The Earl of Davenport: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club #7)(2)

“Ah, my morning visitors,” he said as he pushed himself away from the doorway and entered the room. His pace was slow and his tone held more than a hint of mockery. “How could I have forgotten the urgent summons from Miss….”

He reached the settee and fell onto it, his questioning gaze once more returning to Anne. Her eyes narrowed on him. What was he about? Of course he knew who she was. He was acting obtuse just to be a boor. Why he insisted on acting like a fiend when she clearly knew the truth about him, she would never understand.

“Miss Anne Cleveland,” she finished. “And this is my dear friend, Mrs. Elizabeth Bawdry.”

She’d very nearly pointed out that he knew exactly who she was—her family had been living on the property adjacent to his their entire lives, but she refrained on Betsy’s account. The woman had suffered enough by coming along with her this morning. Despite her protests, Betsy was being a good sport. So, rather than risk being rude and causing Betsy more discomfort, she’d answered the unspoken question politely.

Davenport gave her friend a peremptory nod before turning back to her. His arm was slung over the back of the settee as he lounged there, looking for all the world like a sultan with his harem.

Her heart thumped erratically. Now where had that thought come from? Her admittedly overactive imagination hurried to provide her with an image to accompany the wayward thought. A shirtless Davenport lounging on a bed of pillows. Those dark gray eyes watching her as she undressed for him….

His low voice cut into the errant daydream. “Miss Cleveland, I find myself extraordinarily curious to know where your thoughts have gone.”

She started, her mouth falling open in an unladylike manner as heat bloomed in her cheeks. Sweet heavens, she had been caught ogling the man.

He tilted his head to the side as he stared up at her. “You have remarkably expressive features, has anyone ever told you that?”

She shook her head. “No, my lord.” Blast. That was a lie. Everyone had told her that. She was one of seven siblings and each and every one had commented on multiple occasions on their ability to read her like a book.

From the way he was smirking, she had the horrible sensation that he’d seen exactly where her mind had wandered. But then, he must have been used to women eyeing him like that. She rarely attended society events but she knew from her sister, Claire, that he was considered quite the catch.

He’d developed a reputation for his reckless behavior but that only seemed to enhance his appeal among the young ladies, and even their mamas overlooked his bad deeds on behalf of his title. Mothers looking to wed their daughters were capable of overlooking any number of things when it came to wealthy, titled gentlemen.

This line of thought brought her back to her senses. That was exactly why she was here. Because of good marriages and overbearing mamas, but most importantly, because of Claire.

Steeling her spine, she turned to Betsy. “Mrs. Bawdry, I do believe I’ve left my shawl with the butler and I seem to have developed a chill. Would you be so kind as to fetch it for me?”

The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock as Betsy glared at her, her eyes attempting to convey every lecture she’d already given a hundred times over. Anne met her stare with raised brows. They’d been over this and over this. She understood Betsy’s objections, but this was the only way. She needed to speak with the earl and the conversation had to be done in private.

It would be difficult enough to get through to the man by herself but if he suspected he had an audience to impress with his ridiculous devil fa?ade, her plight would not stand a chance.

After several long moments, Betsy conceded, but not without a grumble of warning before she headed back out the way they had come in. The door closed behind her with a click.

They were alone.

She was alone with the Devil of Davenport.

Shaking her head slightly, she turned back to face the man who was not a devil. His look of amusement had her blushing all over again.

“I must confess, I’m intrigued,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the otherwise silent room. “Why would a proper young lady like yourself wish to be left unchaperoned with the likes of me?”

He came to a stand and once again, Anne was reminded of a beast. But not the black stallion in her brother’s stables. This time he struck her as a predator. As he moved toward her, she backed away. It wasn’t until the back of her legs hit an end table that she came to a stop.

She thought he would stop too, but he kept advancing until he was standing just in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. The scent of soap and leather filled her senses and she clasped her hands together, partly to keep them from shaking with nerves, but partly because she had the ridiculous desire to reach out and touch him. He was so close that she could lift her hand and he would be there, his warm skin under her glove, his hard muscles pressed against her.

She shivered as a foreign sensation swept over her body, leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable.

“Yes,” he murmured softly. “I do wish I could read that mind of yours, Miss Cleveland. Though I’m not entirely sure I need to.”

She forced herself to lift her gaze to meet his. Oh mercy. She wished she could look away from those eyes, darkened with an emotion so primal, she recognized it deep in her bones. Desire.

“I-I need to speak with you, my lord.” Her voice had grown ridiculously breathy but she was proud that she had at least managed to get the words out.