Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

Anna had carefully cultivated the outward appearance of a quiet, even-tempered young lady who wouldn’t dream of breaking any of the myriad rules governing female behavior. Up until recently it had been an amusing game, like creating the complex character of Emmalina. But oddly enough, a very different person had begun to whisper inside her head.

The saint dueling with the sinner? As of yet, it was unclear who was winning the clash of wills.

“Such as finishing my manuscript by the due date,” she replied slowly.

“Well, seeing as you are so concerned about being tardy,” said Caro dryly, “perhaps we ought to start off this new resolve of good intentions by heading upstairs now.”

Much as she wished to beg off and spend a quiet eveni

ng in the library, hunting through her late father’s history books for some adventurous exploit that might spark an idea for her current chapter, Anna hadn’t the heart to dampen her sister’s enthusiasm. She dutifully rose.

“Oh, come now, don’t look so glum,” said Caro. “After all, inspiration often strikes when you least expect it.”

Slipping behind a screen of potted palms, Anna exhaled sharply and made herself count to ten. The air hung heavy with the cloying scents of lush flowers and expensive perfumes, its sticky sweetness clogging her nostrils and making it difficult to breath. Through the dark fronds, she watched the couples spin across the dance floor in a kaleidoscope of jeweltone colors and glittering gems. Laughter and loud music twined through the glittering fire of the chandeliers, the crystalline shards of light punctuated by the clink of wine glasses.

Steady, steady—I mustn’t let myself crack.

“Ah, there you are Miss Sloane.” Mr. Naughton, second son of the Earl of Greenfield and a very pleasant young man, approached and immediately began to spout a profuse apology. “Forgive me for being late in seeking your hand for this set. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Forcing a smile, Anna made no effort to accept his outstretched hand. “No apologies necessary, sir. The blame is mine. I—I was feeling a trifle overwarm and thought a moment in the shadows might serve as a restorative.”

His face pinched in concern. “Allow me to fetch you a glass of ratafia punch.”

“No, no.” She waved off the suggestion. “Please don’t trouble yourself. I think I shall just pay a visit to the ladies’ withdrawing room”—a place to which no gentleman would dare ask to escort her—“and ask the maid for a cold compress for my brow.”

Naughton shuffled his feet. “You are sure?”

“Quite.” Suddenly she couldn’t bear his solicitous smile or the oppressive gaiety a moment longer. Lifting her skirts, she turned before he could say another word and hurried down one of the side corridors.

Her steps quickened as she passed by the room reserved for the ladies and ducked around a darkened corner. From a previous visit to the townhouse, Anna knew that a set of French doors in the library led out to a raised terrace overlooking the back gardens. It was, of course, against the rules for an unchaperoned young lady to venture outdoors on her own. But she had chosen the secluded spot with great care—the chances of being spotted were virtually nil.

The night air felt blessed cool on her overheated cheeks. “Thank God,” she murmured, tilting her face to the black velvet sky.

“Thank God,” echoed a far deeper voice.

A pale plume of smoke floated overhead, its curl momentarily obscuring the sparkle of the stars.

“It was getting devilishly dull out here with only my own thoughts for company.”

Speak of the Devil!

Anna whirled around. “That’s not surprising, sir, when one’s mind is filled with nothing but thoughts of drinking, wenching, and gaming. Titillating as those pursuits might be, I would assume they grow tiresome with constant repetition.”

“A dangerous assumption, Miss Sloane.” Devlin Greville, the Marquess of Davenport—better known as The Devil Davenport—tossed down his cheroot and ground out the glowing tip beneath his heel. Sparks flared for an instant, red-gold against the slate tiles, before fading away to darkness. “I thought you a more sensible creature than to venture an opinion on things about which you know nothing.”

Anna watched warily as he took one…two…three sauntering steps closer. Quelling the urge to retreat, she stood her ground. The Devil might be a dissolute rake, a rapacious rogue, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

“Sense has nothing to do with it,” she countered coolly. “Given the rather detailed—and lurid—gossip that fills the drawing rooms of Mayfair each morning, I know a great deal about your exploits.”

“Another dangerous assumption.” His voice was low and a little rough, like the purr of a stalking panther.

Anna felt the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end.

He laughed, and the sound turned even softer. “I thought you a more sensible creature than to listen to wild speculation.”

“Indeed?” Feigning nonchalance, she slid sideways and leaned back against the stone railing. Which was, she realized, a tactical mistake. The marquess mirrored her movements, leaving her no way to escape.

“I—I don’t know why you would think that,” she went on. “You know absolutely nothing about me.”