Wicked Under the Covers Page 4

  “Good day, ladies. It is an enchanting afternoon for a carriage ride. Might I and my companion ride beside you for a time?”

  Fayre inclined her head, acknowledging the man’s greeting. Although tears were blurring her vision, preventing her from seeing the two gentlemen clearly, she recognized the distinct voice of Lord Yemant. He and his male companion kept pace with their carriage so she saw no reason to order her coachman to halt. If she were lucky, the gentlemen might become bored and ride onward.

  “Yes, indeed, a remarkable afternoon,” Lord Yemant said cheerfully, echoing his earlier statement. “I vow we have encountered a third of the ton on this dusty rut alone.”

  The flirtatious ladies of the ton called him “Pretty John,” a witty play on his family name. His elegant features complemented his nickname. His face was long and his chin ended in a rounded point. There was intelligence in his blue eyes and a hint of a smile that made the observer long for it to fully bloom. She knew firsthand how engaging he could be when he let down his guard. His hair was a medium brown that reminded her of tea. The cut was short and fashionable.

  Fayre had encountered him on several occasions. Each time, the viscount had been an unerringly polite dance partner and had possessed a reserve that bordered on endearingly shy. She also could not fathom why he would approach her so publicly. “I agree with your assessment, my lord. The afternoon has been most agreeable.” A pity she could not say the same for her life. “It has been some time since we last saw each other. I trust you are well?”

  “Indeed, my lady. Like you and your companion, my friend and I could not resist taking advantage of such a pleasant day.”

  Realizing she was behaving rudely, she introduced Callie to the gentlemen. Wary that her eyes bore evidence of tears, Fayre had yet to allow her gaze to settle directly on Lord Yemant or his friend. Feigning interest in their surroundings, she listened to Lord Yemant’s rambling account of his day. His nervousness was unexpectedly draining, and Fayre felt the need to think of a polite excuse to dismiss them.

  A discreet cough from the viscount’s companion had the gentleman wincing. “Forgive me, I have been remiss, ladies. Lady Fayre and Miss Mableward, may I present Mr. Maccus Brawley.”

  As Lord Yemant finished his introduction, Fayre was beginning to feel like herself again—until she focused her attention on Mr. Brawley. She sucked in her breath, startled to discover that his assessing gaze was fixed on her. Callie, oblivious to their silent appraisal of each other, was saying something to Lord Yemant. Fayre barely paid attention to her friend’s cheerful chatter. If Fayre had not been still suffering over the betrayal of Standish and his mistress, she might have conceded that Mr. Maccus Brawley was a dangerously handsome gentleman.

  Although the cut of his coat was as fashionable as the viscount’s, the man reminded her of a buccaneer. His hair was straight and the color of jet. Strands of hair spiked from beneath his hat, some of the longer lengths around his face brushed his high cheekbones, adding a roguish flair. Unlike Lord Yemant, Mr. Brawley defied current fashion by keeping the hair at his back longer. It was tied in a neat queue. Fayre’s gaze drifted back to his face. His skin was darker than his companion’s. The limited amount of flesh exposed made it impossible to determine whether or not the sun had tanned him or he could claim Mediterranean blood. There was an exotic beauty to his features, emphasized by a slim moustache outlining his full lips and a shadow of stubble on his chin. Does the man not have a dependable valet? she wondered, and then mentally chastised herself for her curiosity. Fayre usually viewed facial hair on a gentleman as repellant. For some reason, she thought it seemed fitting on Mr. Brawley.

  Horrified by the perilous admission—was she not in enough trouble because she had fallen for a handsome scoundrel?—Fayre decided that she definitely needed to shift her attentions elsewhere. Breaking away from his compelling gray eyes rimmed with dark blue, her gaze glided down to his right shoulder. Mr. Brawley had very strong shoulders that had nothing to do with his excellent tailor. Her admiring gaze had a will of its own as her attention moved leisurely from his chest, to his narrowed waist, around the curve of his muscled buttock, and down to his well-defined calf. Fayre resisted the urge to shiver. Mr. Brawley had a fine, laudable physique. In truth, she could not think of another man who wore his clothes as well.

  “Lady Fayre,” the man she had been boldly staring at said in a low, husky drawl. “I think you and I were fated to meet.”

  Fayre parted her lips, stunned by his outrageous statement. What sharp reprimand she intended froze in her throat. It was his eyes. Framed by dark eyebrows and long lashes, his gray eyes captured and entranced her.

  Noticing the effect he was having on her, Mr. Maccus Brawley shifted slightly on his saddle and responded with a slow, provocative wink.

  Fayre’s green eyes narrowed at his arrogance. He might look like a pirate, but he was the devil to a woman with a wounded heart.

  Maccus almost laughed aloud at Lady Fayre’s reaction. When they first caught up with her carriage, she had not glanced in his direction once as she spoke to Yemant. When she had finally deigned to notice him, the impact of her wide, startled green eyes was like a punch to his chest. From his distant observations, he had thought she was an appealing creature. Now, feeling her gaze on his face like a silken caress, he reconsidered and decided that she was the most extraordinarily stunning woman he had ever encountered. He was looking forward to their impending partnership. All he had to do was charm her into agreeing. The manner in which she had admired him so appreciatively left little doubt that he would gain her consent to his offer this very afternoon.

  “It would do you credit not to overestimate our brief acquaintance, Mr. Brawley,” Lady Fayre said, eerily responding to his thoughts. He realized his error with her next words. “Your scheme was ill-fated before you even approached our carriage.”

  Callie gasped at her friend’s rudeness. “Fayre!”

  Lord Yemant looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I am certain Mr. Brawley meant no insult, my lady. Please accept our apologies.”

  Maccus shot the viscount an irritated glance. “When it is warranted, I can make my own apologies, Yemant.” Perhaps he needed to reassess his approach with Solitea’s daughter. He was used to women who sighed and melted at lingering stares and arrogant declarations. Lady Fayre was gripping her parasol as if she intended to strike him with it.

  “I grow weary of sitting,” Lady Fayre said, addressing her companion. “If you do not object, Miss Mableward, I would prefer to return to the house.”

  “Of course,” Callie hastily agreed. The quick, shy glance she sent Yemant betrayed her desire to remain and continue her conversation with the viscount.

  Maccus was not above using this realization to his advantage. He called out to the coachman, ordering him to halt the carriage. Ignoring Yemant’s bewildered expression and Lady Fayre’s countermand, Maccus reined in his horse next to the carriage and dismounted. He secured his horse to the carriage.

  Lady Fayre rose unsteadily to her feet, preparing to reprimand both her coachman and Maccus. She seemed torn as to whom to take on first. Maccus settled the matter for her by opening the carriage door.

  “What do you think you are doing, Mr. Brawley?” she furiously demanded.

  “Being a gentleman by assisting a lady in distress.” Maccus seized her hand. Lady Fayre was too upset to think of appearances. She pulled her hand out of his and then wiped her gloved hand on her skirt. The telling action fired Maccus’s temper. She shrieked when he wrapped his hands around her slender waist and hauled her out of the carriage.

  “Release me this instant!” she said, her body vibrating with suppressed anger. She kicked him the second he set her on her feet.

  “My God, Brawley! Are you insane? You cannot man-handle a female you have taken a fancy to!” Yemant exclaimed, dismounting from his horse. “And in the park of all places!”

  “Fayre, are you hurt?” Callie asked, sliding closer to the open carriage door. Uncertain of her part, she glanced helplessly at the viscount for guidance.

  Lady Fayre was not flustered like her friend. The lady knew what she wanted. She wanted to make him suffer. “No.” Lady Fayre glared at Maccus.

  If she kicked him again, Maccus planned to do more than put his hands on her. A part of him welcomed her defiance. However, business came first. “Yemant, calm yourself. There is no need to rush to the lady’s defense. She has admitted that she is unhurt. I was simply a tad overzealous fulfilling Lady Fayre’s desire for an escort while she walked.”

  Her face suffused with color, clashing with her fiery tresses. “I made no such request!” Standing rigidly, she searched the area with her luminous green gaze to see if anyone had noticed them. Unfortunately, the lovely afternoon had lured many people outdoors.

  “Many consider shyness the stamp of a refined lady.” Maccus fought back the urge to laugh. Nothing he had seen in the duke’s daughter indicated that she was a timid creature. Nevertheless, if she challenged his remark, she was admitting that she was not a proper lady. “Now, my lady, you are among friends. There is no need to deny your discomfort and I am eager to provide a respectful escort while Miss Mableward and Lord Yemant continue their conversation.” He bent his mouth closer to her ear and whispered, “If you vilify me, Yemant will be forced to challenge me. He is too good a man to permit me to sully a lady’s honor. Can your reputation withstand yet another public assault?”

  Her friend, gripping the side of the carriage, said with insincere enthusiasm, “I could join you if you like?” She glanced longingly at Lord Yemant. The viscount was unaware of her devoted gaze because he was still frowning at Maccus. Lady Fayre, however, had noticed.

  Accepting that there was no graceful way o
ut of the situation, short of creating a public spectacle, she said, “No, Callie, there is no need to bother. Remain with Lord Yemant. I will accept Mr. Brawley’s generous offer to accompany me. It appears I need a walk. We shall not be long.”

  Miss Mableward handed Lady Fayre her parasol. “Take however long you need. Pray do not hurry on my account.”

  Lord Yemant was still unhappy with Maccus’s high-handed tactics. He was an honorable gentleman, and would never forgive himself if Lady Fayre suffered in Maccus’s care because of his faulty judgment.

  Maccus extended his bent arm to her in mocking courtesy. Her green eyes were ablaze as she raised her chin a notch and walked past him. “Come along, Mr. Brawley, before I am overwhelmed by my distress,” she said, deliberately returning his own words to him.

  The air quivered with the anticipation of battle.

  Maccus bowed to Miss Mableward and gave a brief nod in Yemant’s direction before strolling after Lady Fayre. His eye was on the woman wearing the blue velvet spencer over a white cambric dress. He rarely allowed his pleasures to interfere with his business goals. However, Maccus suspected the lady he was pursuing would tempt him into breaking his own rules.

  Fayre crossed the open field toward a copse of trees, putting as much distance as she could from the carriage. Mr. Brawley had something to say to her and she preferred he said it without the benefit of an audience. She shuddered, thinking about her confrontation with Lord Standish and Lady Hipgrave. No, she definitely did not want to play out her life again in front of the masses.

  She sensed him before he touched her on the sleeve. The sensation reminded her of being jolted by one of those French static electric machines. Fayre abruptly halted. “Mr. Brawley, unhand me. Heavens, your manners are atrocious! A gentleman never touches a lady unless invited to do so,” she said.

  Mr. Brawley did not release her. He moved in front of her, preventing her from escaping. Fayre glanced past him, but no one seemed to be overtly paying attention to them. Still, that did not mean they were not being watched. Turning her face up to his, she did not trust the gleam in his gray eyes.

  “In my experience, a lady walking alone is sending out all sorts of interesting invitations,” he said, definitely intrigued with the notion.

  Smug, lecherous wretch, she thought. He had deliberately maneuvered her away from her friend. Any curiosity she had about this gentleman or his motives was slowly evaporating with her patience. Her lips formed into a dangerous smile that usually had most gentlemen stepping back.

  “Play nice, my lady,” Mr. Brawley chided. “Remember our audience. Besides, when a lady takes a bite out of me, I prefer a more private setting.” His gaze focused on her mouth.

  It was disturbing to have him looking at her so intensely. There was a dark brooding sensuality about him that beckoned to her, but she intended to resist his thrall. She had let her heart rule her choices and had paid dearly for her foolishness. “Who are you? Really? Lord Yemant is a respectable gentleman. I cannot imagine why he would associate with a man such as you.”

  He did not take offense at her snide remark. Instead he asked, “And what kind of man am I, sweet Lady Fayre?”

  “Someone from the criminal class, I would wager.” Her eyes narrowed, recalling her first impression of him. “Or a pirate, perhaps.”

  Mr. Brawley grinned. “Beautiful and intelligent.” He shook his head, enjoying a private joke. “And a commendable imagination. I knew the first time I saw you that you were the one I sought.”

  Fayre’s forehead furrowed. Bewildered, she carefully said, “The first time? Sir, we just met. You must have confused me with another lady.” A sense of relief washed over her with the knowledge that his attentions were mis-directed.

  His expression was enigmatic as he lightly stroked her cheek. “Fate is never so simple or so kind, my lady,” he said casually. “Come, let us continue our walk.” He threaded her hand through his arm and with a friendly pat pulled her along.

  Uncertain how to proceed, she strolled with him in silence. Mr. Brawley treated her as if they were acquainted; however, she could not recall encountering him at the countless balls and house parties she had attended over the years. She would have definitely remembered him. He was a gentleman who left a distinct impression on a lady. Fayre was used to people approaching her and claiming an informal connection to her and her family. Their false sincerity usually unmasked them. Mr. Brawley was not claiming that he knew her family. He claimed he knew her. His gray eyes glittered down at her mockingly as if he knew all her secrets, even the ones she dared not tell her family.

  He was beginning to frighten her.

  She could despise him simply for that alone. Fayre was not a sniveling coward. She had stood up to Standish while her heart lay shattered at their feet. Mr. Brawley with his teasing gray eyes was nothing in comparison. “No more subterfuge, sir, or I will leave you now and return to my carriage. Do I know you, Mr. Brawley?”

  He gave her a considering look and then shrugged carelessly. “No. Not in the manner I led you to believe.” As they approached a low-hanging branch pregnant with fragrant white blooms, he raised it high so she could pass under it. “But I will.”

  Such arrogance! “I am not really interested in knowing you, sir.”

  “Oh, I am aware of what you think of me, Lady Fayre. That lovely face of yours is rather transparent at times,” he said, laughing.

  “Then you should also realize that you are wasting your time. Your charming disposition might be appealing for some ladies, but I am unmoved by it.”

  “You tempt me to stop and prove you wrong.” He sighed. “Regretfully, we will have to savor that delightful challenge later,” Mr. Brawley said, giving her a sly wink. “Just a short delay, I promise, my lady. There is something about being in your presence that saps my immeasurable patience. All I intend to do this afternoon is propose a business offer.”

  One minute he was promising to kiss her, the next he wanted to discuss business. She had never encountered a gentleman who left her so bemused—and slightly insulted. “A business venture, Mr. Brawley? If you desire to do business with my family, I suggest that you contact our solicitor. Those affairs do not concern me.”

  He stilled her by tightening his grip on her arm. “I have no need of your family or your solicitor. What I want is you.”

  His outlandish statement gave her a fluttery feeling in her stomach. She absently placed her hand on her abdomen. Fayre cleared her dry throat. “Well, sir, you cannot have me.”

  “Is that what you told Standish after you caught him with his mistress?” he mildly asked, watching her face.

  Fayre was not prone to violence. She had never struck a man in the face before Standish, though the man had richly deserved the slap and much more. Mr. Brawley’s calculated query had her fingers itching for him to be her second. She closed her hand into a fist and kept it rigidly at her side.

  “Well, done, my lady. Your control is remarkable. I am impressed.” He softly applauded.

  “What do you know about Standish? Did he send you to me?” she asked, horrified to think that Standish and Lady Hipgrave were still several steps ahead of her. God, she was a fool! She turned and her eyes scanned the field of picnickers and strolling pedestrians, looking for the quickest path to her carriage.

  He did not try to stop her from reversing their direction and crossing the field. Her long skirts hindered her pace, so he caught up to her easily. “Standish did not send me to you. I tend after my own interests. Meddling in other people’s problems is generally boring unless I have something to gain in the bargain.”

  “I have nothing to offer you, Mr. Brawley.”

  “I disagree.”

  His cocksure demeanor was insufferable. Exasperated, she demanded, “What do you want from me?”

  “A bargain between us, Lady Fayre; one that benefits us both.”

  A soft sound of disbelief caught in her throat. “Your generosity overwhelms me, sir. Unfortunately, I will have to decline.”