Anita Mills Read Online Free PDF Page B

lord had ended with his ton -stunning marriage to a nobody. No, this Deveraux was not the marquess, she decided. A relative perhaps. An equally wild relative. A younger relative, for despite the cynicism, just now he did not appear to be much over twenty-five or twenty-six. When awake, he’d looked to be past thirty, but perhaps that was weariness rather than age.
    Her gaze dropped to the pistol that still lay against his knee, and for a moment she considered taking it while he slept. Once it was in her hands, she could demand they turn for London. She stretched to reach for it.
    “I wouldn’t, Miss Morland,” he said softly.
    Startled, she looked up again, and his blue eyes met hers across the small space. The reflection of the dying coach-lamp flame in them mocked her. She recoiled guiltily.
    “Really, sir—”
    “I sleep rather lightly.”
    “More likely you were shamming it, sir,” she retorted. “You could scarce be awakened by a glance.”
    “ ’Tis a sense that keeps me whole.” He straightened in the seat, shrugging his shoulders, settling them. One of his hands brushed back an unruly lock of black hair, then moved to rub at the dark stubble along his jaw. “Wine,” he muttered more to himself than to her, “tastes devilish bad the morning after.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them as though he could somehow clear his mind. “I haven’t had a head like this since my salad days.”
    “Perhaps you shouldn’t drink so much.”
    His gaze raked her bare shoulder where the rug had slipped again, and one of his eyebrows shot up as a corner of his mouth turned down. “My, how prim you are this morning, my dear. But fetching.”
    Her hand reached to tug at the offending blanket as her face reddened. “A gentleman does not note such things, sir,” she managed stiffly.
    “Ah, but I am not often a gentleman, Miss Morland.” He leaned forward slightly and enunciated clearly, “I am a Deveraux, you see.”
    She felt out of reason cross, and his manner did nothing to lighten her mood. “I think you are still foxed,” she muttered.
    “Fortunately, there aren’t many of us,” he added, ignoring the accusation. “And the world isn’t repining over the lack, I assure you.”
    “Not knowing any of the Deveraux, I am afraid I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
    “Up in the bough this morning, eh? You know, you are in a deuced bad temper yourself,” he chided.
    She looked out the streaked window for a long moment and sighed heavily. “If you would have the truth of it, sir, my head aches also. I suspect it was the drugged wine.”
    “Weasel-bit?” he asked more sympathetically. “What you need is a hair of the old dog.” It was his turn to sigh. “Alas, but my flask is empty, else we’d share it.”
    “Thank you, but I should decline. I doubt I will ever drink anything stronger than ratafia again,” she responded with feeling.
    “Drugged wine, eh?” He leaned back and surveyed her lazily. “ ’Twould seem Fordyce displayed a shocking lack of address. For all my faults, I have never had to resort to such measures to seduce a female.” The faint smile played again at the corners of his mouth. “Never.”
    “Really, sir, but this is most improper. I cannot think—”
    “I told you, I’m not a very proper fellow, Miss Morland. I have never been invited to Almack’s,” he added significantly. “Nor do I wish to go there.”
    “Do you always declare yourself a rake to females upon acquaintance?” she inquired curiously.
    “Not a rake, Miss Morland—a rogue. There is a difference.” His smile faded. “Women are but one of my faults.”
    “You are a gamester,” she hazarded.
    “No more than any other.” Briefly his voice betrayed a trace of regret; then his jawline hardened, and the planes of his face seemed suddenly harsher. “I have a devilish temper, Miss Morland, and it oft leads me where I would not go.” He picked up the pistol, hefted it in the palm of his