A Rake's Ruin (Devilish Lords #1)(20)

Galwin forced a smile, one that came from years of bluffing at the gaming tables. “Davenport, old man. Splendid party you’ve thrown here.”

Davenport did not return his smile. If anything, his glower turned ominously dark. “Why are you following Miss Cleveland?”

Galwin’s face fell. Damn. He’d been caught. He opened his mouth, ready to play the village idiot. Following whom? You must be mistaken!

But one look in those knowing eyes and at that grim expression and his words died in his throat. From what he could tell, no one played the fool around the Devil of Davenport and lived to tell the tale.

“I will ask you one more time, Galwin, before I throw you out of here with my own two hands. What business do you have with my sister-in-law?”

Galwin blinked and stammered slightly. Hell, he’d never stammered a day in his life. But then, he’d never come face to face with the devil before either. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “My lord, there seems to be a misunderstanding.”

The earl arched one brow. “Now is not the time to prevaricate, Galwin. Not unless you wish to meet at dawn.”

Galwin opened his mouth and then shut it again just as quickly. What was this about? Suspicion formed an angry pit in his stomach. Something was not right. What was Davenport doing here seeking him out? There was no reason for the man to leap to conclusions, particularly when it came to Claire. Not unless…

Oh no.

“There are whispers,” Davenport said, crossing his arms over his chest as he gave Galwin a damning glare that spoke clearly as to who he blamed for those whispers.

“Whispers, my lord?” Galwin became increasingly aware of Claire’s presence on the other side of the door. More than anything, he wished to protect her. “I can assure you that whatever you have heard—”

“I would not have believed it,” Davenport continued as though Galwin had not spoken, his watchful gaze darting between him and the closed door. “Let me be precise, I definitely would not believe any rumors of impropriety on Claire’s behalf.”

The earl’s glower made it clear that he would believe rumors that besmirched Galwin’s character. Irritation at the other man’s smug righteousness made him stiffen, but he couldn’t quite muster the appropriate level of outrage.

He had, in fact, developed a well-deserved reputation for being a shameless flirt and perhaps even a rake. It was a reputation he’d become quite proud of, in a way. He adored the fact that his presence at parties made women flutter their fans as they whispered and blushed. He loved not having the same rigid expectations of propriety and decorum that his elder brother was forced to adhere to as heir to the dukedom.

But now, in this moment, he despised the fact that his past transgressions reflected poorly on Claire, and worse, there was nothing he could say to defend himself. Particularly since he was not certain what rumors were spreading. If he spoke now he could incriminate Claire even further.

Damn. He wished more than anything that he could have a moment alone with her to get their stories straight before dealing with Davenport.

But Davenport hardly looked as though he were in a patient mood and Galwin suspected he should be grateful that this conversation was not being conducted at sword point.

“Might I ask what exactly those rumors were about?” he asked. He needed more information if he were to talk their way out of this situation.

“A certain boorish baron is telling anyone who will listen that you and Claire were alone in the garden together.”

Hell and damnation. He was going to throttle Swattle before this night was through. Davenport was watching him closely so he forced a laugh he did not feel.

“Claire Cleveland?” he said, his tone full of incredulity. “Davenport, you should know as well as anyone that dutiful maids are hardly the company I seek when I am looking for a late night rendezvous in the gardens.”

Davenport’s lips curled up in a sneer that Galwin felt in his gut. He deserved that condemning, judgmental glare—not because of his roguish ways but because he had slighted Claire.

Beautiful, lovely, spirited Claire.

He very nearly rolled his eyes at his own musings. Good Lord, even his internal monologue was besotted with the woman. Was this what those poor, poetry-minded sops were on about when they wrote those odes? Clearly he had been cursed by the same spell for he found himself itching to write verses about her hair, her eyes, and most particularly her lips.

Bloody hell, he needed to rein in these ridiculous notions before he drew himself and Claire into a situation they couldn’t get out of.

Not that he would mind, necessarily.

He stared at Davenport with astonishment as that idea took root. He toyed with it, turning it over and dissecting it as the other man studied him as though he could read all he needed to know in his posture.

To Galwin’s surprise, Davenport let out a weary sigh and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Bloody hell, what has Claire gotten herself into?”

He opened his mouth to respond but Davenport did not give him the chance. “Whatever is going on between you two, it ends now. You will have nothing to do with her from this point forward, understand?”

Of all the ways this conversation could go, that was Galwin’s least favorite option. He realized with a start that he would have preferred a wedding at gunpoint to being told that he was banned from seeing Claire again.