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



But not Anne. He was struck by another memory of her standing there before him, her posture stiff and her chin held high. Still just as willful and stubborn as ever. Still honest to a fault and startlingly straightforward.

She didn’t deserve to suffer for Jed’s faults. That was what made his gut churn with that unfamiliar, and quite unwanted, sensation of guilt. But that was ridiculous. Anne and her siblings were not his concern. Despite what she might remember from their childhood, he was not some knight in shining armor as she seemed to hope.

Once again he saw those eyes, looking at him as though certain that he would come to her aid. To her family’s aid. The churning guilt quickly made him feel irritable as he scowled at the chess board. He was the bloody Devil of Davenport, damn it. Hadn’t she heard?

Eleanor leaned back, having moved one of her pawns. “My guess is Claire had no notion that her younger sister had arrived on your doorstep pleading her case.”

He let out a sharp bark of laughter, his irritation ebbing as quickly as it had arisen at his aunt’s perceptive comment. “You’re probably right. No doubt Anne took it upon herself to save the family home.” He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Little hellion.”

But she no longer resembled the young girl who’d taken to tagging along with him and Jed. She had the same red hair and the same soft blue eyes—but there was nothing girlish about her luscious body. Her features had gone from youthful and rounded to delicate and refined. She looked like a proper young lady—until she opened her mouth. And then he was reminded of the stubborn, headstrong girl he’d known. The one who’d been unafraid to speak her mind or laugh loudly at any joke.

She’d always been quick to laugh and even quicker to cry. Oh, not like other girls he’d known. She hadn’t mooned over boys or cried over a skinned knee. No, she’d been more prone to weep inconsolably over a bird that had fallen out of its tree or a rabbit swept up by a hawk.

His hand hovered over the board as another memory surfaced. A little redhead with impossibly kind eyes shedding tears because of the lashes on his back—a punishment for having missed a lesson in something or other.

His governess hadn’t tattled on him, but his father had found out anyway and taken it upon himself to “beat the devil out of the boy.”

As if that was possible.

“So? What’s wrong with her then?” Eleanor asked, interrupting his wretched memories.

He sighed. “Everything. According to Anne, she’s demure, accomplished—”

“And as boring as they come, no doubt,” Eleanor finished.

“Exactly.”

As always, Eleanor knew him well—probably because he took after her in more ways than one. Eleanor had been the black sheep in her family in her own right. It had been the family’s worst kept secret that she preferred the company of his mother’s governess above all others. The governess had gone on to be Aunt Eleanor’s companion until the day she died nearly ten years ago.

To society she had been a spinster—even worse, a spinster with a tainted reputation.

At least Davenport was a man, and a titled one at that. No matter how badly he behaved, he couldn’t seem to get himself ejected from society.

The Devil of Davenport was here to stay.

He’d born the “devil” moniker for as long as he could remember. At first it had been teasing. He could remember his father calling him a “little devil” when he was a small child. His mother would come to his defense back then, saying that he was just mischievous. And he supposed he wasn’t all that different from other rambunctious young children. It was just in comparison to his older brother Robert that he came up looking wicked.

For Robert, the heir, was kind and dutiful and obedient. Everything that Frederick was not. In addition to being a splendid heir and brilliant son, he’d also been a devoted brother, chasing after the wayward little boy whenever he got into trouble.

He’d been chasing after eight-year-old Frederick when the accident occurred. Frederick had refused to come inside even though thunderclouds were rolling in and Robert had gone running after him. Frederick remembered how proud he’d been when he’d lost his older brother by hiding in the old woodshed.

He didn’t know how long Robert continued to look for him. Long enough to get soaking wet and catch a cold which would lead to a fever, which left him dead days later.

Killing his older brother had not been his intention, obviously, but it had still been Frederick’s doing. At least, that was how his parents saw it. From that point on there was no amusement in his father’s voice when he called him “devil” and his mother no longer came to his defense.

Only Eleanor, his spinster great aunt, had been an ally. She’d understood when he’d embraced the “devil” nickname, in part to hurt his parents but also because there was truth in it. Intentional or not, he’d always had a knack for trouble—finding it, making it, and stirring it up.

Which was why it came as no surprise to his great aunt that the thought of marrying a simpering debutante with a spotless reputation sounded as appealing as eating gruel for the rest of his days.

He tapped a pawn against the edge of the table as his mind conjured an image of life with someone like that. He had a hazy picture in his mind of a pretty blonde with a kind smile.

The image did nothing for him, except perhaps fill him with a mild sense of guilt and shame. That was what life would be with a woman like that. He would continue to live his life as he pleased and she would be a victim of that selfishness. He’d find himself staring into softly accusatory eyes at the dinner table. He fought back a shudder at that thought. A lifetime of silent recriminations and pathetic martyrdom.

Maggie Dallen & Wick's Books