The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

“Get out!” Lucius growled through gritted teeth. “You will give me a moment’s privacy, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Warner straightened and brushed his sleek red hair from his brow. “I answer only to His Grace, and he is not in any fit state for lengthy visits.”

Lucius squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “I answer to no one and will decide how long I want to remain at my father’s bedside.”

“His Grace finds your hostile manner distressing.”

“Hostile? You expect to see warmth and generosity from the son of that cold-hearted bastard?” Lucius pointed at the helpless figure in the bed. “Now, get the hell out before I rip those ruffles from your shirt sleeves and stuff them down your throat.”

“Mr Daventry,” a soft feminine voice called from the doorway.

Lucius remained rigid and glared at the pompous steward, begging him to issue another lofty command.

The patter of footsteps preceded the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Let your father rest,” Miss Atwood said softly. “We have other matters that require our attention and can return on the morrow.”

Miss Atwood’s calm tone had the power to temper anger’s flames, until Warner muttered, “It seems your strumpet is the only one with any sense.”

An unholy rage surged through Lucius’ veins. He flew forward and threw a punch that knocked the arrogant toad on his arse.

“Call me what you will.” He was so livid he struggled to speak coherently. “But slander Miss Atwood’s good name and I shall beat you until your chin is the size of a normal man’s.”

Warner lay sprawled on the floor, clutching his jaw in shock.

“Mr Warner has a right to his opinion.” Miss Atwood tugged Lucius’ arm. “Just as we have the right to tell him he’s an obnoxious weasel.”

Lucius let Miss Atwood pull him back towards the door. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking my father gives a damn about you, Warner. You’re the hired help, nothing more. When I return, I suggest you make yourself scarce. Trim your nibs, for soon you’ll be hunting for a new position.”

Warner scrambled to his feet but remained silent as he brushed dust off his black coat and breeches and continued fussing with the bedsheets.

The need to escape the stifling memories saw Lucius grip Miss Atwood’s hand and practically pull her down the broad oak staircase. He couldn’t bundle her into the carriage quick enough. He couldn’t rap the roof hard enough.

“Well, that was a rather unexpected encounter.” Miss Atwood panted as she flopped into the seat. The vehicle jerked forward and crunched along the gravel drive. “I thought you kept your demons on a tight leash. The beasts were snapping and snarling at your heels the moment we stepped over the threshold.”

Lucius took a few measured breaths. “I cannot abide self-righteous prigs.”

“Are you referring to your father or Mr Warner?”

“Both.”

“I see.” She clasped her hands in her lap and watched him as he jiggled his leg and fidgeted in the seat. “So, restraint is something you’re still trying to master.”

“I never professed to be a saint.” God, he was desperate to rip Warner’s head from his shoulders. “Discipline requires patience. Some emotions are difficult to control.”

Like his sudden urge to calm his temper by claiming Miss Atwood’s delectable mouth. He would coax her warm lips apart, delve inside and sate his raging hunger. In anticipation, hot blood pooled heavy in his loins. He knew beyond any doubt, he could lose himself forever in her embrace.

“You admire Plato,” she said. “Does the philosopher not say that a man’s greatest victory is conquering himself? Some things are meant to be a struggle.”

Bloody hell!

Why couldn’t this be a time of recklessness, not reason? Could she not have beckoned him to the opposite side of the carriage, flashed the tops of her stockings and said to hell with oaths and vows? Could she not have told him to take whatever he needed to relieve the infernal ache?

“Trust me, Miss Atwood, a man has his limits.”

“Then we should replay the events of the morning to distract your mind. Devise a plan for this evening. We cannot be seen whispering together in a secluded corner of Sir Melrose’s ballroom.”

It was not his mind that needed distracting.

Still, he had to do something to rein in his rampant thoughts. “Perhaps you should tell me again what happened when you gave the innkeeper your name and said you wanted to rent room five.”