Tempted By The Roguish Lord

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u598b4571-bfbc-5163-b575-c756f25f93d8)

Circa 1816

‘Please put down the gun, Papa! This gentleman has not harmed me, but done me a great service.’ Miss Emma Waverley strove to keep her voice lowered. From a corner of an eye she’d noticed their neighbour’s curtain twitch in an upstairs window.

‘Done you a service!’ the elderly fellow roared. ‘That’s what he told you, is it!’ He descended another step towards the pavement. By fully stretching out his thin arm, he brought the duelling pistol to within an inch of an elegant waistcoat. ‘These infernal rakes have no shame in the matter.’ He shook the weapon to reinforce his intention to pull the trigger. ‘I can tell he is a villain just by looking at him.’ A pair of rheumy eyes took in the stranger’s slight air of inebriation and dishevelled attire. Even these drawbacks couldn’t disguise the fact he was abominably handsome...and rich. Such expensive tailoring would be cared for by a valet. As for the equipage parked at the kerb, only the wealthiest young bucks took to the road in one of those racy contraptions.

If the individual under threat feared he might soon expire from a bullet, he gave no sign of it. The Earl of Houndsmere had upon his dark features a wearisome expression.

‘Should this business be conducted inside, perhaps?’ he suggested drily and jerked his head to indicate their audience.

Across the road two kneeling servants had halted their yawning and scrubbing to turn on their steps and gawp at the spectacle of an ancient, garbed in flowing nightgown and tasselled cap, pointing a gun at his daughter’s supposed seducer. Soon the emerging dawn would give way to the glorious spring morning promised by the blush on the horizon. This busy square would begin to throng with people and carriages. How they’d appreciate starting their day viewing this tableau.

‘Please, Papa, give me the gun.’ Emma extended a determined hand to take the weapon, but her father stubbornly drew it back towards his chest with a warning growl.

‘I’ll not! First I’ll hear his good reason for bringing you back at this hour in the morning. I imagined you to be safe in your bed.’ Mr Waverley gazed fiercely at his daughter. ‘You’re really in trouble now, miss, I hope you realise it.’

Emma did know that...more than her father yet understood. Worrying as it was, her conscience wouldn’t allow her to shift the blame to hide her culpability. She swept a glance at her saviour from under her lashes, wincing beneath the sardonic glitter in his blue-black eyes. But there was no recrimination. He didn’t regret having stopped to help her. They’d barely spoken to one another, yet she’d wager he wasn’t a man given to questioning his own behaviour. He’d not looked sorry when he’d battered two men for her either.

With a muttered oath, the younger man sprang up two steps and, gripping the gun muzzle, wrested the weapon out of a set of bony fingers. Its owner looked affronted to have been so easily divested of it.

The immediate danger past, Emma dashed forward to grip her father’s arm and usher him out of sight of prying eyes.

Left alone on the pavement, the Earl planted a broad bronzed hand on the rusty railings and examined his torn knuckles. An irate old man shaking an empty duelling pistol at him was a novel experience, although he was no stranger to having a loaded gun pointed at his head by a jealous rival. He was sorely tempted to simply continue on home to find his bed. But with a sigh he took the steps two at a time, keen to get it over with. He entered a dim hallway and closed the door behind him. As all was quiet he stayed where he was, hoping she might have placated her father without his assistance. He wanted to get some sleep, not get drawn into defending his unwise heroics.

Despite the fact he was suffering the effects of over-indulgence, his breeding had dictated he act properly and accompany the chit indoors to confirm that she was still as innocent as she said she was. How innocent that actually was, was up for debate. The Earl also had his suspicions as to why a genteel young woman would be out alone at such an hour. A black-haired, tawny-eyed beauty, past the first flush of youth, might have a history of slyly seeing her beau. It was possible her father wasn’t as shocked as he was making out at catching her returning to the house at an ungodly hour. But if the wily old cove believed he could act the outraged parent and turn this to his spinster daughter’s advantage he’d find he was much mistaken. The Earl of Houndsmere had been on the receiving end of many an engineered plot to get him to meet a debutante at the altar. All had failed.

This one looked to have made her come out some time ago. Possibly at around the time his father had died and Lance had resigned his army position to take his birthright. His sister had nagged him into visiting Almack’s balls a couple of times during that Season, hoping he’d find a wife. He didn’t recall seeing his damsel in distress there. And he would have remembered her. He might even have made history by booking a dance instead of spending the evening with like-minded friends, champagne in one hand and Hunter in the other, as they waited for a reasonable time to elapse, allowing them to slip away and seek the company of less decorous ladies. A nostalgic smile tipped up a corner of his mouth as he dwelled on those distant days...

Emma appeared on the threshold of the parlour to see her reluctant hero looking amused about something. Well, she was glad somebody could smile about it, she thought tetchily. He’d noticed her so she beckoned him, then untied her hat, letting loose an abundance of ebony locks.

‘Please join us in here, sir.’ Emma was attempting to apologise for everything with her tone of voice and the expression in her large honey-coloured eyes. The look she received in return both alarmed and annoyed her. He seemed to have some sarcastic comment to make, but was holding it in. Well, she’d not asked him to act knight errant although she had to admit she’d been glad he had. Left to her own devices she might have ended up ravished or murdered, possibly both. She knew that her father believed this stranger had lecherous intentions towards her, but in truth he’d not manhandled her at all. Other than to toss her up into his phaeton to start their hair-raising journey home, they’d not touched again until he’d helped her down outside.

‘You can start by introducing yourself, sirrah!’ Impatiently, Bernard Waverley had appeared in the parlour doorway beside his daughter.

‘Come and sit down, Papa,’ Emma hastily said, embarrassed by her father’s attitude. ‘You, too, if you will, sir.’ Again, she glanced at the stranger. He appeared to be in two minds whether to comply, or to leave. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to go about his business.

‘Lance Harley at your service, sir.’ An indolent bow followed the introduction. He approached Mr Waverley, depositing the pistol on a table as he passed it.

‘I know that name.’ Mr Waverley ignored the fellow’s outstretched hand and commenced frowning. ‘Why is that? Have you caused me trouble before, Harley?’

‘I’m sure he has not, Papa. You should thank Mr Harley. He has been a boon.’ Emma swiftly took up the story before her father could level more accusations. ‘This gentleman was good enough to stop and rescue me from some footpads and bring me home.’ Her father probably recalled the stranger’s name because the two men frequented the same club. Although with decades separating them in age it was unlikely they shared the same friends. Not that her father had many of those left. ‘I am very sorry for worrying you, Papa, but thankfully no great harm done.’

‘No great harm done?’ her father thundered. He pulled off his nightcap, revealing tufts of greying hair, and began marching to and fro across the threadbare rug. ‘We’ll see about that once the tabbies have had time to do their work. You might be past your prime, but you’re still young enough to draw a man’s lust and a woman’s spite.’

Emma flushed to the roots of her silky black hair. Usually such a remark from her father—quite pertinent as it was—wouldn’t have bothered her. Yet she found having her advanced years bandied about in the presence of this gentleman was mortifying, though she strove not to show it.

Mr Waverley seemed oblivious to his daughter’s discomfiture. ‘So you were nearly robbed and of more than just your purse, I’ll warrant.’ Agitatedly, he turned to their Good Samaritan. ‘No doubt you’re waiting for my thanks and my coin to keep you quiet about her behaviour. Well, be that as it may, you won’t get any of it. I’ll not reward you for getting involved in her prank.’

At that point Emma swallowed her chagrin for long enough to direct an exceedingly apologetic look the gentleman’s way. It was met by a pair of cynically amused sapphire eyes. He might just as well have said he had no need of her father’s paltry-sounding reward. Her attention was dragged back to her father as he punitively shook her arm.

‘What in damnation did you think you were about, creeping out of the house behind my back?’ Bernard looked as though he might raise his hand to his daughter, and Harley stepped closer, as though to intervene on her behalf.

‘We can discuss it all later, in private, Papa.’ Emma gave her father a cautioning look that made him press together his crinkled lips. The Waverley family were used to keeping secrets and this certainly fell into that category. ‘Mr Harley might like some tea before leaving.’ She issued her barbed hospitality, hoping he’d just go and imagining he wanted to do exactly that. He was probably offended by her father’s conduct and hers, too, although he certainly wasn’t showing it.

Harley met her expectations, gesturing that no such trouble was necessary on his account. His hand travelled on to his mouth, discreetly suppressing a yawn. He’d been vigorously engaged for most of the night, largely pleasurably, until he’d heard this minx scream while struggling to keep hold of her reticule. After that he’d expended what remained of his energy in a bare-knuckle scrap. A corner of his mouth twitched. She’d been putting up a good fight before he stepped in to take over; he’d seen her land a couple of blows on the felons.

‘Will you return me the courtesy and introduce yourselves?’ He was alert enough to be curious as to who she was.

‘You’ve been alone with my daughter and not even bothered to enquire after her name?’ Mr Waverley looked aghast.

‘I might not know her name yet, but tell it to me now and I’ll not forget it, that I promise.’ Houndsmere’s penetrating blue gaze settled on Emma, capturing her eyes for a moment before she broke his hold. He wasn’t just being polite, Lance realised. He would remember her, although he couldn’t understand how she was getting beneath his skin so quickly when they’d barely spoken or touched.

It seemed that her father was feeling too indignant to introduce them so she blurted, ‘My name is Emma Waverley and my father is Bernard Waverley.’ She noted at once the gleam of interest raising Harley’s weighty, black-lashed eyelids. He didn’t appear nearly so bored by proceedings as a moment ago. But at least there was no contemptuous curl to his lip as had often been the case with others on learning their identities. Even the local shopkeepers still talked about them behind their backs, yet the scandal that had bankrupted her father was many years old.

Now Houndsmere knew who he was dealing with he was more inclined to believe she’d been in the mean streets of London not by folly, but by design. He’d not asked her business there, but he had asked her name and enquired where she lived. She’d only answered part of his question, directing him to Primrose Square in Marylebone. Then, once she’d dutifully thanked him, she’d kept her face averted for the remainder of the journey. There had been gossip years ago about a Bernard Waverley being sent to the Fleet. Lance recalled some salacious jokes in the gentlemen’s clubs about a fellow being so mired in debt that he had nothing left to sell but his daughter. He now knew who she was and wished that he’d taken more notice of it at the time. But he rarely bothered with tattle doing the rounds.

Mr Waverley was obviously still on his uppers and wouldn’t want last night’s events worsening his family’s lot. There were spiteful cats aplenty who had nothing better to do than shred the reputations of young ladies so their own offspring could race ahead in the popularity stakes. Her father had been right about that.

From her modest cloak and bonnet the Earl had imagined she was a high-ranking servant, in the area visiting humble relatives, when he’d first come upon her. Her breeding had become apparent after they’d exchanged a few words. He’d assumed she’d had a tryst with a feckless swain lacking the decency to escort her home. There were an abundance of cheap lodging houses crowding the vicinity where impoverished clerks and apprentices lived. But perhaps he’d got the wrong end of the stick and she’d been with somebody prepared to pay for her company.

The East End of London was home to commerce of every description. Bawdy houses and gambling hells rubbed shoulders with office buildings bearing brass nameplates of the educated fellows trading from within. After dark, gentlemen sought diversion in the neighbourhood. He was one of them, although he housed his mistress in a superior street to that in which he’d spotted her. It wouldn’t be the first time that a genteel woman, fallen on hard times, used whatever assets she possessed to stay afloat. And without a doubt Emma Waverley had something worth selling. For all his outrage, it was possible her father was aware of what she got up to, because he had survived bankruptcy courtesy of it.

Emma was aware of the subtle change in him. She’d encountered that shrewdness before in the faces of gentlemen ruminating on her unenviable situation of shabby gentility and fast-approaching old maidhood.

‘I see no reason to detain you further, sir,’ she said crisply. ‘My sincere thanks for your assistance, but it is still uncommonly early and my father should get back to his bed.’

He was being dismissed and that made the Earl of Houndsmere’s smile deepen. Only his mother and sister had ever sent him away when he upset them.

He picked up the pistol from the table. ‘If you intend to threaten somebody again with an unloaded gun, avoid pointing it into the light. A military man will know you’re bluffing.’ He returned the weapon to its owner.

Mr Waverley’s cheeks became puce. He wasn’t used to being corrected in his own home, in front of his child. He turned to her. ‘You have some explaining to do, miss, and I would hear it directly.’ He stomped to the door, gun in hand. ‘If what you’ve said is true, you do owe him a debt of gratitude.’ He jabbed the gun in emphasis. ‘I see no reason to stand on ceremony now you have already been private with him. Oh, see the fellow out, then I will expect you in my study.’ The door was banged shut.