CHAPTER1
Trevor William Hunt, sixth Duke of Ridgely, Marquess of Northrop, Baron Grantworth, glared at the menace who had invaded his home, doing his utmost not to take note of the tempting ankles peeping from beneath the hems of her gown and petticoats. A damned difficult task indeed when the menace in question loomed above him from the top rung of the ladder in his library. There was nowhere to look but up her skirts.
In his time as a spy working for the Guild, reporting directly to Whitehall, he’d faced fearsome enemies and would-be assassins. He’d been shot at, stabbed, and nearly trampled by a carriage. But all that rather paled in comparison to the full force of Lady Virtue Walcot, daughter of his late friend the Marquess of Pemberton, Trevor’s unexpected and unwanted ward, and minion of Beelzebub sent fresh from Hades to destroy him.
“Come down before you break your neck, infant,” he ordered her.
He hadn’t a conscience, but he had no intention of beginning his day by witnessing the chit tumbling to her doom. He had yet to take his breakfast, after all.
“I am not an infant,” she announced, defiance making her tone sharp as a whip from her lofty perch.
The minx hadn’t even bothered to cast a glance in his direction for her response.
No, indeed. Instead, she continued thumbing through the dusty tomes lining the shelves overhead, relics from the fifth Duke of Ridgely. Likely, the duke had wanted to impress his mistress of the moment. Trevor strongly doubted his sire had ever read a word on their pages.Hmm.When he had an opportunity, he’d do away with the lot of them. He’d quite forgotten they were there.
“Child, then,” he allowed, crossing his arms over his chest and keeping his gaze studiously trained on the shelves instead of the tempting curve of her rump overhead. “For a woman fully grown would never go climbing about in her guardian’s library, putting her welfare in peril.”
“She would if she were looking for something to occupy her mind, aside from the tedium her guardian has arranged for her.”
Lady Virtue was, no doubt, referring to the social whirlwind he had arranged with the help of his sister, all in the name of seeing the vexing chit wedded, etcetera, and blessedly out of his life.
“Ladies love balls,” he countered, uncrossing his arms and settling his hands on his hips instead.
Lady Virtue made him itchy. Whenever she was within arm’s reach, he found himself wanting to touch her, which made absolutely no sense, given that she was an innocent, and he didn’t bloody welllikethe chit.
“Not this lady,” she called from above.
Trevor was certain she was disagreeing with him merely for the sport of quarreling. “Ladies adore those terribly boring affairs with musicians.”
“Musicales, you mean?” She sniffed. “I despise them.”
“A tragedy, that,” he quipped. “In order for you to find yourself happily married, you need to attend society events.”
Another disdainful sniff floated down from above. “I have no wish to be married, happily or otherwise.”
So she had claimed on numerous occasions. Lady Virtue Walcot was as outspoken as she was maddening. But she remained his burden for the year until she reached her majority and was no longer his ward. Those twelve months loomed before him like a bloody eternity. The only respite would be in finding her a husband, which he intended for his sister to do. Clearly, Pamela was going to have to work harder at her task.
When Lady Virtue married, she would still remain his ward, but her unsuspecting spouse could at least be burdened with keeping her out of trouble, and Trevor could carry on with life as he wished.
He caught another glimpse of Lady Virtue’s ankles and then cursed himself as his cock leapt to attention. He’d always had a weakness for a woman’s legs. Too damned bad these delicious limbs belonged toher.
He cleared his throat. “You’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t.” She pulled a book from the shelf. “The Tale of Love.”
Oh, Christ.He knew the title. Knew the contents within. Despicably bawdy, that book. Decidedly not the sort of tome she ought to be reading. If anyone corrupted her, it wasn’t going to be Trevor.
Unfortunately.
“That’s not for the eyes of innocent lambs,” he said. “Put it back on the shelf.”
“I never claimed to be an innocent lamb.” The unmistakable sound of her turning the pages reached him. “Why, it’s an epistolary. There can hardly be any harm in that, can there?”
He ground his molars and glared at the spines of books before him, surrendering to the need to touch something and settling on the ladder. At least it wouldn’t go tumbling over with him acting as anchor.
“Don’t read it, infant,” he called curtly. “That is a command.”
“I’m not that much younger than you are, you know.” More page turning sounded above. “Oh! Good heavens…”
