Page 7 of Enticed By an Earl
Castleton stared at him for a few more seconds, then pushed himself forward, up to the door of his house.
Dev watched as the butler let him in, waving to him and receiving a small wave in return, as Castleton disappeared inside.
Once he was alone, Dev smiled at the closed door. Lord Christopher Seymour, Earl of Castleton. A spark of something sizzled through Dev’s heart, and lower organs, at the thought of the man. He hoped very much that their paths crossed again, and soon. His own base interest aside, he had the bittersweet feeling that Castleton needed a friend desperately.
Three
It was a small blessing that Kit’s father and brother had not yet returned home when Kit slipped into the house after parting ways with Lord Deveraux. That did not mean, however, that Kit felt relieved or even safe as he nodded to Thorne, his father’s butler, and hurried through the hall and upstairs to his bedchamber at the back of the house. The house itself had always felt set against him, with its severe decorations and numerous portraits of disapproving ancestors glaring down on him as if they could see inside his soul.
He was only able to breathe once he was alone in his room with the door locked, as had become his habit of late. As soon as the lock clicked, he turned and rested his back against the large, heavy thing, closing his eyes and letting out a breath.
He’d been attacked in the street in the middle of Mayfair. Mayfair, not the teeming streets of Limehouse or the Isle of Dogs. His assailant had been twice as big as him with his face hidden, but he hadn’t reeked of the docks or refuse from the more pitiful parts of London. He was most certainly the manhis father had spoken to as Kit left the boxing hall. Kit could still remember the feel of the man’s glove against his face, soft gloves without tears or holes in them.
It was no mystery what had taken place that evening. An assassin had been sent to dispatch him in as quick and quiet a manner as possible. He was nothing, nobody of any importance. The only man who might want him dead was the man who did not believe he was worthy of inheriting his title.
His father had tried to kill him, and if not for the timely arrival of Lord Deveraux Ogilvy, Kit would be lying in the dark street of Mayfair, his neck snapped and his sorry life gone.
Lord Deveraux Ogilvy. Kit took another breath and pushed away from the door, setting about the uneasy task of undressing and washing for bed. Had he not only just mentioned Lord Deveraux in conversation with his friends earlier in the evening? How strange that he should be the man to wander past and rescue him.
Strange and wonderful. Kit actually found himself smiling as he undid his neckcloth and shrugged out of his jacket. He took great care to put his clothing away, not trusting any valet that his father might provide for him enough to let them come in and do the job, thinking about Lord Deveraux all the while.
The man was as handsome as he’d remembered him to be. He was tall with a powerful build and bright, flashing eyes. His heroism would have had Kit quivering with desire if he hadn’t been so busy shaking with fear. The way he had torn his assailant away and dealt the man a smashing blow was valiant. The fact that he’d then stayed to help him instead of rushing off after the assailant to beat him into a pulp was an even stronger sign of Lord Deveraux’s character.
Kit allowed himself a few more moments of smiling and feeding the warmth of gratitude he felt for Lord Deveraux ashe quickly bathed using the wash basin in the corner of his room. Once he was clean and dressed in his nightshirt, a particularly gossamer confection that was more akin to a lady’s nightgown than a rough, man’s shirt, and climbing into bed, that smile faded. He was mad to think of Lord Deveraux as anything other than a convenient champion and a good man who would gladly help a stranger in distress.
Lord Deveraux Ogilvy was the very last man he should be having anything but thoughts of gratitude about. He was a man’s man, everything his father wished that he would be. Through gossip, Kit knew the man was regarded as a rake. He had a mistress somewhere and flirted shamelessly with the ladies of theton. The only thing Kit could recall as he lay in bed staring up at the ceiling about Lord Deveraux’s activities was that he somehow managed his father’s businesses in London. It was very likely that he enjoyed boxing and rowing, hunting and riding, all the things that Kit was supposed to enjoy but didn’t.
He sighed and turned to his side, facing the window that looked out into the mews behind his father’s house. Lord Deveraux might have rescued him, but he was the very last man to give him more attention than that. He most certainly was not the sort of man who might flirt with him or tease him in the way he wanted to be teased. He would never fall in love with him.
Those thoughts made for gloomy bedfellows, and with the rush of the attack still rattling through him, it was a long time before Kit relaxed enough to let sleep take him. Even then, it only kept him in the lightest grasp for the shortest amount of time.
He awoke in the morning feeling as though he had not rested at all, his head aching slightly. His body was sore inunexpected ways as he rose from his rumpled sheets, bathed again, and dressed for the day in some of his more modest clothing. There was no point in drawing attention to himself if that attention could in any way lead to his demise.
If he’d had his way, he would wear bright colors that brought out his complexion and enhanced his eyes. He might even wear flounces and soft ruffles, though he drew the line at bows. There was no possibility that dressing the way he wanted would go without comment, however.
It took more than an hour of pacing and glancing out the window for him to summon the courage to unlock his door and leave the relative safety of his bedchamber. The hallways of Bedminster House were already busy with the household servants going about their morning duties. The maids curtsied to him without looking at him. His father’s valet sent him a thinly veiled sneer as they crossed near the door to his father’s bedroom.
Kit picked up his pace, rushing downstairs to the breakfast room, though he did not think his stomach would accept much in the way of a morning repast.
“There you are,” George commented from the end of the table near where their father liked to sit, narrowing his eyes at Kit. “You ran off from the match yesterday. Father and I were afraid some notorious killer might have got his hands on you.”
Kit shivered at the knowing smile that accompanied his brother’s apparently teasing words. He should have known that George had been involved in the attempt in some way, or at least that he’d known about it.
“Mother,” Kit greeted his mother with a respectful nod, then nodded to his sisters before taking his seat at his father’s end of the table. The best way to steer clear of George’s baiting was to ignore it.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be.
“What is this I hear about you abandoning your father and brother yesterday when they so graciously agreed to allow you to accompany them in their activities?” his mother demanded.
Kit wanted to sigh, but was too tense to do more than breathe. “The activities in question were not to my liking,” he said quietly, staring down at his plate as a footman stepped forward to serve him a breakfast consisting mostly of meats. Kit’s stomach turned.
“Your father has gone to a great deal of trouble for you,” his mother scolded him. “The least you could do is make an effort to be the sort of man you should be.”
“Yes, Mother,” Kit said, not looking at her or anyone else around the table. He could feel all eyes on him, however. “I shall endeavor to do better in the future.”
George snorted. “Prissy Kitty,” he teased. “Imagine you promising to behave more like a man. You’re more of a girl than Eliza and Diana.” He gestured to their sisters.
Kit did not bother to respond to the taunt. In too many ways the accusation was true.
