Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress (The Husband Hunters Club 5)

Gareth got the gist of her clumsy question. “The scar, do you mean? No one knows. He never speaks of it.”

“I thought perhaps a duel or . . .” She stopped herself before she repeated any more of her friends’ silly explanations of the earl’s injury.

“A duel?” Gareth smiled and shook his head at her. “Dear me, what a very romantic view you have of the world, Averil.”

Stung, Averil’s retort was louder than she meant. “I am the least romantic person I know!”

Just then a hush fell over the drawing room.

She followed the turning heads.

“Southbrook! Southbrook . . .” the whispers went around the room. Because there in the doorway stood the dramatic figure of the earl. He seemed to fill the space with his broad shoulders in a dark, tailored jacket over a white silk shirt and a waistcoat of teal blue.

Oh, he was devilishly attractive. There was no doubt about that. The earl of Southbrook would turn heads in any crowd.

But the guests in Averil’s drawing room weren’t staring just because he was striking. They were staring because the earl had not bothered himself with polite society for years, since some scandal—and Averil wouldn’t mind knowing what it was—had barred him from its doors. Some of them, Averil was certain, would have refused Gareth’s invitation if they’d known the earl was coming tonight.

“Rufus, Earl of Southbrook,” the footman called out nervously and rather belatedly, just as Gareth started forward to greet his guest. “Lord Southbrook, you are most welcome. Most welcome.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

The earl’s dark and brooding gaze dismissed Gareth then moved on, and Averil realized with shocking awareness that it was her he was looking at.

Looking at with such intensity that she found herself believing—and the thought struck a strange sort of excitement into her heart, rather like the flare of a match—that she and she alone was the reason Lord Southbrook had come here tonight.

“Lord Southbrook, I am flattered you have graced our humble supper with your presence.”

The man was still blathering and Southbrook gave him an impatient glance. As far as he was aware his “presence” was causing more trouble than flattery.

He guessed this was Dr. Simmons, who’d sent him the invitation, the fellow the Baroness Sessington paid to share her bed, although to the world she bleated that she was only his patroness. Was anyone really fooled by such playacting? Was Averil?

But tonight Rufus could not have cared less about Dr. Simmons and his peccadillos. He was here because of Lady Averil Martindale, with her pale beauty and her stormy gray eyes. He’d spent the previous week wrestling with his conscience and his desperate circumstances and his uncle James’s latest advice.

Marry her, my boy, before someone else gets their hooks into her!

He’d tried to rationalize the idea of seducing an innocent young woman for her fortune, but he couldn’t seem to manage it. Somewhere deep in his wicked, dark heart there was still a spark of decency.

Now Simmons was introducing them, unaware they had met before.

“Lady Averil, how do you do?” Rufus said politely with a hint of amusement.

“So-so glad you could attend our . . . function, your lordship.”

Averil was speaking in a soft little voice, managing at the same time to give a quick glance at the good doctor. Rufus understood that the words and the voice were meant to prevent Dr. Simmons from noticing anything was amiss.

Or was the girl in love with him? Dr. Simmons was too busy with his charities to love anybody, but that had never stopped the relentless march of unrequited passion before. Perhaps Averil found goodness lust-inducing? And no doubt the doctor encouraged her; he would find her money very useful for building orphanages and saving whores. He would take everything and leave her poor and miserable, whereas at least with Rufus she would have Southbrook Castle and a title to keep her warm.

Oh, well played! He mocked himself. Pretending to be doing her a favor by relieving her of her fortune!

Baroness Sessington, standing by the supper table with her wig askew, was gesturing wildly toward Dr. Simmons, while he was trying to ignore her. When she started hissing like a snake he gave in to the inevitable and excused himself, leaving Rufus and Averil alone. They might as well have been entirely alone. The other guests were keeping their distance, some gossiping and staring in his direction, others preparing to leave in case they became contaminated by his mere presence.

He found it darkly amusing and would be sure to tell Uncle James all about it when he got home.

Averil gave him a surreptitious glance full of anxiety. Was she thinking he was about to announce his presence in her bedchamber the other night? The memory of her propped up against her pillows, her fair hair in loose waves about her, her skin like cream, and her lips just begging to be kissed, made his body tighten.

“How is Hercules?” he asked, meeting her eyes and willing her to keep looking at him.

“Very well. Thank you. My lord.” Her eyes had widened slightly at the question but she faced him without any apparent need to rush off and remove herself from his contamination.