The Earl of Davenport: Wicked Regency Romance (Wicked Earls' Club #7)(5)

He’d been hoping to shock her, that much was clear. Looking at him now, it was also clear there was only one way to proceed, and that was to be as honest as he was being now.

“That is correct, my lord,” she said, casting her eyes downward. “Unlike myself and the other younger Clevelands, there is no tarnish on Claire’s name.”

His lips turned up in genuine amusement and he leaned back further in his seat. She got the distinct impression that he was pleased by her candor.

Well, if he wanted candor he would get it. “Claire is well known for her even temper and generosity. She has the education and upbringing to make her an exceptional countess.”

He didn’t look impressed.

She took a deep breath. She’d come this far, there was no turning back. “You must know what they say about you, my lord—”

“Enough with the formalities,” he said, waving his hand as if brushing them aside. “If you’re going to lecture me on my poor reputation, you might as well refer to me by my name.”

She straightened her spine, refusing to drop her gaze despite the open mockery in his eyes. “Very well. You must know what they say about you, Davenport.”

His lips turned up on one side. “Better.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, what is it they say?”

He was trying to fluster her further, but it would not work. If he could use the word bastard to her face, surely she could muster up the courage to call him by his nickname. “They call you devil, my lor—er, Davenport.”

“Do they now?”

She scowled at his teasing tone. “More than that, they say that you’re losing the confidence of your tenants and that your lands and properties are suffering from a lack of guidance.”

He opened his mouth but she kept talking before he could throw out another amused barb. “You might not want a wife, my lord, but it certainly seems as though you need one.”

His brows shot up at that, and behind the mockery she thought she sensed a new interest. Encouraged by the shift in him, she hurried on. “Whatever they might say about you, I believe that you’d do what’s best. For your tenants and….” She swallowed down emotions that threatened to choke her. “And for your neighbors.”

His eyes moved over her face, down her throat and to the edge of her bodice. She grasped her skirts to keep her hands from fluttering up to self-consciously hide herself from his gaze. She was dressed perfectly modestly—she had nothing to hide.

So why did she feel so exposed?

His silence lasted so long that she started to wonder if perhaps he was waiting on her. “Would you like to hear more about my sister, my lord?” she offered tentatively.

His brows drew together. “Good God, no. And what happened to you using my name?”

She bit her lip to keep from pestering him. It didn’t work. “Well?” she asked, desperation overcoming any hope she had to leave here with her dignity intact. “What do you think?”

He let out a laugh—an honest to goodness laugh, not one filled with mockery or cynicism. “Impatient, are we?”

She nodded. There was no use denying it. For a moment she thought about telling him the extent of their bad fortune. Explaining to him that they were mere moments away from losing everything. But something held her back. There was a line, she supposed, that separated concern from pity and she was loath to see the latter in his eyes.

Another few seconds passed and she was certain that he would never answer. Finally, however, he stood from the settee and headed toward the door. As he left, she heard him call out, “I’ll think about it.”





Chapter Two





Davenport’s great aunt peeked up at him over the rim of her spectacles the following morning as she considered her next move on the chess board and absorbed this latest bit of gossip. “You’re not really going to consider it.”

Eleanor said it as a statement, not a question, because she knew him well. Well enough to know that the insipid Claire Cleveland would never be a fit wife for him. Not merely because she was so proper and respectable that the mere thought of her being paired with the Devil of Davenport was laughable, but because she was far too weak, too soft, too refined.

“No, of course not,” he said. He sighed with impatience as his great aunt took her sweet time studying her pieces on the board, most likely analyzing his future with the same critical eye.

It seemed everywhere he turned, his marital status—or lack thereof—was of interest to someone. In each case, said person would not be tied to a woman for the rest of his or her life so their opinion mattered little. Though he respected Eleanor immensely and, more importantly, he valued her contribution to the Earldom these past ten years after he’d taken over the title from his deceased father. She’d taken on the duties of a countess as his mother had died in the same carriage accident as his father, and he had been too young to marry.

And then he’d been too busy to marry, not to mention too unmotivated. His great aunt ran an efficient household and saw to all the other duties of a countess, and it wasn’t as though he required a bride’s dowry or title. So really, there had never been a need to marry. Besides, what single young gentleman actually wanted to be tied down by the noose of marriage? Not him, and not his friends.

Until recently, that was. Over the past few months matrimony had spread like a taffeta-covered epidemic among his peers. Most notably, his friends at the club. The Wicked Earls’ Club was a place of refuge—a sanctuary in London’s societal jungle. For years it had been the place he could escape to when the persistent mamas and their eager daughters grew to be too much. Most of the other earls at the club had felt the same until recently. One by one he’d watched them fall prey to title-seeking young ladies.