, as they continued toward the far end of the hallway.

  “Notes.”

  “About storage room size?”

  “I prefer not to say until I present my plan in its entirety, Lord St. Aubyn. I believe you have enough preconceived notions about me without my providing you more.”

  “Saint,” he said, ignoring the rest of her commentary.

  She looked up at him, her cheeks still glowing with the attractive half blush from which she seemed perpetually to suffer in his presence. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you should call me Saint. Nearly everyone does.”

  Evelyn cleared her throat. “Saint, then.”

  He gazed at her until she looked away. Apparently she wasn’t going to grant him permission in turn to use her Christian name, but that wasn’t likely to prevent him from doing so.

  “So…these are all unused rooms?” she offered into the silence.

  “I thought we’d covered that.” He stifled a grin. “Or have you run out of questions already? You might have spared me the bother of conducting a tour if y—”

  “I am clarifying,” she said sharply. “And I didn’t ask you to conduct this tour. That was your idea, my lor—Saint.”

  Now she was arguing with him. Saint wondered what her reaction would be if he pinned her to the plain white wall and kissed her. Nor would he stop there. Once he got his hands on her and pulled off that abysmally prim bonnet and those buttoned kid gloves, he would continue his exploration of her slender naked body until he’d figured out why she aroused him, and until he’d purged the virginal female from his thoughts.

  Perhaps that was it: With her bonnet and her gloves and the high-necked, conservative gown she’d worn for the tour, the thought of her smooth warm skin beneath all that material was causing his imagination to run rampant.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Evelyn asked, facing him again.

  “I would, but I gave my word that I would behave myself.” And he hoped she appreciated that, because he didn’t do it very often. Almost never, in fact.

  “And so I should be grateful?”

  “Not particularly. I know I’d be much more grateful if I weren’t behaving. Do you wish to see the kitchens or the orphans next?”

  “The kitchens, I think.” Her pert nose wrinkled, as though she’d thought of something unpleasant. “I wish to have a basis of reference before I interview the children. I’m not avoiding them.”

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  She looked at him sideways, amusement touching her gaze. “You were about to.”

  For a moment Saint was too mesmerized by her smile to reply. Rising this early in the day had made him mad. Nothing else made sense. And certainly nothing else explained why he was beginning to enjoy conducting a tour of the damned Heart of Hope Orphanage for a proper chit like Evelyn Marie Ruddick.

  Chapter 4

  ’Tis pity learned virgins ever wed

  With persons of no sort of education,


  Or gentlemen, who, though well-born and bred,

  Grow tired of scientific conversation:

  I don’t choose to say much upon this head,

  I’m a plain man, and in a single station,

  But—Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,

  Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck’d you all?

  —Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto I

  Evie kept forgetting to write notes to herself, and she knew precisely whom to blame for her absentmindedness.

  She’d begun the day nervous about her ability to appear competent. With Saint as her guide, her anxiety increased a hundredfold. Men were nothing new; she’d talked with, flirted with, and been courted by dozens of them since her debut. They rarely moved her to more than a chuckle or a frown. The Marquis of St. Aubyn, however, wasn’t like any of those men. He was, in fact, precisely the sort of male both her mother and her common sense told her to avoid at all costs. In her first attempt to escape her brother’s staid version of what her life should be, however, it made sense that she would be confronted with St. Aubyn.

  For some reason he’d been polite since she’d set the rules of behavior this morning, and uneasy as it made her to have the panther at her side, even with claws sheathed, she would use the circumstance to her own best advantage. She glanced over her shoulder at him as he stood, arms crossed, in the entry to the girls’ dormitory. He was gazing at her again—or rather, still—his light green eyes seeking or seeing something she assumed had very little to do with propriety.

  “Miss Evie, I thought you was to bring us pudding,” Molly said, her plaintive tone shaking Evelyn back to her senses.

  “I said I would, and I shall, but today I’d just like to chat with all of you, if I may.”

  “Is he coming in?” another of the girls whispered, prompting some low-voiced giggling.

  “I wish he would,” another of them said with a coy smile. “I heard his estate at St. Aubyn is paved with gold coins.”

  Evie frowned. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen, Miss Evie. In another eight months I’ll be gone from here, living with some fancy man in Covent Garden, I imagine.”

  “Good heavens, I hope not,” Evie muttered, looking more closely at the flock gathered around her. Is that what they all expected of their lives?

  “Well, I’d rather live in a house with gold floors than on dirt in Covent Garden.”

  “As if he would marry the daughter of a seamstress, Maggie. You’re not even fit to clean his floors, much less stand on ’em.”

  Maggie swirled her tattered cotton skirt around her hips, flipping the ends at Molly. “I didn’t mean we should marry, halfwit,” she murmured.

  Molly stuck out her tongue. “That would make you a who—”

  Hoping St. Aubyn hadn’t overheard that part of the conversation, Evie stepped between the two girls. No one would be kicking or punching or verbally assaulting anyone while she was present. “I’m sure Lord St. Aubyn isn’t worth all this fuss, whatever his floors are made of. I don’t want to know about him, anyway; I want to know about all of you young ladies.”

  “I’m not a young lady. I’m a little girl.” Rose came forward, holding her scruffy doll by one foot. “And we’re all orphans.”

  “Not all of us are,” another of the two dozen girls—Iris, she thought—interrupted. “William and Penny’s papa got transported for seven years.”

  Alice Bradley grinned. “And Fanny’s papa’s in Newgate for cracking a bottle over a tavern keeper’s gourd.”

  “That rum cove deserved it,” Fanny shot back, knotting her hands into the front of her dingy brown dress. Evie couldn’t even tell what the material was any longer, though it had likely been of inferior quality to begin with.

  “Stop telling tales, Alice, you stupid sot, or we’ll tell her what your mama did to end up in Newgate.”

  “You will not!”

  Oh, dear. “Now, now. How about if I ask a question, and those of you who wish to may answer it?” She sat again, smoothing her skirt.

  Rose leaned against her knee. “I like the way you talk,” she said, scratching at her bottom with the hand not gripping her doll.

  “Thank you, Rose.”

  “What’s the first question?”

  Evie took a deep breath. She certainly didn’t want to do or say anything to make the girls upset with one another or with her, and neither did she intend to leave herself open to barbs at the hands—or rather, tongue—of St. Aubyn.

  “My first question is, how many of you can read?”

  “Read?” Penny burst out. “I thought you were going to ask what kind of sweets we like.”

  “Yes, sweets. You’re the one who brung candy here before, ain’t you?”

  Evelyn tried to ignore both the poor grammar and the smug, cynical look aimed at her from the doorway. She wished he would go away so she could concentrate, but he obviously had no intention of doing so.

  “But what about my question? Do any of you—”

  “Sweets!”

  The room erupted in a loud, cacophonous candy dance. This was terrible. She’d taken less than ten minutes to lose control of the situation entirely. No one was going to answer any of her questions now.

  “Out!”

  St. Aubyn appeared at her shoulder. At his bellow, the girls screeched and scattered for the exits, the candy dance disintegrating into yips and yelps of surprise.

  In only a moment she and the marquis were alone in the dormitory. “That wasn’t necessary,” she grumbled, stacking her papers so she wouldn’t have to meet his amused, cynical gaze.

  “They were making my head ache,” he rumbled. “Miniature clucking hens. Finished with this nonsense?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Miss Ruddick,” the marquis said in his deep, jaded voice, “while I have to admit that you’ve lasted longer than I expected, you obviously aren’t going to accomplish anything here.”

  Evelyn took a shallow breath, refusing to give in to frustrated tears. St. Aubyn would not see her cry. “And so I should go home and embroider, I suppose?” Being indignant was good. At least if she was indignant, she wouldn’t cry.

  “My original offer stands,” he said in a lower voice, taking the pencil from her hand and pulling her to her feet. As they touched, a pulse of lightning shot down her spine. “You would find sharing my bed much more satisfying than this.”

  He ran his thumb along her lips, the touch warm and soft, and Evelyn stopped breathing. Moving slowly, as though they were in an intimate boudoir rather than a large, open-doored dormitory, he took her notes and set them on one of the beds.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice unsteady.

  “I’m going to kiss you,” he answered, as calmly as if he were discussing the care and cleaning of silverware.

  Her eyes focused on his mouth, on his sensuous and slightly parted lips. Evie shook herself, willing herself not to give in to his knowing gaze and the strength of his tall, hard body. She could learn so much from him, she knew, but the lessons would ruin her entirely. Other women had fallen for him before, and where were they now?

  “S…so you think you’re Richard the Third?” she managed, backing away until her calf hit the edge of the bedframe.

  His brow furrowed. “Explain.”

  “Richard the Third seduced his sister-in-law over the dead body of his brother.”

  “I know that,” he said brusquely, closing the distance between them with one long step. “How does that make me ugly and hunchbacked and a pretender to the throne?”

  “You are none of those, my lord. What I—”

  “Saint,” he corrected, brushing hair from her forehead.

  She felt distinctly as though he wanted to and intended to eat her alive. Another shiver ran up the backs of her legs. “Saint,” she amended. Good God, if he actually meant to kiss her—if someone saw them kissing—she would be banished to West Sussex for life, if Victor and her mot
her didn’t disown her entirely. “What I meant to say was, you tell me I’m incompetent and useless, and then try to use my subsequent despair to seduce me.”

  The expression in his eyes changed for a heartbeat, and then darkened again as he chuckled. “You’re not useless. You’ve merely stepped beyond the bounds a chit should properly observe.”

  Apparently women believed him sometimes, or he would never have ventured to say something so ridiculous. And he still had power to attract her, even when she acknowledged that his statement was ludicrous. She wondered whether he could hear her heart beating. His looks and his presence remained seductive, but it reassured her to some degree that she’d managed to stand against him thus far. “And a chit’s proper place is in your bed, I assume?”

  He nodded, leaning closer, his gaze on her mouth. “Yes.”

  “Your bed must be very crowded, then,” she said, stepping sideways and retrieving her papers. “I don’t think there’s room for me there.”

  “Evelyn—”

  “I would like to see the boys’ dormitory now,” she exclaimed, striding for the door and trying not to break into a run.

  Until this moment she never would have thought she could feel so angry and so…exhilarated at the same instant. No notorious rake and scoundrel had ever pursued her before, and now the worst of the lot, a very handsome and experienced one, was trying to kiss her—and more. It was even a little heady, despite his obvious and utter disdain for the quality and capabilities of her mind.

  Evie slowed, frowning, as she crossed into the hallway. It was either a seduction or he was trying once again to intimidate her into leaving without enough information to put together her proposal. “How did you become involved with the orphanage, anyway?” she ventured, not sure whether she preferred the idea that she was being seduced or that she was being distracted.

  “Very bad luck,” he returned, catching up to her.

  “I thought someone like you didn’t believe in luck.”

  “There are some things skill can’t compensate for. And that is bad luck.”

  “What sort of bad luck led you here, then?”