A Most Peculiar Courtship (The Daring Damsels #3)
The Devil Himself
The Metropolitan Review’s printing office hummed with activity even at this late hour, the massive press clanking rhythmically as Amelia traced her finger beneath the lines of her latest editorial.
“‘While Lord Byron’s poetic merits cannot be disputed, one must question the posthumous deification of a man whose moral compass pointed decidedly hellward.’ Yes, that should do nicely,” she murmured, making a small mark with her pencil.
WHOOSH. BANG!
The back door crashed open with such force that she jumped. Charles Eldem Bartholomew Hereford, the Marquess of Hereford, practically fell through the doorway, his dark hair wild and chest heaving beneath a half-unbuttoned shirt that had clearly begun the day in a much finer state.
“Pardon the intrusion,” he gasped, those aristocratic features looking rakish and apologetic at once. His eyes darted around the cramped room, searching for cover.
The sound of approaching footsteps and angry shouting from the alley revealed his predicament. The marquess dove behind the printing press where Amelia had been standing, moving with remarkable speed for someone who’d clearly been drinking.
“I say,” he whispered urgently, gripping her skirts, “be a dear and pretend I’m not here.”
Amelia looked down at his hand tangled in her dress. “My lord, I assure you my skirts are not public property, regardless of your extensive experience with others that are.”
He had the audacity to grin up at her. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, Miss Thornton.”
Just then, the back door burst open once more. A gentleman of middle years stood there, face puce with rage, brandishing a silver-tipped walking stick. “Where is he?” he demanded, chest heaving with exertion. “That libertine! That scoundrel!”
The man began searching behind the machines and under the tables, leaving the staff frozen in their stations.
Amelia casually adjusted the paper feed tray, extending it several inches outward so it pressed uncomfortably against the marquess’ shoulder, forcing him to contort his tall frame into an even more cramped position. The libertine’s eyes narrowed at her.
Becoming frustrated, the pursuer started walking in Amelia’s direction, shouting, “Where is he? I know he came this way!”
Amelia reached for loose type, casually scattering the metal letters on the scoundrel himself, creating a trap of noise-making hazards.
The Marquess of Hereford, in the meantime, uttered silent threats using language that Amelia was certain would have his marchioness mother washing his mouth with soap.
“Sir,” she called to the man while holding Hereford’s gaze, “what does this scoundrel look like?”
The pursuer stopped to look under a desk as he said, “He looks like the devil himself! Charming as a man can be but has no qualms about compromising the innocent.”
Amelia glared down at the marquess, who was vehemently protesting by shaking his head.
Shaking her head in response, Amelia stepped to the side.
“Sir, you’ll find your quarry attempting to hide behind this machine.
Though I would request that if you plan to commit murder, you do so away from the printing press. ”
The hidden man popped up, his mouth agape. “That’s hardly sporting of you, Miss Thornton!”
The gentleman lunged forward, his walking stick whistling through the air as Hereford ducked with impressive agility.
“I may have been more generous had you not hidden in the lady’s wash closet at the Duchess of Lancaster’s wedding,” she exclaimed as the marquess vaulted over the table with surprising grace, scattering her carefully arranged papers. “How many innocent women must you ruin?”
“They were hardly innocent!” he shouted indignantly while being chased around the room by the man with the cane. “I do not dally with ladies of less than five and”—he paused to duck under a table—“twenty!”
“They can still be innocent!” Amelia called after him.
“You have only your character to blame!” he called over his shoulder as he fled toward the front door. “Do mind the leading on that editorial!”
The older gentleman cursed, following his quarry out the door in what was obviously a futile pursuit.
Once the building was devoid of both men, Amelia noticed the scent of Hereford’s cologne lingering in the air—something expensive and masculine that made her think of crystal decanters and leatherbound books. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on her skirts.
Despite her irritation, she couldn’t help but recall how he had looked in that disheveled state—his fine lawn shirt gaping open to reveal a glimpse of tanned skin and well-defined muscle.
Those striking blue eyes had fairly glowed with mischief as he had grinned up at her from his hiding place, dark hair falling to his shoulders and across his forehead in a way that made her fingers itch to brush it back.
What would it be like, she wondered, to be the object of such focused charm? To have those clever hands moving with purpose rather than desperation? At six and twenty, she was well past the age where such thoughts should make her blush, and yet…
“Don’t be a fool,” she muttered to herself, heading back to the office where Elisha was carefully crafting her review. She’d seen exactly what became of women who fell under the marquess’ spell. How many crying ladies had she consoled at literary functions?
Besides, she’d seen the way his lip curled ever so slightly when addressing those he considered beneath him.
The way his eyes would slide past her at Hyde Park as though she were just another weed in the garden.
No doubt he saw her limp as just another mark against her, assuming he’d even noticed it at all.
A commoner. An invalid. A bluestocking who dared to critique his peers.
“Leading indeed,” she scoffed as she stared at the scattered papers on her desk.
Still, as she settled back into her chair, she couldn’t quite suppress the memory of how gracefully he’d moved, even while fleeing.
Or the way his voice had dropped to that intimate whisper, making her skin prickle despite herself.
“Focus,” she commanded herself sternly, pulling a fresh sheet of paper toward her. “He is a pompous fool who is determined to be as insufferable as humanly possible,” she said, stabbing her pen into the inkwell with more force than necessary.
Elisha Lancaster looked up from her own writing, amusement dancing in her eyes.
Though marriage to a duke hadn’t diminished her dedication to the Metropolitan Review, it had softened some of her sharper edges.
“Which insufferable man would this be? Though given the circumstances being whispered about, I suspect Lord Hereford.”
“The very same.” Amelia attacked her paper with the pen. “A perpetual adolescent who treats life as though it’s all some grand game. I’ve never met anyone so determined to waste their privileges on pure frivolity.”
“Hmm.” Elisha’s noncommittal hum made Amelia glance up. She knew that tone.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“Only that people can surprise you.” Elisha set down her pen. “Did you know that Lord Hereford personally funds three orphanages in London’s poorest districts? Not through his family’s charitable foundation but using his own private funds.”
Amelia’s pen paused mid-air. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all. Edgar mentioned it last week. Apparently, Hereford visits regularly to check on the children’s welfare. He’s particularly invested in their education and insists on qualified teachers and proper books.”
“Lord Hereford? The same man who had two widows fighting over him at a ball last Season?”
“The very same.” Elisha’s smile turned knowing. “He’s particularly concerned with the girls’ education. Says they shouldn’t have to rely on marriage as their only path to security.”
Amelia sat back, frowning. The image wouldn’t reconcile—the rakish marquess who seemed to spend every waking moment fleeing angry brothers and husbands through terraces and back alleys also spends time with orphans? “There must be some other reason.”
“Must there?” Elisha raised an eyebrow. “People can contain contradictions, you know. Look at Edgar. He may seem like the perfect duke now, but you remember what he was like before we married.”
“That’s different. The Duke of Lancaster always had substance beneath his facade. Lord Hereford is…” Amelia gestured vaguely with her pen.
“Is what? Handsome? Charming? Surprisingly well-versed in printing techniques?” Elisha teased.
“As infuriating as a goose on a mission,” Amelia said firmly, ignoring the warmth in her cheeks. “And apparently determined to drive me mad with his… his… everything.”
Elisha’s smile widened. “Everything?”
“Don’t look at me like that. I simply mean he’s impossible to categorize. One moment he’s causing widows to fight over him at Mr. Dickens’ reading, the next he’s concerning himself with girls’ education, and now you tell me he’s some sort of secret philanthropist?”
“Oh, he’s still very much a rake,” Elisha said cheerfully. “In fact…” She glanced at the door before lowering her voice. “Edgar told me that Hereford and Patrick Adams are now in sole charge of some colorful business ventures.”
Amelia leaned forward. “Colorful how?”
“Do you recall I had suspected Edgar of distributing London’s more passionate literature?” Elisha’s eyes twinkled. “Apparently the salacious business is quite profitable.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “You mean to say you were correct in your suspicion? Lord Hereford now publishes those scandalous novels?”
“Among other things.”
Amelia slumped back in her chair. “So, he funds orphanages with money from selling scandalous literature.”
“Life is full of delicious ironies, isn’t it?” Elisha picked up her pen again.