Devil in My Arms: A Loveswept Historical Romance (The Saint's Devils) Read online

  “Sir Hilary said he didn’t find me particularly intelligent or beautiful,” she told Harry. “I don’t need another man who doesn’t appreciate me. No, thank you.” But she knew he appreciated her, at least as a worthy opponent. He’d told her as much. Unlike other men, he acknowledged her intellect and cleverness and challenged her. Most of his life was shrouded by mystery, which only added to his allure, she had to admit. She was fascinated with puzzles, and he was an enigma, an impossible cipher she wanted to solve.

  She shook off the notion. She had no plans for a love affair right now, particularly with Sir Hilary. To indulge that fantasy was foolish and dangerous. But there was a very small voice in her head arguing that his legendary bedroom skills might be just what she needed to rejoin the land of the living.

  Chapter Five

  Eleanor looked around the ballroom for the fifteenth time and then forced herself to stop. She stood still, bit her lip, and stared at the ceiling. She would not look for him again. The temptation was nearly irresistible, but she was making a fool of herself. Yet another reason to avoid involvement with Sir Hilary. He made her feel like a fool, and she didn’t like it.

  And she was being irrational. Here she was in a beautiful ballroom, surrounded by the cream of London society, and was she enjoying it? No. She looked around and deliberately set about appreciating the scenery. Lady Carrey was said to have impeccable taste. At least that’s what she’d been overhearing all night. The walls were painted a muted pink and the marble columns near the entry doors had just a tinge of pink hidden in the creamy stone. There were plaster angels, gilded to gleam in the candlelight, adorning the four corners of the ceiling. The chandeliers were quite the largest Eleanor had ever seen. She was a little afraid of dancing under them, actually.

  “I feel as if I stepped into a nightmarish bordello,” a bored voice said from behind her, “every time I enter Lady Carrey’s ballroom.”

  Eleanor swallowed a gasp, but she was sure her surprise had still been obvious to Sir Hilary. Had he been observing her from some hidden corner? There were large potted palms all over. Had he seen her looking for him? How humiliating. “Do you? I’m afraid I have no experience for comparison when it comes to bordellos.”

  “No? That’s a shame. Although it is not my favorite decorating scheme by any means.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve once again touched upon an improper topic of conversation,” she told him, annoyed. Was he determined to ruin her reputation before she’d actually had time to build one? Or was he merely trying to aggravate her? He seemed to enjoy doing that.

  “Again?” He sounded as exasperated as she felt. With a sigh he walked up to stand next to her and bowed slightly in her direction. “Mrs. Fairchild,” he said in a belated greeting.

  She bowed her head slightly in response, but refused to look directly at him. “Sir Hilary.” Very polite, as if they had not parted on ill terms the last time. She could feel her jaw clenching.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see that you are still annoyed with me. You shall have to get over that.”

  “I shall have to—,” she said, cutting off her incredulous response. “Good evening, Sir Hilary,” she said coolly, taking a step away from him. Why had she longed to see him again?

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Don’t be a silly female. I gave you more credit than that. Surely you can see that we must indulge this obsession with one another and then we can move on.”

  She said nothing as she started counting slowly to one hundred in her head, lest she show her temper again. Obsession? He had an odd way of showing it. And when had fascination turned to obsession?

  “Have you nothing to say? Surely this must be a remarkable occasion.” His sly wink made her lose count.

  “I am not obsessed with you,” she said dismissively, hoping desperately that it sounded more sincere to him than it did to her. “You are the one who seeks me out. You said so yourself.”

  “If we’re keeping score, you sought me out at Lady Gaston’s.”

  “Only after you came to the party expressly to see me. Which you admitted,” she hastily added.

  “Touché. We will stop keeping score now.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “I will keep score if it suits me. You are duly warned.”

  “Women rarely give warnings, so I appreciate your effort,” he said. “You look lovely, by the way.”

  His compliment was offhand, and when she glanced over at him he was looking across the room at something else. “Do I? Then, without looking, describe my attire.” She knew very well he’d barely looked at her. Mrs. Waylan, a very comely widow with the body of Venus, was staring hungrily at him from across the room. She was shameless. Surely he had hardly noticed Eleanor with the widow’s bounteous charms on display.

  He started to turn his head and she ducked behind him, embarrassed at her challenge. “I said without looking.”

  He huffed out a small laugh. “You do me a disservice. All right. You are wearing a very attractive frock in a modest lavender, which suits you, by the way. It brings out the pink in your cheeks and makes your eyes look exceptionally bright. The décolletage, however, is anything but modest. I find I am charmed by your … charms.” Her hand flew up to cover her exposed bosom in mortified embarrassment. She rolled her eyes when she remembered he couldn’t see her. “Your gloves are cream silk, your slippers dyed to match your gown. I especially enjoy the little flowers on the toes of your shoes, which match the flowers in your hair. Are they pinned to your head? They seem to grow right out of your curls.”

  She didn’t answer right away, astonished at the detail of his description. “They are pinned to my curls, not my head. Do you imagine women stick pins in their scalp for fashion?”

  “I am no longer surprised at the lengths to which women will go for fashion. But I am pleased you have not pierced your skull.” He peered over his shoulder at her. “Did I pass your test?”

  She nodded graciously, trying to hide her shock at how well he’d described her. “You did. My apologies for doubting your sincerity.”

  He accepted her apology with a smile. “Now, without looking down, describe my attire.”

  She blinked just once, hoping her consternation didn’t show. “I did not compliment your attire.”

  “I know. I am still stinging from the wound. Now, describe it.”

  “You are wearing a green frock jacket,” she said, sure of this, at least. “It looks splendid with your red hair.”

  “I do not have red hair,” he corrected her. “It is auburn. What else?”

  “It is red,” she told him firmly, amused by his vanity. “And black pantaloons that are shockingly—dare I say indecently—tight.” There was that flirtatious banter again. She mentally chastised herself.

  “Thank you for noticing,” he said, as if accepting a great compliment. “And?”

  “And?” she asked. “A waistcoat and a muslin shirt, with a black cravat, tied in a simple knot.”

  “We shall return to the waistcoat in a moment,” he said, putting his hand on her elbow and pulling her up next to him. He placed her hand on his arm and began walking with her, gently guiding her around a large group of younger people all talking at once. “Do you know the name of this simple knot?”

  “No. I’m unfamiliar with men’s fashions. After so long in the country, I’m only just getting caught up on women’s fashions.” She felt like a country bumpkin at the admission.

  “It is a barrel knot,” he supplied. “Considered by some to be a bit old-fashioned, but I like the simplicity of it.”

  “It suits you,” she agreed. Privately, she thought it more than suited him. It showed off his long, elegant neck and framed his strong jaw to perfection. His red hair was just a little longer than was fashionable, but not so long as to be remarkable, by even the highest standards. A few curling tendrils draped along his collar in the back. She’d been staring at them while she was standing behind him a moment ago. It was either
stare at his hair or his indecently tight pantaloons. For her own sanity, she’d chosen his hair.

  “Thank you,” he said again. “I am forever untangling knots. The metaphorical kind. Whenever possible, I choose simplicity in my own life.”

  She got the impression he was speaking about more than his cravat. Did he mean her? He was certainly more of a complication for her than she for him. But if he felt that way, they could just go their separate ways. For selfish reasons, she couldn’t bring herself to suggest it, however.

  “Now, my waistcoat. It is the pièce de résistance of my attire this evening. Can you describe it?”

  She didn’t even pretend not to have to think very hard to remember his waistcoat. “It was black as well,” she said slowly, “although it had some embroidery on it. Was it the blue vines again?” She gave up with a sigh. “I concede I cannot describe your finery as well as you have described mine.”

  “You remember the blue vines?” he asked, clearly surprised. “I’m pleased.” He chuckled and turned her to face him. “Now look.”

  She peered closely at his chest and noticed the little vines embroidered all over his waistcoat this time were green, matching his jacket. There were tiny flowers on the vines. Lavender flowers. Her heart skipped a beat. When she met his gaze she could see that he was thinking the same thing she was. “Yes,” he told her with a raised brow, “we match. Do you suppose everyone is wondering if we did it on purpose?”

  “I sincerely hope not,” she said fervently, turning back to the room and placing her hand on his arm once again. “Your obsession with me is causing enough talk, I’m sure,” she added in a saucy tone.

  “My obsession with you is driving me mad.” His tone was anything but teasing. It was fevered and full of restrained need. She caught her breath and froze for a moment, the shock of what he’d just revealed immobilizing her. Before she could answer, someone hailed her.

  “Mrs. Fairchild?”

  Eleanor turned and saw Mr. Caron standing politely off to the side. She had met the gentleman a few days before at a supper party. “How do you do, Mr. Caron,” she said politely. Thank God for the interruption. Sir Hilary’s passionate confession had once again thrown Eleanor off balance. Her first instinct had been to mirror his admission with one of her own. What a disaster that would have been.

  “Very well, thank you. I was hoping that you would do me the honor of dancing with me,” Mr. Caron asked pleasantly. Eleanor felt Sir Hilary’s arm tense under her hand, though he showed no outward reaction.

  “Hello, Caron,” he said jovially. “How are you?” There was no sign of the ardent seducer at her side a moment ago.

  “Fine, Sir Hilary,” the other man said. “Enjoyed your paper on the feasibility of a municipal police force. Read it in Commons.”

  “Did you?” Sir Hilary asked, obviously pleased. “Splendid.”

  “We shall have to talk more about it,” Mr. Caron said, “later.” He held out his arm to Eleanor.

  “I would like to dance, Mr. Caron,” she replied. “Excuse me, Sir Hilary.” She let go of his arm and took Mr. Caron’s.

  “I’ve enjoyed our talk very much, Mrs. Fairchild,” Sir Hilary said with a perfectly proper tone and bow. “Perhaps I shall have the pleasure again later this evening?”

  “Of course, Sir Hilary,” she said, piqued that he didn’t seem the least bit jealous of Mr. Caron. “If you are able to find me, I’m sure I shall be able to talk.”

  He never lost sight of her. As soon as Caron was done with her, Hil planned to ask her to dance. He had to wait. She danced with Caron once, and once with some young pup whose name he didn’t remember. Then she walked around with Mrs. Templeton and Mrs. Sharp. She’d finally come to rest not far from where he stood and he took advantage of the opportunity, only to discover as they approached the dance floor that it was a rather lively country dance. “You knew,” he accused her.

  “I knew,” she said, laughter in her voice.

  “We shan’t be able to converse at all,” he told her, annoyed.

  “I know,” she said, and this time she laughed outright.

  Despite her avoidance of conversation yet again, the dance had been pleasant. She was delightful to watch. She enjoyed herself as if she’d never danced before. As they changed partners again and again, he saw more than one man gladly forgive her for their abused toes as she spun and romped. Hil was enchanted. But when the dance ended, she was spirited away yet again.

  Now, halfway through the evening, she was chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Tolliver, an older gentleman and his wife. Tolliver was a complete bore on the subject of breeding hounds, but Eleanor, as he’d privately come to call her, seemed completely entranced. She was doing it just to spite him, of course. She knew he was waiting on her.

  He very much feared he was making a fool of himself. He hadn’t danced with anyone else, though he’d suffered cow’s eyes from most of the young ladies present. It was really quite boorish of him not to have danced with any of them. He usually made a point of dancing with the shy ones, and those overlooked by the young peacocks who only had eyes for birds of like feather. Good Lord, he could hardly tolerate his own bad manners.

  She glowed. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. She was standing at just the right spot for the candlelight from the chandelier to hit her at the perfect angle to create a beatific effect. Without exact measurements he couldn’t say precisely what that angle was, though he was sure if he could, he’d be able to sell the information for a tidy sum to marriage-minded hopefuls and their mothers. So the fact that she seemed to glow was merely a scientific phenomenon, and not a result of any tender feelings on his part.

  He paced along the pink wall, behind a row of potted palms to the left of the French doors leading to the garden. As he paced she came into view between palm fronds, as if he were watching her through the slats in a fence. Why did she fascinate him? She’d kept pace with him tonight during their conversation. It was quite hard to ruffle her feathers. She’d taken his inappropriate conversation in stride, his innuendo about her charms had gone unremarked, and she’d had the nerve to challenge his sincerity and powers of observation. And then she’d orchestrated the dance, depriving him of her conversation. Rather than cool his ardor, it had only heated his blood further. Was this mere infatuation for one whose intelligence and wit were a match for his? Or was it more?

  He was physically attracted to her. There was no doubt. It was shocking. His attentions recently had been reserved for far more voluptuous women. Roger went so far as to call them plump, but Hil thought of them as generously curved. He’d thoroughly enjoyed their abundant charms. Eleanor, on the other hand, had only recently filled out from the hungry waif she’d seemed upon her arrival in London. She was far from plump. Curved, yes, but subtly so. If one had never spoken with her, her figure would be unremarkable, indistinguishable from hundreds like it in Mayfair alone. But having spoken to her … aye, there was the rub. Her voice made one notice the decadent fullness of her mouth. Watching her breathe drew one’s eyes to her firm, high bosom, a handful of plenty behind her demure necklines. As she turned her head to look at you, a man couldn’t help noticing her long, graceful neck, and the way her short curls framed delicate ears, with lobes made for a man’s mouth.

  Good God, he thought her ears were alluring. He couldn’t for the life of him remember ever waxing rhapsodic over a woman’s earlobes. Yet he’d daydreamed just five minutes ago about adorning hers with emeralds and then removing them with his lips and teeth. He’d initially been attracted to her intellect. Now he desired her physically. More than anything right now, he longed to know if she would prove as worthy an opponent in bed.

  He stepped through a gap in the palms. He’d waited long enough.

  Her gaze found him as soon as he stepped out from behind the plants. She’d been watching him, too. Interesting. He smiled and she raised a brow in inquiry even as she nodded at something old Tolliver was saying. As he approached purposefully, her eyes
grew large. He could read the warning in her face. She didn’t want a scene. For some reason she seemed to think association with him would taint her reputation. He didn’t give a damn about his reputation, and therefore society turned a blind eye to his foibles. They only preyed on the weak. He was far from weak, as was Eleanor. She needn’t fear them.

  “Dance with me,” he said quietly when he reached her side. Beside him Tolliver cleared his throat. “Ah, Tolliver,” he said with a smile in the old man’s direction. “Do excuse me. I was unable to resist Mrs. Fairchild’s enchanting beauty this evening. What man would not wish to dance with one so fair?”

  “Indeed,” Tolliver rumbled as his wife tittered, “if I were a younger man I’d have asked her myself. But the damned gout has me playing the wallflower, I’m afraid.”

  “Tolly,” his wife admonished at his language.

  “Sorry, sorry, my dear,” he mumbled. “Apologies, Mrs. Fairchild.”

  “No apology necessary, Mr. Tolliver,” she replied sweetly. “I’m sure the gout would cause even one as timid as I to curse on occasion.”

  Tolliver guffawed. “Timid, indeed,” he said. “Timid as my old bitch Matilda who still insists on leading the hunt, eh, St. John?” he asked.

  “Tolly,” his wife admonished again.

  “Yes,” Hil agreed. “That about sums it up. Mrs. Fairchild?” He could see that Eleanor was fighting laughter as she bit her lip and nodded. “Good evening,” Hil said to Tolliver and his wife.

  “This will be our second dance,” she said quietly as they walked sedately toward the dance floor.

  “Yes, I know,” he replied.

  “People will talk.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye with a half smile.

  “I know,” he said again with a smile of his own.

  Hil took his place beside her for a waltz. If he knew his ballroom etiquette, and he did, supper would be served after. It was understood she would stand up for two dances with him. He felt supreme satisfaction at his maneuvering, while at the same time he was dismayed that he was strategizing in order to spend time with her. He’d never had to pursue a woman before, at least not since he was an untried lad.