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

  A discreet cough startled him from his musings.

  “If the brandy is not up to your exacting requirements, my lord, I will happily take it off your hands,” George Edwards drawled, his green eyes mocking.

  Stephen stopped scanning the overcrowded yet still rather chilly ballroom and shook his head. “Drink is fine; it’s the hosts I’m worried about. Think the strain of finding seven prospective husbands is taking its toll on the girls, and Sir Albert and Lady B, they really are peculiar.”

  “Have a heart. They live in the middle of nowhere with only each other for company, and suddenly Lord Eligible is detained in their lair. But I’m sure you’ll be just fine. Right until the moment you wake up oil-basted and shackled to a dungeon wall at least.”

  Stephen shuddered. “One day I’ll learn to say nothing to you.”

  “Unlikely. Habit’s too ingrained now. Besides, if it’s all that unbearable at least you have the option of leaving. Caro and I didn’t want to come here, she isn’t friends with any of the Bruce girls and that many unmarried women in one family gives me heartburn. But Sir Malcolm insisted. As he does.”

  “You shouldn’t let your stepfather dictate.”

  “Obeying orders is an unfortunate reality when someone else holds the purse strings,” George replied easily, but his averted gaze and rigid shoulders indicated a far different emotion. “Anyway, enough of that. London is so dull before the Season starts, I thought why the hell not. Could be amusing for two dedicated bachelors about town like us.”

  “About that, there is something I have to t—”

  George let out a low whistle. “Good God. The Bruce sisters are upping the ante. I’ve seen starving rats move with less unsavory intent.”

  Stephen grimaced at the fast approaching pack; the neat way they formed a v shape to conveniently block any available exits. “The rats will have to wait their turn,” he muttered. “I’m going to break both your legs. Then your arms. Or maybe I’ll simply rearrange your face so completely that no scandal sheet will ever crown you England’s most handsome man again.”

  “Steady on,” George hissed, running a wavering hand through his deliberately rumpled hair. “It’s all I’ve got to sell. Now cease wasting time and focus that so-called genius brain on a plan. In the next half minute we need something to turn terrible odds into a stunning victory. Proceed.”

  “I’ve got it. Using your cooling body as a shield—”

  “Actually, I like that. Death would be infinitely preferable to concurrently receiving the amorous attentions of seven Bruces. Who knows, perhaps their mother likes to join in as well. They seem a close-knit family.”

  Stomach roiling at the thought, Stephen tried to hunch himself into a less appetizing package. Feral grins and soft growls told him he’d failed. God, he could smell them again now, a choking cloud of poorly aired clothing, perspiration, and strong perfume, and it made him want to gag.

  “No. No quick death. It’s your bloody fault we’re here so you can be dipped in the sweet of their choice and thrown into the sex dungeon.”

  “All the desserts in the world won’t change the fact that you’re the one with the mountains of money, ancient title and extensive estates. My lord.”

  “Much obliged at the reminder,” Stephen snapped. “You are hereby cut from my acquaintance.”

  “Come on. Imagine how dull your life would be.”

  “I have and it appears just fine. God, to think when you said house party, I thought a bit of light hearted drinking and card playing before the Season started. Obviously my idea of relaxation is vastly different from yours, you unspeakable bastard.”

  “Not my fault the invitation failed to specify us as the main stags for the stalk,” George replied, his eyes darting left, right and back again.

  But there was no salvation. The Bruce sisters had them well and truly surrounded.

  Chapter Two

  The Earl of Westleigh was being hunted.

  Smothering a laugh, he took a sip of brandy as he watched the Bruce sisters close in on their prey. Little did the earl know, the women were the least of his problems.

  Two men in this ballroom wanted Westleigh dead. And the sooner the better.

  From his shadowed corner, he took a deep, harsh breath. He must be calm. There would be no success without steadfastness, and they had waited forever for this.

  “Did you see him?” his companion murmured. “He’s over there, standing next to George Edwards.”

  He smiled pleasantly, as though they were discussing a fine thoroughbred or the quality of the wine. “Of course I saw him. But he shouldn’t be standing, he should be bones in the ground like his damned brother and father. I can’t wait any longer.”

  “I understand your frustration, it’s been two full years since we got rid of them. However the delay was imperative. A stray bullet to the chest and a faulty saddle were both plausible accidents. A third death in the family, never. Besides, it will be far more satisfying now as I hear from a town source that the earl is contemplating marriage.”

  “Ha! As if we would allow him to continue his cursed line.”

  “Indeed. So tomorrow we begin. A gentle cross-country hack like no other.”

  Joy warmed him to the core.

  Finally.

  Chapter Three

  “Ladies,” Stephen said, forcing a smile. “How wonderful to see you again so soon. Edwards and I were just discussing how much we are enjoying our time here.”

  Yet instead of pleased looks or demure nods at the compliments, one of the dark-haired young women pushed her way to the front of the group in a flurry of puce-ruffled skirts and loudly stomped her foot.

  “Lord Westleigh, Papa said you and Mr. Edwards would dance with each of us.”

  “Did he now? That sounds delightful. Perhaps later, Miss Br—”

  “I’m Peaseblossom, remember? And we would all so enjoy dancing right now. As the oldest here, I get first choice. I believe you’ll find me most adequate in all areas.”

  Peaseblossom?

  Somehow suppressing a horrified laugh, Stephen forced himself to re-meet the girl’s eerie golden stare. Dear God, she resembled her father, and not in a good way. “Of course, er…Peaseblossom. Do you have a card?”

  “A dance card?” she replied, face falling. “Oh yes, everyone has cards in Town, don’t they? I mean, I could make one. Would you help me, Lord Westleigh? Perhaps if we retired to Papa’s library before the dancing starts…I really am a fast learner.”

  The offer enticed like a tooth extraction. Informing her of the ten thousand reasons why not, tempted him beyond measure, as did feigning a heart attack or violent illness. Unfortunately none of the options were viable. He wanted to make it back to London and his fiancée in one piece, not wake up in the forest with antlers strapped to his head and a horn sounding in the distance. Or chained to a sickbed, while some quack forced unidentifiable elixirs down his throat.

  Stephen coughed, reluctantly about to give the eldest Miss Bruce his arm.

  Then the unthinkable happened.

  “Terribly sorry, Peaseblossom dear,” drawled an icy voice. “Westleigh promised me the next dance and George will be partnering Louisa here. Perhaps some other time.”

  Glancing sideways at Caroline Emily Edwards, he resisted the urge to bend down and retrieve his jaw from the floor. His dedicated nemesis of the past decade hadn’t stood back and cheered as he’d been ruthlessly cornered, or set up a stand to offer odds and refreshments to fascinated onlookers. She’d actually shouldered into the fray and rescued him. Obviously hell had just frozen over. Either that or the four horseman of the apocalypse were about to charge through the ballroom to signal impending doom. Nothing else could explain it.

  Surreptitiously, he pinched himself. But the golden-haired Amazon in a familiar pose—back ramrod-straight to ensure every inch of
her six foot one frame was used to best advantage, hands resting on curved hips, jade green eyes spitting frozen fire—continued to direct her scorn at someone other than him. In less than a minute the entire pack of Bruce sisters wilted and collectively slunk away, no match at all for a single hellion’s wrath.

  Eyes narrowing, Stephen offered Caroline his arm and escorted her to the dance floor.

  “So,” he said casually, curling a hand around her waist as the music commenced for a waltz. “Who are you and what have you done with Caroline Edwards? It’s not that I miss the original, but I do feel a certain obligation to report those impersonating George’s family members. Especially when the act needs refining as much as yours. Everyone knows the real thing would never intercede on my behalf for any reason.”

  “My goodness, your manners are improving,” she shot back. “A whole minute transpired before I became overwhelmed with profound regret.”

  “So why did you, then? Rescue me, I mean.”

  “Momentary insanity.”

  “Try again.”

  “Fine. It’s nothing to do with you. I like your mother far too much to see her forced to concede her title to Peaseblossom Bruce, I’m not convinced that girl is entirely human. But why are you even here? George and I had no choice, yet you are voluntarily dallying in the backwaters of Kent.”

  Stephen scowled. “According to your damned twin, the invitation promised three days of cards with an open cellar before the Season began. It sounded quite good. Gaggles of frightful females were not part of the deal.”

  “Surely you aren’t that foolish. If one hadn’t died, Sir Albert would have an even eight daughters to marry off.”

  He almost missed a step at the thought, but somehow managed to avoid crushing a rather sour-looking dandy’s foot.

  “One died? Oh wait, I do vaguely remember that. Nasty business about four years ago, out walking and she slipped down a cliff or something. What was her name? Hannah? Helen?”

  “Hermia. Her parents are quite the admirers of Mr. Shakespeare. But when a penniless clerk looks promising as a husband, you don’t think Sir Albert and Lady Bruce would do and say anything to have a wealthy, titled bachelor trapped in their home for a few days?”

  “All the ladies were supposed to be entertained elsewhere, but apparently the weather forced a return,” he snapped, yet even as he said the words he felt his cheeks heat at how idiotic they were.

  As expected, Caroline’s eyes widened mockingly, and a smirk played about her lips.

  “It was apparent on arrival that our esteemed hostess had very clear intentions for the next few days. You and George simply fell prey to a matchmaking mama; surely you know the species have little care for rules, propriety and truth.”

  “Excuse me? We did not fall prey to anyone!”

  “Ha. Cannon fodder from the start, the pair of you.”

  “Cannon fodder?” Stephen spluttered, insulted to the tips of his toes. “Excuse—”

  “Actually, apologies to the incumbent titleholder, but now I wish I’d waved the enemy through the city gates. Peaseblossom Forsyth, Countess of Westleigh has a certain ring to it don’t you think?”

  “Like hell it does. And I should point out that smug, unholy glee does nothing for your complexion. Twenty-five candles this birthday isn’t it?”

  Caroline smiled angelically, but he smoothly moved aside before her heel could mangle his toes.

  “So transparent, my dear Miss Edwards. Surely everyone knows the sweeter your expression, the more diabolical your intent.”

  “Such an acute sense of self-preservation, my dear Lord Westleigh! Obviously honed in response to the legions of women desperately wishing to do you bodily harm.”

  “What can I say? Some men enjoy that sort of thing, but it’s not a pleasure of mine.”

  “Indeed. You prefer to resort to dull rakish statements when your argument is failing. I almost pity the woman who does end up shackled to you.”

  “No need,” Stephen said, grinning at the perfect opening to cannonball his news into the conversation. Very shortly he would be wallowing in an extremely rare moment, one where he actually surprised Miss Too smart for her own good Edwards. “Flora Hartley will be content in every way.”

  Caroline froze, but he received neither a wild-eyed look nor hoped for jaw drop. Instead, she made an odd choking sound like he’d punched her in the stomach, and for the first time in all the years they had danced—and warred—together, stumbled awkwardly. Frowning, he instinctively dropped his other hand to her waist to halt a fall and her forehead connected sharply, painfully with his cheekbone. Yet seconds later his abused face was forgotten as her statuesque body plastered itself full-length against him, inciting an immediate and entirely unexpected response.

  What the bloody hell?

  He should not be noting her skin felt as soft as freshly churned butter. Or that rather than reeking of some heavy perfume, she smelled fresh and citrusy, like a newly-cut lemon. He definitely shouldn’t be noting how perfectly her hips cradled his, or wondering what the lush curves currently crushed against his chest would feel and taste like without any clothing to impede a slow and very thorough exploration…

  Good God.

  This was Caroline Edwards. Unashamed hellion, dedicated nemesis and his best friend’s sister.

  Good GOD.

  Horrified at the direction of his thoughts, he jerked away so his only contact with her was the usual light, impersonal hand at her waist. Obviously the series of strange events this evening had affected him far more than he realized, a full whisky bottle was required without delay so he could permanently purge all recent memories from his mind.

  Giving himself a brutal mental slap, Stephen squared his shoulders. Then frowned again as he realized Caroline was not only still bent over his arm and staring at the floor, but breathing in short, panting gasps like she’d just been hauled from a stormy ocean.

  Nice one, Forsyth. She’s clearly unwell and instead of offering assistance you were picturing her naked.

  “Miss Edwards?” he asked, starting to feel more than a little worried. There was no question over authenticity, unlike most ton women Caroline had never faked an injury, illness or fainting fit in her life. In fact, she openly abhorred such practices. The woman might be prickly, blunt and as likely to flay you alive as to talk to you, but at least every word, look and action was real. “Do you need some air? Should I go and find George?”

  She didn’t reply.

  ***

  Don’t faint. Don’t scream. Don’t cry.

  Mentally repeating the words over and over, Caroline sucked in a huge breath and fought desperately to pull herself together. The middle of the Bruce’s ballroom was not the place to lose her head, even if two awful discoveries had simultaneously punched her in the stomach, stabbed her in the heart and boxed her ears.

  Betrothed. The man she had been in love with since the age of thirteen was about to marry someone else. And not only that, she completely revolted him. Stephen couldn’t have made his disgust any plainer; when she’d tripped over her damn feet at his news and accidentally fallen against him, he had wrenched away from her as though she’d just announced she carried the plague. That moment would never be topped for sheer humiliation and had quite successfully killed stone-dead any last remaining shred of hope he might somehow secretly hold a candle for her.

  Don’t faint. Don’t scream. Don’t cry.

  “Caroline?”

  Finally gathering her scattered senses, she straightened and looked back at Stephen. Judging by his impatient tone he’d been trying to get her attention for a while, but the hand at her waist was so steady, the concern on his perfectly handsome face so unmistakably genuine, it only twisted the knives in her heart even deeper.

  “Yes? What?” she snapped, acute pain turning her tone especially irritable.

&
nbsp; “Pardon me, your highness, but there is a certain green tinge to your skin which suggests you’re about to cast up your accounts. It is never a clever idea to overindulge in potent wine.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Lord Westleigh, but I did not overindulge and am perfectly well. My…heel got caught in the hem of my gown, that’s all.”

  “Oh. I see,” he said, his brow furrowing the way it did when he didn’t see at all. “Except you didn’t, er, sound well.”

  Damnation.

  Miraculously, Caroline managed a short laugh.

  “Well of course not! When you are terrified your gown is going to come apart at the seams and leave you half-naked in the middle of a crowded ballroom, there is an element of tension involved.”

  “Ah. Fair enough. I must admit I’m extremely relieved you aren’t about to decorate my shoes. Quite like them as they are.”

  Oh, this was too much. Now he was actually smiling at her. A lazy, cheeky smile revealing his straight, white teeth and a tiny dimple in his chin, the kind that turned most women into stammering, blushing simpletons. Luckily she was made of far sterner stuff. It made her wish she’d consumed at least another five glasses of wine in addition to a double helping of meat, vegetables and syllabub, so she could decorate his shoes, trousers and jacket beyond redemption.

  “Indeed,” she replied crisply as they began to waltz again. “Now, what were you saying about the Honorable Miss Hartley? For a moment there it sounded like you had been replaced by an imposter.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I know you’ve been babbling a bit about marriage, but men who pride themselves on their ability to outrun, outthink and outmaneuver ring-chasing women do not get engaged out of the blue.”

  “It’s time,” Stephen said, lifting his shoulder in a tiny shrug as he deftly guided her around a short, portly man and his equally rotund dancing partner. “I’m twenty-six years old now.”

  “Positively in your dotage. But Flora? There hasn’t been so much as a whisper in the scandal sheets that you’ve been courting her. George never said a word either.”