To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Read online

  Fury twisted his stomach. And even better, what did he have to look forward to? The pleasure of visiting the Edwards’ town house and informing the fieriest and most unhinged woman in London she’d been jilted.

  By Bradford bloody Shilton.

  ***

  When Bradford Shilton arrived, she would wring his scrawny neck. Unless her fiancé lay in pieces on a London street, there was no excuse for this kind of tardiness again.

  Biting her lip, Caroline circled the parlor for the eighth time, cursing the fact she’d chosen to wear the world’s most uncomfortable shoes and a demure, lace-edged pink day dress that made her want to scratch like a flea-ridden hound. If he didn’t arrive soon, she’d lose any last shred of decorum and claw the garment off. Or hurtle onto the street and accost strangers, asking if they’d seen him.

  Instead, she perched on the faded velvet-covered chaise and glared at the full tea tray. No doubt it would be near undrinkable now, and there were only two of Cook’s sugar cookies left. Not that Bradford deserved sugar cookies. Or anything sweet for that matter. Treats were reserved for men who actually turned up at the time they promised to take their supposed ‘wonderful woman’ for an outing in the brisk early spring sunshine.

  “This is beyond ridiculous,” Caroline muttered, rubbing her arms. “If marriage is a no go, I’ll join the theatre. Or hurl myself at Prinny. Worked for Mrs. Fitzherbert…”

  Oh no. Talking to oneself was never a good sign, luckily only a few maids were here to witness her humiliation. Sir Malcolm had left for his chambers, Mama had gone shopping and George, well heaven knew where George was, but at least he wasn’t around to laugh himself into a catatonic state.

  Five minutes later she jumped to her feet, wincing as the horrible shoes pinched her toes, and wandered to the window. Certainly not to wait for Bradford of course, just a little general people-watching. It seemed everyone was taking advantage of the clearer March weather, half a dozen curricles and phaetons jostled each other as they attempted to avoid carriages and carts laden with goods. On the footpath, warmly wrapped couples ambled with their heads tilted together, while small groups of friends laughed uproariously as they shared the latest on-dit.

  The sound of the front door opening and Pearce welcoming an obviously familiar visitor interrupted her lunatic mental ramblings.

  Finally.

  Skidding back to the chaise, she picked up a borrowed piece of her mother’s embroidery, (the fact she couldn’t sew a stitch was not something Bradford needed to know) tucked one ankle around the other and smoothed her features into what hopefully resembled a pose of sweetly patient womanhood. Disemboweling him with a cake fork would certainly be easier if he believed all was well.

  Footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway and her lips quirked at how purposeful they sounded. Perhaps this time Bradford had been saving a small child from a burning building or other such manly activity. Soon he’d walk in here, smoky and slightly disheveled, with streaks of soot on his face, ready to haul her into his arms and celebrate life and love in a delightfully physical way.

  Licking her lips, Caroline sat a little straighter and arched her back so her breasts were even more prominent. The pose was horribly uncomfortable and increased the likelihood of an embroidery needle stabbing tenfold, but even a twisted spine and her mother’s wrath at a blood-splattered cross stitch would be worth the glorious passion she would soon be experiencing.

  Two sharp knocks sounded on the parlor door, making it creak as it swung open.

  “What a fetching sight. Somebody should paint your portrait, because no one would ever believe me if I said you were sewing and wearing pale pink.”

  Her heart plummeted to her toes.

  Not her fiancé at all, but the man she wished had set sail for a never ending journey: Stephen Forsyth. How ridiculous that even after his blistering tirade at the theatre, her heart still fluttered at the sound of his rich, deep voice. She was engaged, for goodness sake. He was engaged. But a terribly traitorous part of herself couldn’t help admiring the way he almost completely blocked the wide door, his dark gray-greatcoat encased shoulders were so broad. Or the way his fawn trousers hugged thighs so solidly muscled it was quite indecent.

  “Lord Westleigh,” she replied, with icy politeness. “George is out and about, so sadly you will have to turn around and leave again. I’ll let him know you were here.”

  “How gracious. Tell me, does Emily know you stole one of her creations? Perhaps you should return it before you maim yourself and color it red where it should be yellow.”

  Why, oh why couldn’t looks truly kill?

  Cheeks burning, Caroline tossed the embroidery aside, kicked off her horrible shoes and picked up a cookie. “Did you not hear me? George is out and about. I have no idea where, so plan your return a long, long time in the future. Besides,” she said extra sweetly, “my fiancé will be here any minute and I doubt he’d be happy to see you lounging in the parlor.”

  Instead of a lightning fast glib or sarcastic reply, Stephen tilted his head and looked at her with the oddest expression on his face. If she didn’t know better she might swear it was…pity? Why on earth would he feel sorry for her?

  Uneasily, she took a bite of cookie, the crunching sound almost deafening in the longest quiet moment to ever exist between them. It tasted like sawdust so she swallowed, squared her shoulders and glared at him. “Lord Westleigh. I am not the last cream bun in the shop. Please refrain from staring.”

  “He’s not coming, Caro.”

  Alarm slithered along her spine. His tone was far too gentle. And Stephen hadn’t called her that in years. “Excuse me?”

  “Shilton. He won’t be visiting you, definitely not today, anyway.”

  Caroline lurched to her feet, and staggered over to the window. “What do you mean, he, ah, won’t be visiting? How would you know? Is he…is he hurt?”

  “No,” the earl replied, so uncharacteristically slow and reluctant she yearned to throw a heavy object at his head.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she snapped over her shoulder, the last tiny scrap of her patience disappearing. “I’m not in the mood for guessing games. If you have something to say, just say it.”

  “Very well. Shilton got married yesterday.”

  The world tilted on its axis, black spots danced in front of her eyes and for a dreadful moment she actually thought she might faint.

  Married? Bradford Shilton, her shy, devoted fiancé had married someone else?

  Turning, one hand gripping the window ledge for dear life, she gazed blankly at Stephen. “Wh-what?”

  “It’s not public knowledge yet, but he eloped to Gretna Green. In anticipation of the fuss, Lord and Lady Doverfield have er, hastily retired to their country seat.”

  Slowly but surely, fury overtook her shock. This was a practical joke. He’d come here, bold as brass and no doubt with George’s endorsement, to play a terrible prank in revenge for Covent Garden. Poor Bradford was probably trapped in his carriage behind an overturned cart or some such thing, perspiring, red-faced and anxious at letting her down.

  “Is that so,” she replied frigidly. Hate didn’t even begin to describe what she felt for Stephen right now, surely no one in the history of the world had ever sunk so low as to lie about an elopement. “So if it isn’t public knowledge how do you know anything about it? Did Lord and Lady Doverfield pop by for a cozy chat prior to their alleged speedy departure?”

  Stephen hesitated, running a hand through his dark hair as though he’d lost the ability to form a coherent sentence. Oh this was a stage-worthy performance; if she didn’t want to kill him, she might have applauded.

  “No,” he muttered. “But I was informed by a very reliable source. I am sorry, Caroline, I…”

  Her temper exploded. Leaning over and scooping up England’s ugliest figurine, a grinning fox terrier with a blue bonnet
and matching umbrella, Caroline let fly.

  “…what the bloody hell?” he snarled, as the piece of fine china whizzed past his ear and shattered against the parlor door frame. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Bastard!” she screamed, sprinting for another ledge laden with potential weapons. “I never thought anyone could stoop so low, but obviously I was wrong!”

  “Caroline! Stop that this minute!”

  Teeth bared in a terrible parody of a smile, she scooped up a demure shepherdess and heaved it in his general direction. All the while knowing this form of warfare would be infinitely easier and more successful if she didn’t have the coordination of an intoxicated badger.

  “How dare you. How dare you walk into this house and say such awful things. You’re not even human, but some sort of monster,” she cried, this time snatching up a sleepy-eyed Siamese cat and hurling it at his shoulder, smiling grimly when a sharp curse announced she’d at last got one on target.

  Her blood fizzing, her fingers trembling because it felt so damn good to hurt him even a fraction of the way he’d hurt her, Caroline reached for the last figurine on the mantelpiece. Two gold and cream cherubs entwined on a cloud, how appropriate. And how heavy it looked. Hopefully this might see the despicable toad unconscious on the floor.

  But before she could close her hands around the solid object, they were grabbed and yanked away in a brutal, unrelenting grip.

  “I said stop it,” he snapped.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, attempting to wrench her hands from his and failing miserably.

  “Not until you calm down.”

  “Calm down? You expect me to be calm when you casually walk in here and tell me outrageous, disgusting lies? The only demented person in this room is you!”

  “They aren’t lies. Every part is true. Bradford bloody Shilton grew a backbone, defied everyone and took off to Gretna Green.”

  “Information you know because of your impeccable source,” Caroline shot back, hating the slight wobble in her tone. “So did your spy happen to mention who the blushing bride was? Or is that privileged information only others involved in this farce can know?”

  “No. I am aware who Shilton married.”

  “Well. Who?”

  “Flora Hartley,” he bit out, simultaneously dropping her hands and pushing her away from him.

  Sucking in a huge breath, she stared hard at the man now standing three feet away. The anger on his handsome face smoothed away to impassiveness, but his eyes remained black and stormy. And in them she read truth.

  Oh God. Her fiancé had eloped with Stephen’s.

  “Bradford…and Flora?” she said weakly. “But they barely know each other.”

  “Not according to Lord Hartley, who came to confess the whole sordid tale, apologize on their behalves and deliver a note from Shilton. It seems they were childhood playmates.”

  “Playmates. Oh. I…I see.”

  He turned away and walked to the window, which was just as well because her face probably resembled the ripest of tomatoes. She’d made an utter fool of herself just now, throwing china and screeching like a fishwife. Perhaps God would finally do her a service and strike her stone dead. Or at least cause the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

  Naturally, God refused.

  “When…when did you speak with Lord Hartley?” she mumbled eventually.

  Stephen didn’t turn around.

  “Just before I came here. He’d been tasked to visit you too, but I informed him he would do no such thing.”

  Her treacherous heart fluttered again. Even though Stephen had been equally wronged in this debacle, he’d spared her from the embarrassment of an audience with Flora’s father, a distant acquaintance and someone whose visit would have been remarked upon by all and sundry.

  “Quite lucky really. I probably would have hit him right on his bad knee with the cherubs.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. You couldn’t hit the side of a carriage at ten paces.”

  “Says the man who wore a Siamese cat not five minutes ago.”

  “One lucky throw.”

  “Ha! Hardly, I—”

  “Caroline, shut up. Just shut up.”

  Oh. How fortunate that just when she was in serious danger of throwing herself at Stephen and never letting go, he always managed to remind her why she was a damned fool to hold a candle for him.

  “Excuse me,” she snapped, marching up behind him and jabbing his shoulder with her finger. “You don’t decide when I can and cannot speak, you overgrown oaf.”

  He spun and trapped her hand in his huge one, not a painful grip but one she’d never be free from unless he allowed it. Typical male, resorting to superior strength when his brains failed.

  Lifting her chin she readied herself to launch another blistering set down, then her gaze locked with his and every word on the tip of her tongue disappeared.

  Stephen’s eyes had darkened to black again, but something other than anger or irritation now swirled in their fathomless depths. Slowly, slowly, he pushed her hand down and behind her, arching her back until her breasts were almost shoved under his chin.

  Oh my.

  “Really?” he said quietly, his left hand moving as though he intended to cup her cheek. Her head tilted in anticipation, but he didn’t touch her face. Instead, a slightly calloused finger traced a path of fire across her collarbone, along the lace neckline of the gown and back again.

  “No, damn you,” Caroline choked out, mortified at her inability to stop a low whimper. Or her suddenly aching nipples from visibly peaking against the thin pink muslin of her day dress.

  “Sure about that?” Stephen asked as he abandoned her collarbone and dragged his thumb across her full lower lip, back and forth until it tingled. But it was the small, lazy, knowing smile playing about his lips that jolted her into action. Gritting her teeth, she lifted her free hand and cracked it sharply across his cheek.

  For a moment he froze and she smiled inwardly at the return of normality, at control regained. But instead of letting her go, of stepping back and apologizing for touching her in a way he knew he shouldn’t, his eyes narrowed.

  Then started glittering.

  “Lord Westleigh,” she began, trying to sound firm or disdainful or something at least partially rational. But her voice came out more breathless than a dim-witted debutante, and his hand lifted to cup the back of her neck, effectively trapping her.

  “Stephen,” he said roughly, and his mouth crashed onto hers.

  Torn between wanting to cheer and sob like a baby, instead Caroline closed her eyes and surrendered to sensation. His lips were hard and hot, demanding, insisting on a response, and another of those embarrassing low whimpers escaped as she opened her mouth and welcomed the onslaught of his tongue. He wasn’t gentle, already her lips felt tender from the bruising force of his mouth and her neck ached from his punishing grip, yet nothing had ever felt so wonderful.

  Yes, it was wrong. But oh, the pleasure in being wanted in such a brutal, immediate way. No trite phrases, no tentative or clumsy touches, no fear the other person might be smothered or overwhelmed, just raw desire. Perhaps one more minute. Surely a little longer within this harsh, heavenly whirlwind would be fine, and afterwards he could go on his way and she could go on hers, never to speak of it again.

  Then his mouth shifted. Caroline made a sound of protest until his lips trailed a firm, sizzling line down the side of her neck, grazing with his teeth, sucking away the sting, finding delicious spots she hadn’t even known existed. Sliding her free hand around his shoulder, she threaded her fingers through his short, silky hair and pressed close, moaning as her tight, swollen nipples rubbed against his hard chest.

  Finally, the man she half-loved, half-hated was introducing her to passion, and it was better than she had ever imagined.

 
Damn him.

  ***

  It was hard to believe someone so tart could taste so sweet.

  Actually it was hard to believe he stood in the Edwards’ front parlor kissing Caroline Edwards as though there were no tomorrow, period. But he’d never been more aroused, not to mention the undeniably pleasant novelty of holding a woman where he didn’t have to bend in half, twist his neck at a ridiculous angle or stay at a reasonable distance so she wasn’t crushed by his bulk.

  In fact, Caroline fit perfectly in his arms.

  Sliding the hand that still held hers further down, he pressed against her rounded bottom, urging her even closer, reveling in her choked sighs. But soon it was him groaning as she began circling her hips, grinding with uncanny precision against the hugest, hardest erection of his life. Her flimsy pink gown hardly counted as a barrier and the feel of her soft, lush curves against him was heaven and hell at the same time.

  Need clawed at him, harsh and demanding. How he wanted to brace her against the wall, lift her skirts and feel her long legs wrapped around his waist as he plunged over and over into her tight, wet heat. Even the thought had his cock surging, desperate to be free of his straining trousers.

  With an unsteady hand, he attempted to gently tug down the front of Caroline’s gown. The sound of fabric tearing indicated he’d failed rather epically, but he couldn’t think about that now, not when all that kept him from the most perfect pair of dusky coral-tipped breasts ever created was the remains of a whisper-thin chemise.

  Growling softly, Stephen ran his fingertips under the gauzy material. He stroked Caroline’s rock-hard nipples, sometimes a light touch, sometimes a firm pinch, grimly satisfied when she arched her back in a wordless plea for more.

  “Do you want my mouth?” he rasped.

  She nodded frantically, but he shook his head.

  “No. If you want me to lick and suck your nipples, you have to ask for it.”