Lords Of Scandal Boxed Set Page 15

  Who would do such a thing?

  A quick survey upon her return from the bakery had confirmed everything had been misplaced, but nothing taken. That seemed like an awful lot of trouble for someone to go through without pilfering an item or two. In fact, in the amount of time she had been gone—two hours—they could have done much more damage.

  Was this the result of Mrs. Jeeves’s gossip? Surely not. This was much too intentional. Unless it was something altogether different—like a prank? All things considered, it appeared rather suspect that this trespassing coincided with Mrs. Jeeves’s spreading of gossip.

  A loud knock sounded behind her, sending tiny waves of prickles through her. Startled by the sudden intrusion, Claire launched herself away from the door as if it burned her, whirling around. The sign on the window clearly stated closed, so it must be him.

  Mr. Black.

  A fine specimen adorned in much finer clothes.

  What was he even doing here other than to mutter idiocies at her? Or more importantly, why was he so persistent? Surely his ego wasn’t overly bruised, just because she had believed him in Madam Dexter’s employ? Or was it over the business that she had been an innocent? Why should he even care about that? He was a rogue, a rake. She may not have encountered a libertine before, but she could spot a man of scandalous pursuits. Weren’t they meant not to care?

  Another knock, this time more insistent, pierced through the silence of the room. Confound it! The man would just not give up. And if Nathan Piddington or Mrs. Jeeves did not believe her account about a distant cousin, her good name, and her shop’s reputability, would be laid to waste. That was the problem of residing in a tight-knit neighborhood.

  What am I going to do?

  An acquaintance with him would do more harm than good. Even if, the moment she had spied him through the window, she’d wanted nothing more than a repeat of their evening. Claire would have to be satisfied with one night.

  With her resolve set, she squared her shoulders and yanked the door open, leveling her most dire glare at . . . the other stranger.

  “Pardon me, miss, but I didn’t quite catch your name.”

  “What need do you have for it?” she snapped. She was in no mood for games.

  His smile was completely unrepentant. “Claire’s Vintage Fashionables?”

  Mother Mary. She was changing the name of her shop. This very moment. Tomorrow. No, the day after tomorrow.

  “My aunt’s name. I inherited the shop,” Claire attempted to lie.

  He tilted his head to the side, studying her in practiced superiority. She mimicked his actions, raising a brow. Inside, however, she waged a battle to regain a semblance of calm. These men, they were way beyond her ability to manage or prevail upon to leave her be.

  Still, Claire refused to look away.

  Could she win this battle of wills? The jut of the stranger’s brow pronounced a clear no. And just where was Mr. Black?

  Deciding to yield, she peered around the stranger.

  Ignoring him worked just as well.

  Ah, there was the scoundrel, talking to a coachman. The carriage, a stellar vehicle—

  The stranger stepped into her line of vision and Claire glanced back up. He was smiling, a charming tilt of his lips directed at her.

  “Your name, madam?” he pressed.

  Claire sighed. “Miss Northrup.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “Your full name.”

  “Claire,” she bit out.

  “Your grace?” a footman said from behind the stranger.

  “Yes, Watson?”

  The footman murmured something too soft for Claire to overhear and the man nodded, sending the servant away before turning back to her.

  His grace?

  A damn duke?

  Claire had had enough of this mysterious behavior. Not only did they refuse to share the reason for their appearance, but they were also harassing her. She need not put up with this. Returning his smile with one of her own, she slammed the door shut. But not before she glimpsed his smile slip.

  Good Lord, Claire! You just shut the door in a duke’s face!

  And what of Black? Was he a lord, as well?

  Of course he was.

  Perhaps even a duke.

  Another knock, this time more insistent, echoed through her shop. She shut her eyes, debating the merits of ignoring them. But if this was a duke, best she get it over with now than face more severe consequences later.

  Claire opened the door.

  And was thrust aside by the duke’s imposing figure.

  “That is the second time a door has been shut in my face,” he snapped.

  “If you’re looking for an apology, your grace, you will find none here.”

  He smiled a little. “You are quite spirited, Miss Northrup. However, I only wish to extend an invitation to dinner.”

  Her heart gave a sudden, hard thud in her chest. She felt cornered, trapped. His invitation was for the benefit of Mr. Black, she was sure. The why remained a mystery, one Claire wanted to remain far away from. “I am honored, your grace, but I’m afraid I must decline.”

  Apparently, he was not used to taking no for an answer because he looked taken aback. “You’re refusing me?”

  “I’m not in the habit of accepting invitations to dinner from strangers.”

  His features turned thoughtful. “My apologies. Allow me to introduce myself. Sebastian Ainsley, Duke of Blackcress, at your service.”

  Claire watched in fascination as he executed the perfect bow.

  She shook her head. “Charmed as I am, your grace, that still does not make us friends.”

  “But we are no longer strangers either, Miss Northrup.”

  That remained up for debate.

  “I appreciate the offer, I honestly do, but I have no wish to further my acquaintance with Mr. Black.”

  Of course, the handsome devil chose that moment to enter, his eyes narrowing on the scene before him. “What the devil are you doing, Blackcress?”

  “Inviting Miss Claire Northrup for dinner.”

  Those vivid green eyes turned to her. “Smashing. In the meantime, you can explain why you enlisted Madam Dexter’s services, kicked me out of your bed mid-bloody-pleasure, and believed me a whore?”

  Claire blinked. “So that’s what has your knickers in a twist. A woman tossed you aside and not the other way around.”

  “I didn’t say that,” he bit out.

  “What other possible reason can you have for harassing me?”

  When he raked a hand through his hair, Claire almost felt something akin to pity. Almost but not quite, not after he had so carelessly confessed his confusion over accidentally relieving her of her virtue. She ought to bash a candlestick over his head for that.

  “Angel.”

  “Don’t Angel me. I wish for you to leave. Both of you.”

  The duke’s head perked up. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “You are associated with him,” she pointed at Black, who stood tall, proud, his clothes impeccable, expensive. Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Who are you really?” she asked, her hands settling on her hips.

  “She’s a smart one, Ashford.”

  Ashford. Now, why did that sound so familiar? Ashford, Ashford, Ashford.

  Sweet Lord!

  “As in the Duke of Ashford?” she croaked out. “Reputation darker than the night?”

  Dazed, Claire watched as he shot the Duke of Blackcress a glare before attempting to dazzle her with a charming smile.

  Stay strong, Claire.

  “Well, certainly not darker, Angel. But yes, Roland Black, Duke of Ashford at your service.”

  “Your charm won’t work on me,” she said when he executed a bow, her voice as frosty as a cold winter’s eve.

  “It worked just fine a few nights ago,” he purred.

  “That was before.”

  “Before what?” he asked sweetly.

  “Before—” she paused. Before she knew
she had spent the night with the wrong man. Before she knew he was a scandalous rake, a man addicted to lewd vices and one who’s dark reputation eclipsed the many sins of his fellow hellraisers. And a duke!

  And yet, she could not pull her gaze away while his dark eyes bore into hers, shining with fierce, uncompromising intelligence.

  Oh, she was in so much trouble.

  Chapter 10

  The woman was more devastating than he recalled. Roland stared into Claire’s hypnotic eyes in gripping fascination. Which, he thought with some measure of amusement, would not be so remarkable had he ever been engrossed by a woman’s eyes before. But he had never, not once in his thirty-three years of life, been drawn to a woman like this. Intrigued, yes. Mildly interested, one or two times. Never beyond that. Lust was where it began and most assuredly where it ended. Once he claimed his prize, the rush of the chase settled and he moved on. This enchantment, however, did not seem to be going away, a fact that left him dumbstruck, dazed, and countless other emotions into which he’d rather not delve.

  Roland had spent the entire night in a woman’s bed, and all he wanted to do was return there. It was madness. Five days ought to have been enough time for the feelings to pass, but no such luck. It seemed to Roland that the only thing to do in this circumstance was to have the delectable Miss Claire Northrup again. And again. And again.

  However long it took for this need to pass.

  And yet, she appeared on edge. Her gestures were nervous, and he might have imagined it, but it seemed like fear had flashed in her gaze. Fear of him? And she kept glancing around her shop.

  Roland cursed his lack of polish. It was clear that she was an independent woman and while not a lady in the actual sense of the word, Claire was not a woman of questionable morals. And now that she knew he was a duke—he shot another glare at Blackcress—she might be wary to rekindle any form of attachment.

  He followed her gaze to where an overlooked piece of shattered vase lay on the floor. His brow furrowed into a scowl. “Are you well, Angel?” he asked, motioning to the disregarded piece.

  “Of course. A gust of wind knocked it over. I must have missed a piece.”

  He nodded, his eyes fastening on her again. His blood burned with haunting memories of her touch, and for the first time, he felt a breath of uncertainty. “Join me for a ride in the park.”

  “Are you mad?” she said, shocked.

  Beyond repair.

  “Perhaps, but a ride in the park is hardly an insane notion.”

  “No, I imagine it to be quite fun when you have no responsibilities, such as running a shop,” she returned in a prim manner.

  Blackcress burst out in laughter and Roland picked him over with a glower. “I have responsibilities, Angel. I just prioritize.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she snapped, and then added, “’Tis’ Christmastide, your grace, one of the most lively times of the year. I cannot prioritize a stroll in the park over my livelihood.”

  “You’re closed,” he pointed out.

  “Aye, and I suppose the account books will balance themselves.”

  He raised a brow at her mocking tone. His Angel was in a devil of a mood today. Roland found it refreshing. This was not a woman to fawn over a man. She also made him feel ten times the fool.

  Of course, all that aside, he should have known she could not just depart for an afternoon of leisure. She had a business to run. It was thoughtless of him to assume otherwise—but in his defense, he was rather thoughtless altogether around her.

  He inched a step closer to her, so close that he detected the faint fragrance of apple in her hair. Her eyes were wild and wide as she stared at him. Was she recalling their lovemaking? Christ, he hoped so.

  He enjoyed watching her reaction to his closeness flicker across her features and some unknown emotion surfaced in him. Something much like possessiveness, or lust . . . or even affection. Someday she would be back in his arms, he decided. Without any confusion between them.

  Someday soon.

  “How is it you’ve remained so long unmarried?” Roland asked in a low tone, allowing his simmering curiosity to show in his eyes.

  Her eyes narrowed on him, and Roland smiled at the suspicion that flashed across her features.

  “I could ask the same of you, but then, women aren’t afforded the same rights and inclinations, are they?”

  Blackcress’s head snapped up at that. “Christ, you’re not one of those radical women, fighting for women’s rights and liberation, are you?” he demanded, horrified.

  “I am a businesswoman, your grace. While my chosen occupation is frowned upon and mocked by some, it’s mine and I do not have the time or the recourses to fight for liberation when all my energy goes into surviving.”

  “My wife will like you, Miss Northrup,” Blackcress muttered.

  “I’m sure your wife is charming, your grace. However, since his lordship,” she motioned to Roland, “continues to ogle me like some morsel, I can only assume he wishes to carry on with our dalliance. I assure both of you that will never happen.”

  Roland flashed her with a grin. Despite her apparent tension and upset, her gaze sparked bright with challenge. She was no coward.

  Just like that, his body experienced the same awakening it had the first moment he had set eyes on her. Something about her made him want to lift her into his arms and carry her to the nearest bed to lavish her with kisses.

  “Have mercy, Angel. I never proposed such an arrangement,” he murmured, although now that she presented the notion, it did hold breathtaking appeal.

  “I am aware. However, I’m sparing you the humiliation of rejection that is sure to follow should you wish to propose such an affair to begin with.”

  “You wound me, love” Roland drawled, adopting an expression of wretchedness and laughed when she narrowed her eyes at him. “Join us for dinner,” he coaxed.

  “For what possible reason?”

  Her begrudging tone made him smile. He wanted to kiss her pert little mouth, skim his hand along the soft skin of her jaw. Instead, he held still and chose his words with care. “It is the least I can do after my callous intrusion on your day. Besides, I’m harmless, right, Blackcress?”

  She cleared her throat. “Of course, it would suit you for everyone to believe so.”

  Blackcress stepped forward then. “I can assure you, Miss Northrup, that dinner will be an informal affair amongst friends in celebration of New Year’s Eve. Please reconsider.”

  Her gaze darted to Blackcress, and a wash of color darkened her cheeks. It was clear she wished to refuse the offer, but neither did she want to risk offending two dukes. Roland almost sagged in relief. He owed his friend for stepping in.

  “I would hate to impose on an intimate gathering, your grace,” she countered.

  Blackcress shook his head. “We would be honored to count you amongst our party, Miss Northrup.”

  “What say you, Angel?” Roland murmured, his teeth gleaming in an attempt to disarm the tension. “Dinner is hardly the stuff of seduction.”

  Her expressive eyes turned to him, and Roland found himself holding his breath.

  Damn.

  It took all of his willpower to remain unmoving, waiting for her response. Would he ever tire of the heat dancing beneath his skin whenever he was in her presence? He rather doubted he would. He was at a loss to why this woman, so unlike the ladies adorned in their jewels and fine silk, had captured him so thoroughly. All he knew was that she was the one he wanted.

  “Very well,” she said, and pleasure unfolded inside him.

  Somehow he would find a way to win her back into his bed.

  Chapter 11

  Claire awoke with her heart thundering in her ears. Something had disturbed her sleep, a sound of sorts. Alarm spread through her veins while her sleep-fogged mind grasped for an explanation. It was hard to tell what precisely had alerted her to the breach of peace, but having been raised in the East End, her senses were honed to
detect the faintest whiff of trouble.

  She was no stranger to crime, either, but Claire always took great care to secure her shop, mindful that while her store was by no means situated in the poorest part of London, neither was her location free of misdeeds. For that reason, and because she suffered no delusions that her neighbors would leave the safety of their homes to assist another in peril, she always made certain every door and window was tightly shut and locked. Though Claire doubted she would be the victim of an offense, there was no harm in being vigilant. But at that moment, the hairs on the back of her neck warned her to be on her guard. Shoving the sheets aside, she sat up and paused for a long moment, listening for any sign that her home had been invaded.

  For several moments, she heard nothing but deathly silence. Almost a shock to her senses, a clock chimed in the distance. One. Two. And somewhere, even further away, the hooves of a horse struck the cobbled streets. Claire started to relax. She was being silly, still on edge from earlier today when she discovered her shop in disarray. Her nerves were also fraught with strain over the looming dinner. Yes, that must be it.

  Then she heard a creak from the floorboard down the hall.

  At that moment, Claire knew paralyzing fear.

  Someone was in her home!

  For one heart-stopping moment, her limbs lost all ability to move. Even her mind froze as it latched onto that one sentence. However, the heavy tread of boot steps snapped her out of her stupor.

  Claire was born and bred in a rough part of London, and her father had never passed up on an opportunity to teach her the skill of surviving. If the burglar entered her room, by the Saints, he’d be met by the sharp end of a fire poker. Courage restored, she leapt from the bed and headed straight for her chosen weapon, which rested alongside the small hearth. Once in hand, she took position behind the door.

  Try to surprise your attacker and keep the upper hand, Claire recalled her father’s words in her head. That she could manage since the intruder would not expect her to be awake.

  Always attempt to assume a position of advantage. Her current position ought to do the trick. It may also prove to be equally disadvantageous. But, on an optimistic note, it granted her an easy exit should she succeed in overpowering the burglar or at the very least, shock him into immobility, if only for a second or two. No one knew her home better than she.