He took her hand and pulled her along with him. “No,” he said firmly. “This is not fair … you are too young, too innocent … untried. I will not do this to you!” He set her at the inn’s door. “Go inside, Lady Babs … get away from me.” He turned on his heel and stomped off.
She was not hurt. She was not surprised. She found herself admiring him even more. He was a man of honor …
He wasn’t the devil. She was.
He more than wanted her, and she knew it inside her being with all that she was. He loved her, and she meant to prove it to him—one way or another. Lady Babs smiled to herself and turned back to the inn.
Lord Wildfire had met his match.
***
The Duke of Barrington was at war with himse
lf. He could not remember ever feeling this way about a woman. He liked women—very much—and it was more than a sexual thing. They were a mysterious lot, each different from the other, but this one female, this rough-and-tumble woman-child drew something out of him that set his world upside down.
Marriage—he knew it was something he would eventually get to, but marriage was coming to mind every single time he took her into his arms. He heard the word mine.
The thought that she might give her hand to another drove him past reasonable logic. He seemed to have more than a physical desire for her. She had entered and tickled his mind with her quixotic behavior, her rebellious outlook, her laughter, her glittering dark eyes, and her sweet nature. Everything about her called to him to give it up, but he didn’t want to end, like so many, in a loveless marriage … seeking affection elsewhere. When he married, he wanted with all his heart to be a faithful, attentive, good husband—and father.
He wanted his woman—his wife—to be passionate in bed. He wanted to satisfy her and be satisfied. He didn’t want to turn to another. Would an inexperienced maid be enough for him? Something shouted, Fool! Babs would!
How could he be certain?
He had to be certain, and this couldn’t be a fancy that might fade. He could not be led by his dick. And he wasn’t sure whether or not it was real.
It simply had to be more than the raging hard-on driving him to her. Was it more? Damn, he rather thought it was, but how could he be sure?
Was he a cad to lead her on to give herself to him?
Or was he a man falling deeply in love?
Where was the answer?
***
Adam and Eve was the name of a tavern in Soho, and its galley was oversized and contained skittle alleys and cozy arbors designed in the seventeenth century. Remnants of a small pond that had for a time housed goldfish caught Sir Edward’s eye as he passed. With a little care and grooming, he thought, it could be brought back to its former glory. However, he didn’t really care. He was here at this tavern, which was presently known for entertaining persons of questionable character, for a specific reason.
He looked about and with a knowing eye identified the prostitutes, pickpockets, and footpads going about their business of the evening.
Many of these individuals looked his way with curious interest; he was sure they wondered what a well-dressed gentleman was doing in their establishment. He had chosen to sit at a round table shoved in a corner, with his back to the wall as he watched and waited.
A man dressed in the ordinary costume of an office clerk walked into the tavern, headed directly for Sir Edward’s table, nervously looked around, and hurriedly took up a chair with only a perfunctory nod of greeting.
Sir Edward leaned back against the hardness of his wooden chair and drew on his cigar as he stared at the youthful clerk seated across the table from him. He had to think this out. What would this young man tell him, he wondered, and would it further his cause?
“Oi looked into it for ye, Sir Ed—”
“Shut up, you fool—do not use my name!” snapped Sir Edward.
“Aye then, oi looked into it, and of a certain, ’er name was Waverly. Oi remember thinking whot a foin loidy she be when she came in … didn’t know ’er name then, though. And oi’m ’oping ye don’t mean ’er ’arm … as she was kind enough to bring me a pastry from ’ome …”
“Devil is in it that that I don’t mean her harm. I should, for all that she has put me through, but rest easy on that score. I don’t mean her any real harm,” Sir Edward answered, believing this was actually true. What he meant was to marry her and make her happy. He believed she was too young to know her own mind, but he meant to make it up for her.
“Aye then, oi’ll be taking the rest of that purse ye promised.”
“And so you would even if I meant her harm.” Sir Edward sneered at him.
The youth’s cheeks spotted with red, and he shot back, “As to that, oi ain’t plump enough in the pocket to go throwing away the gold ye offered, and loikes oi told ye, oi can’t be certain t’was her hand that penned the book ye speak of. She brought it in, but Lord Byron was with ’er when she did … and it could be ’is work … though why ’ee wouldn’t claim it … is more than oi can say.”