Luring His Lordship (Willful Wainwrights #2)

Prologue

Ravenswood, The Marquess of Redver’s Estate

Just as every dandy knew London’s best bootmaker was Hoby’s on St. James, Lord Neville—Ambrose Augustus Merriweather—knew the Wainwright sisters were up to something wicked.

Again.

This time the Wainwrights had chosen Lord Asquith, Neville’s friend and their guardian, as their mark—but only if Neville failed to rescue Asquith first.

Neville squinted into the gathering gloom but could barely see the yew maze entrance where he’d just seen Asquith with Lenora Wainwright.

“Neville! Slow down!” Millicent Wainwright’s furious voice whispered through the evening air. “Please.”

Millicent’s demand quickened Neville’s pounding pulse, but he paid her no heed. Her desperation was further proof Asquith and Lenora had neither met, nor disappeared, into the maze by chance. And no decent young ladies with honorable intentions would be sneaking around in the brush at dusk.

Someone had to stop those Willful Wainwrights!

The eldest two, twins, had already been embroiled in a scandal that ended in marriages to Neville’s most reclusive friends. And settling that matter had even forced Neville to act as second when Asquith challenged Neville’s own cousin on the twin’s behalf!

Who knew what kind of havoc the youngest three would wreak, if left to their own devices?

Ever since Asquith’s wayward wards had set foot in London two years ago, Neville’s predictable world had gone awry.

But instead of keeping his distance like the man of sense he knew himself to be, Neville had ignored every inner warning.

Shamefully, he’d chosen to hover a along the edge of their collective glow like a moth drawn to the deadly flames of a five-part candelabra. Why?

Because Millicent, the brightest, stood right in the center.

Well, Millicent had made it clear she had no use for him, and Neville was not going to get singed again. Nor was he going to allow Asquith to fall victim to whatever scheme the sisters had set in motion.

He ducked into the maze and then paused to listen.

Should he call out for Asquith? Or should he approach by stealth?

As the crackle of Millicent’s footfalls drew ever closer, he decided on the latter. He increased his pace, muffled his heavy breath, and, with regret, thought back on the time just after Asquith’s bevy of wards had arrived from the country.

When he first met Millicent, he would have been thrilled if she had chosen to follow him into a darkened maze. In fact, in those initial few weeks, he’d dreamed of catching Millicent alone and confessing his admiration.

Or, rather, his at-first-sight, head-over-heels infatuation.

The sisters had taken up residence at Asquith House under the dowager Lady Asquith’s care, while Asquith, for both comfort and propriety, had moved into the Albany.

But, after the requisite mourning period had passed, the dowager had arranged for her son to bring a few friends to a series of family suppers she planned, hoping to give the girls town polish.

Cue Neville’s madness.

When had the inaugural gathering taken place? The November before last?

The night had been cold, anyway—unlike tonight’s humid heat.

Frost had edged the windows. He’d caught his first glimpse of Millicent in a halo of ice-dusted glass…

silky, chestnut hair and finely chiseled features.

He’d thought her the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, and that had been from the distant vantage of a chilly, cobblestone street.

Inside, her presence had infused the air with warmth.

When he’d slipped into the dining table chair at her side, scalding vibrations traveled straight to the tingling tips of his fingers.

Then, as one course had been brought out and another taken away, Millicent had transformed from a stunningly pretty face into his epitome of an ideal young lady.

She’d sat erect, listened attentively, hadn’t spoken unless spoken to first—all things he’d found as charming as they were proper.

Her answers to his questions had been simple and succinct, but not without intelligence.

He’d even found himself making mental lists of books and topics he’d thought would enhance, mold, and deepen her understanding.

Inwardly, he grimaced.

Pompous, perhaps.

In his defense, she’d given him reason to believe her to be somewhat lacking in sophistication.

When Asquith had teased her about her reticence, she’d responded with a furrowed brow, as if her guardian’s criticism was beyond her grasp. Of course, Neville had found such perfection in need of guidance and protection.

His guidance and protection.

But the only thing Miss Millicent wanted from him was to see him repeatedly mortified.

“Damn fool,” he muttered.

“I heard that,” Millie called from behind.

The devil. She was gaining on him, and he’d come to another fork.

He’d been through the maze several times before.

However, the fading light rendered the topiary’s familiar features grotesque.

Bushes shaped over centuries to serve as a diverting pastime now appeared ominously gnarled.

Various statues transformed into pale ghosts huddling against dark branches.

And Millicent, just a few steps behind, became less young lady than Deity of Vengeance intent on snatching him away to the underworld.

He caught a flash of her skirts through the twisted branches. Quickly, he made his choice. He rounded yet another bend and came face to face with a wall of coniferous needles—a dead end.

Damnation. Asquith was on his own. Neville could not escape the harpy now.

“Ha!” Millicent crowed. “I knew you’d lose your way!”

He scowled into the branches. “Just like I knew you, Lenora, and Nettie were up to something nefarious!”

The only “reply” Neville heard was a strange, scratching noise, followed by a whoosh of feathers and a deep caw. He turned just as Millicent screeched. She threw herself from the raven’s path, landing against his chest with a breath-stealing thud.

Neville stilled, caught between the primal instinct to hold and protect a lady in need, and the defensive impulse to thrust away a threat.

To him, at least, Millicent Wainwright was threat personified.

The head tucked under his chin might as well have been a knife to his throat, her generous curves a cudgel. And the heavenly, feminine scent assaulting his nostrils was certainly an airborne poison. If he kept her close a moment longer, all three would be his death.

A slow death, too. Death by the agony of want.

She doesn’t even like you. Correction. She hates you.

Just a few moments ago, she’d made her disdain clear.

“Why is it,” he’d asked Millie, “you always appear to be up to something?”

“What you perceive as ‘up to something,’ Little Lordling, is, in fact, the exercise of wit and imagination,” she’d answered, smiling sweetly. “Two things beyond your experience.”

How bitter a barb!

And the young lady who’d uttered it could only have one possible reason for remaining so close to him now—to humiliate him anew by teasing him into a reaction.

Well, he refused to give her the satisfaction of another moment’s hesitation, let alone any of the scoffing triumph she’d likely express if he indulged his urge to wrap her into a closer embrace.

He had some pride left, after all.

He grasped her shoulders and thrust her away.

Her sharp intake of breath sliced through his gut. Backing away, she covered herself with her arms, looking as bereft as he felt.

Which only made him angrier.

“Take Care, Miss Millicent,” he forced. “And take yourself back inside this instant. If you do, I will never mention your…your reckless, forward, inconsider—”

“You’ve made your point,” she interrupted stiffly. “No need to trouble your tiny mind for yet another synonym.”

He caught a flash of white petticoat as she turned. Her footsteps faded as she wended her way out of the maze without a single pause. She, apparently, did not have to correct her path, but made her way directly to the egress, as sure of herself and her contempt as always.

He closed his eyes.

His arms ached. His chest still burned with her heat. His legs were heavy. Weary. He sank until seated, propped his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head. The air was cooler down near the ground, the scent heavy with earthen decay.

Why hadn’t he refused the Marquess of Redver’s invitation?

He’d known Millicent would be here. He’d known they’d cross swords.

In fact, he’d been full of anticipation for those very things. He’d even sent his brother John to his mother in Brighton—a mother barely speaking to him these days—just so he could steal a few additional moments of the pained pleasure he felt in Millicent’s presence.

His justification? Once she and Lenora made their debuts this Season, he may never again have the chance to soak in her enlivening presence. But coming to Ravenswood had been a mistake.

He’d return to his own estate, Fountainwood, on the morrow. There, he intended to purge Millicent Wainwright from his heart and his mind.

With any luck, tonight would be the last time she would plague him.