The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere by Anna Bradley

Chapter Two

It was a young girl’s voice raised in awful, piercing howls, as if a monster from her darkest nightmare had come to life and was threatening to drag her down into the deepest bowels of hell.

That shriek made every hair on Georgiana’s neck spike with fear, but not a single sound passed her lips as she flew around the corner. She didn’t shout, or gasp, or cry—she certainly didn’t cry—nor did she pause to think, but charged forward, her heart bursting in her chest and ghastly images filling her head as she ran—a hulking scoundrel dressed all in black, his dagger pressed to Sarah’s throat, or his massive hands wrapped around Susannah’s neck, squeezing the life out of her, or a gang of banditti, their swords drawn, or—

This isn’t a Gothic horror novel, for pity’s sake.

Georgiana dragged in deep gulps of the frigid air to calm herself, but it was dark, as dark as a nightmare. Covent Garden was a blaze of light, but only a few glimmers reached as far as Maiden Lane, and she’d seen for herself how darkness could hide a multitude of horrors.

She flew down the street, her half boots skidding out from underneath her. She was nearly upon them before she noticed the shadowy figures at the end of the lane. Two were smaller, child-sized, but the other was tall, with the broad-shouldered bulk of a man.

No, not a man, but a criminal, a demon, the sort of wretch who preyed upon innocent children. Georgiana’s first instinct was to leap upon his back and sink her claws into his scalp, but she came to a crashing halt, the fog swirling around her, and blinked into the darkness.

There was no bloody dagger, and no blackguard with his brutal hands wrapped around a child’s slender neck. That is, there was a man, but he wasn’t dressed in black. He wore a royal blue coat embroidered with an abundance of costly silver thread, and instead of the meaty, murderous paws she’d envisioned, his hands were long, elegant, and wrapped in a pair of flawless white gloves.

Susannah was standing beside him, eyes wide, and it looked as if…yes, it was. “Sarah! Get down off that scoundrel’s back. Now.”

“Scoundrel?” The man’s dark brows rose. “I beg your pardon, madam.”

“Oh, that’s going to be trouble, that is,” Susannah hissed. “Git down from there, Sarah, and right quick.”

Sarah released her hold on the man’s neck and slid down his back, grimacing at the look on Georgiana’s face. “Good evening, Miss—”

Susannah scurried forward, cutting Sarah off. “Ye see, it’s like this, Miss—”

“Not a single word from either of you.” Georgiana pointed at them, her hand shaking. “Come here this instant.”

Sarah shot Susannah a panicked glance. “Aw, Miss Harley, we weren’t doing anything wrong. We were just helping this cove here with his—”

“Enough!” Georgiana grabbed an arm in each hand and pushed the girls behind her. She was furious with both of them, but that anger was tempered by relief at finding them unharmed.

That left the hottest of her rage for the miscreant in front of her. “I’m well aware you were led astray by this, this…gentleman.” She fixed him with a glare. “I assume you do style yourself a gentleman, sir, despite your shameful antics this evening?”

Anyone with a pair of eyes in their head could see he was a gentleman, and an aristocrat. His elegant clothing, his manner, the scent of expensive port that clung to him gave him away. He was an earl, most likely, or even a marquess, for who else would dare to treat children so callously?

Any gentleman with a shred of decency would have been ashamed to look her in the eye, but this one seemed more amused than anything else. A wide grin curved his full lips, and there was an infuriating twinkle in his dark eyes as he swept his hat from his head and offered her a mocking bow. “Haslemere, madam. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

Haslemere?

He said his name as if Georgiana would recognize it, and indeed, she did. Everyone in London knew who he was. Benedict Harcourt, the Earl of Haslemere. What she knew of him wasn’t to his credit, but he wasn’t quite the despicable fiend she’d envisioned. He wasn’t carrying a dagger or brandishing a sword. No banditti were lurking in the shadows, and Sarah and Susannah appeared unharmed.

Still, he was scoundrel enough. Haslemere was London’s most infamous rake, notorious for his reckless wagering, shocking scandals, and an endless parade of beautiful, volatile mistresses.

Georgiana took him in, from the tips of his polished shoes to his smirking mouth, her lips turning down in disdain. Oh, he was pretty, wasn’t he? No doubt he thought that thick auburn hair of his and those handsome dark eyes excused his appalling behavior, but she was immune to his appeal. “Tell me, Lord Haslemere. Do you make a habit of entertaining yourself at the expense of the safety of young children?”

“They were never in any danger, I assure you. They found it all great fun. Ask them yourself.” The smirking lips curved into a crooked grin that no doubt charmed most ladies out of their bodices and into his bed.

But Georgiana wasn’t most ladies. “They found it great fun, did they? Perhaps you’d care to explain why I heard Sarah screaming from four blocks away, then.” It had only been a single block, but Lord Haslemere didn’t know that.

“Certainly, miss…it’s Miss Harley, isn’t it?” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sarah here was upset because I put an end to our footraces. Her shriek nearly melted the skin from my bones. I was just about to take her for a final spin when you appeared, screeching like a banshee, and accused me of being a scoundrel.”

“Footraces.” Georgiana had heard rumors about these notorious footraces. Young, wild aristocratic gentlemen, tired of playing at hazard and whist, had taken to wagering on footraces, and the more dangerous they were, the better. There were tales of drunken wastrels charging about Covent Garden with ladies of dubious virtue in their arms, tripping over passersby and generally making a great nuisance of themselves.

If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed it, but God knew there was no end to the stupidity of bored noblemen. Last month it had been wagering on the time it would take a drop of rain to reach the windowsill at White’s. The month before that all the rage was wagering on whether or not Lord-whoever-he-may-be could carry Mr. So-and-So around the Serpentine on his back.

Nothing should surprise her anymore.

For her part, Georgiana was happy enough to let every foolish lord in London split their thick skulls open on the pavement. She couldn’t care less if they broke their noses and sacrificed every tooth in their heads to their silly antics.

That is, until one of them dared to involve her girls in his absurd games. Then she cared very much, indeed. “You smell like you’ve been bathing in port, Lord Haslemere. Do you really think you have any business balancing a child on your shoulders in such a state?”

“Why, Miss Harley, I’m flattered you’d show an interest in my bathing habits.” He winked at her, his lips quirking. “It was either another ride, or a burst eardrum. Besides, I’m not one to leave a young lady in tears.”

Georgiana was exerting a great of effort to hold onto her temper, but Lord Haslemere was edging her closer to the brink with his careless winks and sly flirtation. “This is all just a bit of fun to you, isn’t it, my lord? Just another game, an entertainment to while away an evening. What if one of these girls had fallen and broken a bone, or worse, cracked their head open? Would you have found it as amusing then?”

Her vehemence took him aback. “Now see here, Miss Harley—”

“We didn’t ride on his shoulders, Miss Harley.” Susannah and Sarah had been quiet until now, their curious gazes moving from Georgiana to Lord Haslemere and back again, but now Susannah spoke up. “Them other coves wanted us to, but this one here said as it wasn’t a good idea.”

“The other ones?” That’s right. Georgiana had forgotten Abby had said there were three gentlemen.

“Well, of course.” Lord Haslemere chuckled. “Did you suppose I was running races against myself? Really, Miss Harley, what fun would that be?”

Georgiana clenched her hands into fists to keep from boxing his ears.

“There was three of them.” Sarah’s tone was eager, as if she thought the addition of two more rakes could only help their cause. “One named Harry something—he was the other horse, ye see, and Susannah his jockey, and then the other lord, Perry something, who held the hat with the coins.”

Ah yes, the infamous guineas. “Give Lord Haslemere back his money.”

No girls of hers were going to be beholden to a scandalous earl.

Susannah and Sarah both took a hasty step backward, and hid their hands—hands stuffed with guineas, no doubt—behind their backs.

“I don’t want them back.” A hint of impatience had crept into Lord Haslemere’s voice. “The girls earned them, and should be allowed to keep them.”

Georgiana ignored it, and him. “At once, girls.”

Sarah and Susannah were reluctant to relinquish their riches, but they’d been at the Clifford School long enough to know better than to argue with Miss Harley. Susannah returned her guineas, but Georgiana was obliged to pry open Sarah’s fingers and take the coins away from her. “Here you are, my lord. I believe that concludes our business.”

She held out the coins to him, but instead of taking them, he crossed his arms over his chest. “This is absurd, Miss Harley. Give the girls back their coins.”

Georgiana’s eyes narrowed. “Are you arguing with me, Lord Haslemere?”

“Cor,” Sarah breathed. “He’s done it now.”

“I don’t see what harm there is in letting the girls keep their reward, that’s all.” Lord Haslemere gave a careless shrug.

“That doesn’t surprise me. I imagine you’re not much in the habit of considering consequences.” Why should he be? There were no consequences for gentlemen like him. “Allow me to explain it to you. Sarah and Susannah are meant to be tucked into their beds. Instead they sneaked out to Covent Garden, at night, disobeying the rules and putting themselves at risk, and you’re proposing I reward them for it?”

Lord Haslemere scratched his temple, grimacing. “Now you put it that way, it doesn’t seem quite the thing. I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t. Not an unusual occurrence, I’d wager.” With a flick of her fingers, Georgiana dropped the guineas into the pocket of his cloak. “I daresay you’re not required to think much at all. Good night, my lord. I wish you a pleasant evening.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but took the girls’ hands in each of hers, and turned on her heel. She’d intended to stride off into the night without another word or a backward glance, but his low, amused voice stopped her.

“What a liar you are, Miss Harley. We both know you wish me straight to the devil.”

* * * *

Good Lord, the woman had a viperish tongue. Benedict had thought Sarah’s shrieking was intolerable, but it was nothing compared to the blistering scold that had just rolled off Miss Harley’s lips. He couldn’t recall ever having been so thoroughly chastised in his life.

It was strangely refreshing, even…dare he say titillating?

Given how few ladies bothered to scold him these days, there was a certain novelty to it, and this Miss Harley was magnificent at scolding. He’d always had a bit of a weakness for a lady with a tart tongue, and she had a mouthful of rhubarb, without the sugar syrup.

“Are you their governess?” She had a governess-ish air about her that put Benedict in mind of Miss Vexington, who’d been his sister Jane’s governess for years. It was an unfortunate name for a governess, really, but he’d always liked Miss Vexington. She’d been a decent lady, if a trifle starchy.

Miss Harley turned to face him again, her lips pressed into a tight, forbidding line. “You would think that.”

Benedict blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t meant the question as an insult, but her quills were quivering like an outraged porcupine. “I would? What does that mean?”

“Never mind.” She turned away with a little shake of her head. “It doesn’t matter. Come along, girls.”

“Wait, Miss Harley. What’s wrong with governesses?” Benedict didn’t give a bloody damn about governesses, but he didn’t want her to leave yet.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Not a thing. The fault isn’t with the governesses.”

Benedict did his best to look affronted. “You mean to say the fault lies with me? You can’t simply stroll off into the dark after so viciously maligning my character, madam. I demand to know your meaning.”

“Very well, Lord Haslemere, since you insist upon it.” Miss Harley turned back to him with a huff. “You seem to me to be the sort of gentlemen who sees every lady as either a potential mistress, or a governess—”

“That’s absurd, Miss Harley. Sometimes they’re housemaids, or nursemaids.” Benedict waited for another lashing from that acid tongue, but the only sound that emerged from her lips was a peculiar click, rather like…

Teeth snapping together.

“Those ladies who don’t excite your amorous inclinations must be—”

“My amorous inclinations?” Benedict choked back a laugh. “Is that the same thing as my—”

“Those ladies who don’t excite your amorous inclinations,” she repeated stubbornly, “must inevitably be governesses.”

He cocked his head to the side, studying her. She wasn’t fashionable, nor was she a conventional beauty, yet there was something tempting about her all the same. Perhaps it was only that she was so contained, so composed. The urge to rattle her—to pull out her pins and loosen her buttons—was maddening.

So, as he did with most temptations, Benedict gave into it. “Why should you think I wouldn’t want to make you my mistress?”

Her mouth fell open. “I…that’s not…I never…”

Benedict couldn’t suppress his grin as she fumbled and stammered, bright red color rushing into her cheeks. Oh, she was a cross little thing, to be sure, but that blush was delicious.

I do believe my amorous inclinations have been aroused.

No one was more surprised at it than he. She wasn’t at all in his style. With her hair scraped back from her face and that ridiculous cloak buttoned all the way to her chin she looked like a shorn sheep, but the few tendrils of her hair that had come loose from her hat were a pretty, chestnut color, and she had a distracting pair of darkly lashed…brown eyes? Were they brown or green? He squinted at her, trying to decide.

Yes, brown would do. They were closer to it than green, at any rate.

She noticed his perusal, and her lips pinched into a scowl. “Do you take anything seriously, Lord Haslemere?”

The grin on Benedict’s lips widened. “Not if I can help it. Do you take everything too seriously, Miss Harley?”

Her chin rose into the air. “For pity’s sake, why should it matter to you whether I’m their governess or not?”

“Well, of course it matters. What sort of gentleman would let these little girls wander off into the night with a stranger?”

“Oh, Miss Harley isn’t a stranger, she’s one of our teachers at the Cliff—”

“Never mind, Sarah.” Miss Harley snatched up the girls’ hands again, and without another glance at Benedict began marching back up the hill toward Henrietta Street.

“Wait!” Benedict stepped after them. “It’s late. Won’t you allow me to see you home in my carriage?”

“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

“Come now, Miss Harley. There’s no need to be so particular. It looks as if it’s going to rain again.” Benedict wasn’t sure why he didn’t just let her stride off into the fog with her charges and be done with her, but his dormant gentlemanly instincts seemed to be reasserting themselves. No doubt that blush of hers was responsible for all this tedious gallantry.

“Can’t we please?” Sarah tugged at a fold of Miss Harley’s skirts. “He must have a handsome carriage, being a lord and all.”

“I do, very handsome, and a splendid matched pair as well. If you’re truly concerned about the children’s well-being, Miss Harley, you won’t risk their safety on the dark, wicked streets of London.”

But Miss Harley was having none of it. “I assure you, Lord Haslemere, these two girls aren’t strangers to the risks of the London streets. I daresay they’ve spent more time on them in their short lives than you have.”

True enough. He’d only ever spent one night on the London streets, and that was only because his coachman had lost track of him, and Benedict had been too sotted to find his carriage on his own. He was, alas, every bit the rake Miss Harley thought he was, but a man should do what he excelled at, and Benedict excelled at amusing others and entertaining himself. Otherwise, he was quite useless. “Very well, but at least let the girls shake hands, Miss Harley.”

Miss Harley looked as if she was going to refuse, but Benedict beckoned to the girls, and they wrenched their hands free of Miss Harley’s. He slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved the coins as they darted toward him. He knelt on the cobbles, held out his gloved hand, and took each of theirs in turn. With a solemn nod he shook them, pressing the guineas back into their palms as he did. “Miss Sarah, you’re a capital jockey, and Miss Susannah, a fierce competitor.”

The girls’ eyes widened when they felt the coins, but he gave them a subtle shake of his head, then released them with a wink.

“Come, Sarah and Susannah. Your friends will be wondering where you are.”

Miss Harley took the girls’ hands again. Benedict didn’t try to stop them leaving this time, but stood on the damp street and watched as the darkness closed around Miss Harley and her two charges, swallowing them into its depths.