Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

“Because while my family disowned him, and I have been raised to despise the name, I often feel like a misfit myself.” Many times during his youth, he had imagined running away, imagined living life on the high seas, free from society’s suffocating restrictions.

Miss Hart gave a knowing hum. “When Livingston Sloane died, your father was raised by his grandmother, Lady Jane Sloane. My mother said the matron intended to eradicate the memory of her wayward son, and yet she kept his portrait.”

Lady Jane Boscobel, daughter of the Earl of Henley, had married Daniel Sloane, Viscount Leaton’s youngest son. They had married for love, by all accounts, though having married beneath her, the lady had kept her title. The couple were blessed with two sons, Cecil and Livingston, and Cecil had inherited the viscountcy when his uncle died without issue.

“Lady Sloane reverted to her maiden name when her husband died and the admiralty pronounced her son a pirate. Consequently, I always refer to her as Lady Boscobel. When one holds rank and position in society, one is easily influenced by opinion. Yet beneath the bravado was a mother who still loved her rebellious son.”

Miss Hart appeared doubtful as she stared at the portrait of the young Lady Jane. “And you display both paintings because you want to understand the mother and son bond. You wonder if your mother—”

“That’s enough, Miss Hart!” Evan never spoke about his mother and had no intention of discussing a personal matter with a relative stranger. Despite his annoyance, he softened his tone. “You have an uncanny ability to distract a man from his mission. Cease prying and permit me to finish reading this document.”

“Then, for fear of distracting you further, let me summarise the legally binding agreement.” Miss Hart squared her shoulders. “In short, you’re contractually obliged to marry me, Mr Sloane.”

Chapter 2

“Like hell I am.”

“It’s written quite clearly, sir.” Vivienne’s pulse pounded in her throat. She had expected to encounter some resistance. Mr Sloane was known for his devil-may-care attitude when it came to relationships with women. According to retiring-room gossip, the gentleman had vowed never to marry. “A direct descendant of Lucian Hart may demand to marry a direct descendant of Livingston Sloane. It is payment for the debt incurred by your grandfather when Lucian Hart saved his life.”

Mr Sloane waved the precious document in the air. “You may quote from the contract, madam, but this won’t withstand the scrutiny of the law courts.”

Despite her earlier protestations, Vivienne suspected he was right. Still, she had no choice but to persuade him otherwise. Their lives depended upon finding the rogue who would stop at nothing to obtain their hidden legacy.

“Perhaps you should finish reading the document, sir.” She kept calm, for he would rant and rave upon learning of the penalty for failing to abide by the agreement. “I shall sit patiently and wait.”

Mr Sloane arched a brow by way of a challenge. “Nothing written by a deceased relative—who must have been sotted on rum at the time—could induce me to marry.”

Vivienne sat on the gentleman’s plush damask sofa, one far more comfortable than the threadbare couch in Silver Street. “And I would prefer to marry for love, sir. But I’m sure we can come to some arrangement once the deed is done.”

“The deed?” The gentleman laughed. “Miss Hart, are you always so direct when discussing amorous liaisons?”

“Amorous liaisons?” It was Vivienne’s turn to laugh, though heat flooded her cheeks at the thought of slipping between the sheets with such a virile gentleman. “You mistake my meaning. We need my lawyer to act as a witness to the deed of matrimony. I see no reason why you would want to claim your conjugal rights.”

Mr Sloane fixed her with a heated stare. “Call me a pedant, Miss Hart, but I am not marrying a woman I cannot bed.”

The low, throaty tone of his voice would make any woman drool. Thankfully, Vivienne was made of sterner stuff. “What possible difference does it make? Many people marry for convenience.”

“Marriage is a damnable inconvenience.” The gentleman stepped closer until she was practically eye level with his muscular thighs. He looked down from a towering height. “But let’s suppose I’m considering your proposition. Though let me add, I most definitely am not.”

“Yes,” she said, feeling somewhat intimidated by his raw masculinity. His open-necked shirt didn’t help, for she’d caught more than a teasing glimpse of bronzed skin and chest hair. “Let’s presume a man of your prestigious lineage agrees to shackle himself to the granddaughter of a privateer.”

Bravery flowed in her blood. It would serve her well to remember it. If Lucian Hart could command a ship of fifty rowdy men, surely she could control a rake who spent his days solving crimes.

“If I make the ultimate commitment, Miss Hart, it will be for life. No more wild parties until the early hours. No more late-night visits from unscrupulous women. To put it bluntly, madam, I would do everything in my power to fall in love with my wife.”

Vivienne focused on keeping her mouth closed for fear of gawping.

Mr Sloane had inherited his wild, adventurous spirit from his grandfather. Yet he had acquired his sense of duty and loyalty from his father, Louis. It was said the man never recovered after losing his wife in childbed, never brought another woman into his home, not even a mistress.

“So you see how marrying me, Miss Hart, would work in opposition to your plan.” The man stepped back. His intense gaze roamed over the loose tendrils of hair escaping her chignon. “And, as you’re an advocate of honesty, you should know I’m rather rampant between the bedsheets. As such, I doubt I’d be mindful of your delicate sensibilities.”

Oh, the arrogance of the man. His lewd remark was nothing more than a weak attempt to steer her off course.

Vivienne relaxed back against the bolster cushion and forced a confident smile. “And I suppose I should offer a similar warning.” Though she could hardly profess to know anything about bed sport. “I possess the blood of an intrepid privateer and a ruthless Scottish laird. Cross me at your peril.”

Rather than offer a sharp retort, Mr Sloane’s green eyes glistened with intrigue. He made no reply and eventually lowered his gaze and continued reading the document. Vivienne began silently counting to five, knowing the volcano that was Mr Sloane’s temper was sure to erupt.

Four.