Page 1 of The Scot’s Seduction (Heirs & Spares #2)

B ut I love you.”

Drusilla tried to keep her annoyance from showing on her expression. Perhaps if she thought about bunnies frolicking through a field she would appear less impatient. Little fluffy tails, twitching noses, soft fur.

“Yes,” she said in as gentle a voice as possible, “you’ve said that.

” Many times. Forty-seven, in fact, during the past hour.

Bunnies, Drusilla , she reminded herself.

“I understand, my lord, but what I am trying to say is that your feelings are no longer my concern.” She winced as she spoke; she knew what she was saying sounded harsh, but it was better than Well, that is your problem .

Lord Cavendish groaned and buried his head in his hands. He and Drusilla were sitting in her small receiving room, the room where all her forays into romance began and ended. He’d lasted longer than usual; he was handsome, not too smart, and had plenty of enthusiasm for anything they did together.

But as always, Drusilla found herself growing restless, the ever-present shadow of perpetuity hanging over her head. Lord Cavendish had started making noises about “forever” and “true love” and had once even mentioned a “wedding.”

Though, actually, that last one was a mistake, since he was talking about changing the bedding, not having a wedding. That a lord would actually concern himself with such a task was remarkable, in fact. Even more than mentioning a wedding.

Still. It was enough to make Drusilla’s insides twitch, as they always did when anyone of the male species got too close. Like a bunny , she thought with a quickly suppressed smile.

Which was why she had spent the last hour in this room, when she could have been catching up on her business’s paperwork, or writing a letter to her sister, Diantha, who was off in America with her charming husband, or drilling the various residents of her house on the correct responses to a variety of questions.

But Lord Cavendish deserved these last moments of her attention.

It wasn’t his fault that she was vehemently opposed to any kind of romantic permanence; she wouldn’t share her romantic past with any of her lovers, and she had not veered from that in the months she’d kept company with Lord Cavendish, or “Dish,” as she’d soon nicknamed him, since he was someone she’d originally wanted to eat up with a spoon.

And had, over the past few months. He was unaware that she was adamant about remaining immune to any feelings of love.

Now it was time for her to hang up her cutlery, so to speak.

She glanced discreetly at the clock in the corner. It was now an hour and eighteen minutes since they’d started talking. She took a breath, then rose, making him leap up as well, thanks to his impeccable manners.

Manners that extended into courtesy elsewhere, which she much appreciated.

He always made certain she achieved her satisfaction before seeking his own.

He also was considerate about hogging the bedcovers; several of her past paramours had thought self-swaddling a perfectly fine way to sleep, which meant Drusilla shivered through the night.

Those gentlemen had not gotten nearly the same amount of time she’d accorded Lord Cavendish.

“My lord, I know you have other engagements,” she said gently.

He still had that wounded-deer look on his face.

Or, technically, a wounded-buck look on his face, since he was most definitely male.

Parts of her already missed those parts of him, but she could not risk further entanglement.

It would be unfair to continue with Dish if he was truly in love with her.

She knew, as well as she knew her own name—Lady Drusilla Polyxeni Hester Courtenay—that she would never fall in love.

Not again. The sting of the last time, nearly ten years ago, still ached, but she’d managed to tuck it away in the tiniest part of herself, only allowing it to emerge in the middle of the night when she was safely alone.

“Yes, of course,” he said. His expression was pained, and she bit back the words that would allow him to stay, since this end would still be inevitable, just delayed.

She hated this part of it all. It wasn’t in her nature to hurt anybody, and most times she was able to stop things before messy emotions got involved.

But Dish was a simple, generous, enthusiastic gentleman.

Hopefully that meant he would go fall in love with someone else before too long.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, taking his hand in hers. He stared down at it, then turned it over and bent to press a kiss upon her palm. Then he raised his gaze to hers, his face falling when he didn’t see what he’d hoped for.

“Thank you,” she said again, withdrawing her hand and stepping to the door. She opened it and made a tiny shooing gesture. He blinked, then nodded a few times before walking out into the hallway.

“Lord Cavendish’s hat and coat if you please, Joey,” she called.

Joey appeared right away, as though she’d been hiding nearby, giving Lord Cavendish his things.

Then she took him by the arm and guided him toward the front door, opening it to let him out.

Two small kittens, one black and white with little white socks and one all black, darted inside the receiving room, immediately running under the sofa.

Once the front door was shut, Joey turned around and gave Drusilla a knowing look.

“He was well and truly stunned. You did do it nicely, didn’t you?

” Joey had been with Drusilla for the past eight years.

She’d been the first of Drusilla’s rescues.

Joey had been working in a discreet house of pleasure for women with enough money to pay for both services and silence.

She’d entered willingly, but the house had changed hands, and the new owners gouged their workers for every living expense, so that by the time Joey left with Drusilla, she owed more than she could make in a year.

Joey had immediately installed herself in Drusilla’s town house, helping with everything from household management to late-night rescue expeditions.

“I was very nice,” Drusilla said, walking back into the receiving room. “Is there tea?”

Joey jerked her head toward the kitchen. “Cook’s got some going. She thought you might need some after all of that.”

For some ladies, having every adult in the house know precisely what you were doing and with whom you were doing it might be a problem.

But Drusilla couldn’t stand to lie, and she’d rather face the truth—unpleasant though it might be—than engage in any type of prevarication.

Plus, the adults in her home had all done things that would not pass muster in polite society, so it wasn’t as though anyone would judge her. Not here, at least.

“She also made those cinnamon scones you like so much.”

Drusilla collapsed back into her chair, flinging her arms over the side. “She must have known this one would be difficult.”

“We all knew he’d fallen in love with you around about the second month,” Joey observed, taking Lord Cavendish’s seat and propping her elbows on her knees.

She wore her usual garb of worn woolen trousers, a plain white shirt, and a jacket.

It was certainly unorthodox, but then again, everything in this house was. “I warned you, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Drusilla said. “I should have listened. Poor dear.”

Joey waved her hand. “He’ll recover soon enough. The Season starts in a month—I’m sure all those mothers will be parading about with their daughters in no time.”

“He did tell me his father has been urging him to get married,” Drusilla remarked. She straightened, taking a deep breath. “But enough about that. What do we have to take care of today?”

“The cook from across the way found out we’ve got kittens, and she needs a new mouser. And we’ve got to see about Alice’s new position, and then there is a woman and her children who are in rather desper—”

Her answer was interrupted by a shriek that came from outside. Both women rushed to the window, drawing the heavy curtains aside to peer out.

A man and a young woman were on the sidewalk in front of the house.

It appeared as though she was trying to pull away from him, but he was much larger and had hold of both her arms. The young woman was likely about sixteen or seventeen, wearing clothing that was in fashion but not too stylish.

The man was tall, wearing a suit that was a few years out of date.

He was also wide, perhaps nearly twice the size of the lady he has subduing.

Drusilla and Joey looked at each other, then ran out of the room, flinging the front door open and bounding down the stairs.

Drusilla began to yell before she’d reached them. “Unhand her this instant!” she called.

Joey was on her heels, darting to the man to try to pry him off the young woman.

He made an outraged noise, trying to swat her away, but Joey hung on, grasping his shoulders with both hands.

Meanwhile, Drusilla ran to the young woman, thrusting the lady behind her body, lifting her chin to glare at the man.

He was younger than she had initially thought—perhaps within about five years of her own twenty-eight years—and looked suitably villainous.

He had dark hair, nearly black, with fierce eyebrows over his brown eyes.

The lower half of his face was covered by a thick, black beard, his red mouth a stark contrast to all the bristliness surrounding it.

He was handsome in a brutal kind of way, and Drusilla wondered if the young lady had been lured in by his blatant savagery.

His shoulders were broad, and his muscled body, paired with his height, made him implicitly threatening, even without the manhandling.

Now that she was up close, she could see it was the young woman who had hold of the man. Not what she’d expected. Drusilla herself was caged between the two of them. The young woman seemed determined to hold on, and now the man had put his hands on her hands—trying to dislodge her hold?

“Stop this,” Drusilla said, pulling at the man’s hands.

No use. He was far too strong. His expression was pugnacious, and she narrowed her gaze at him.

“You heard her, Uncle,” the woman said behind her. “You’ve got to let me go.”

Even though, technically, she was the one who had hold of him.

“Uncle?” Drusilla said in surprise.

The man glowered even more, which she hadn’t realized was possible. He truly did look like he was planning some sort of dastardly deed.

“Yes, she is my niece,” the man replied in a Scottish accent, one thick enough that she had to catch up with what he said.

“And I will not be under his thumb!” the young lady exclaimed. Her accent was similar to Drusilla’s own—clearly English, with a polish that could have come only from a particularly strict governess.

“You’re not under my thumb,” the man said, his words rough. “I just need you to do what I say.”

“And that is not under your thumb?” Drusilla asked, skeptically raising one eyebrow.

The man had the good grace to flush, turning a bright pink everywhere that wasn’t covered by facial hair.

It was almost adorable, except that Drusilla was still the middle part of this uncle-niece sandwich, and she needed to extricate herself.

She took a breath, then spoke. “I will not allow you to manhandle this lady this way, even if she is your niece. Especially if she is your niece.”

“That’s right,” the lady cheered. “You’ve got to let me do this my own way.”

Drusilla turned within the circle of arms to face the young woman. “Could you explain what this is all about?”

The young woman was remarkably pretty in a classic English rose kind of way; her hair was blond, her eyes light blue, and it looked as though she would be even prettier when her face was not twisted up in a mix of peevishness and terror.

“He,” the woman said, thrusting one accusatory finger toward the man, “wants me to make my debut!”

Drusilla froze for a moment, then tilted her head in question. “He...wants you to make your debut?” As villainous acts went, it was rather mild.

The woman nodded vigorously. “Yes, and he says he’ll be the one escorting me everywhere, but how am I supposed to find a husband when I have a hulking Scotsman standing in back of me glaring at everyone!”

“I don’t glare!” the man shouted as Drusilla turned back toward him.

“I have to say,” she remarked, “you are glaring right now. It’s quite intimidating, in fact.”

His only response was to strengthen the glare.

Drusilla shook her head, then turned again to address the woman.

“Would you like to come inside and we can discuss this? I fear,” she said, gesturing to the small group of people who were assembling near them on the sidewalk, with more peering from the windows of her own house, “that we are attracting a crowd.”

“Oh, that is the most excellent idea,” the man replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Adding some opinionated strangers into all of this.”

“It’s better than having you trod all over my feelings like an oaf,” the woman screeched, managing to sound both fragile and defiant.

“It’s settled,” Drusilla said, forcing her way through the jumble of arms she was in.

“You can let go,” she added to Joey, who reluctantly released her hold on the gentleman’s shoulders and eased back onto the ground.

“And you,” she called, addressing the many curious faces looking out her windows, “tea for all of us in the grand salon.”

The faces’ expressions turned to surprise; then they all disappeared as her household scurried away to their tasks.

Drusilla took the young woman’s arm. “I am Lady Drusilla Courtenay. And who are you?”

“Emily Davenport, my lady. Miss Emily Davenport.”

“And you are?” she said, twisting to look back at the—yes, still glaring—Scotsman.

“The Earl of Cragmore, not to mention Miss Emily Davenport’s uncle and guardian.”

His words emerged in a low-throated growl, as though he was issuing a warning rather than an introduction.

It was a very fortunate thing Drusilla had never been intimidated by a gentleman, or she might have been tempted to start.

“Well, Miss Davenport, my lord, how about we go into my house and sort out precisely what the ruckus is about.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just walked briskly into her house, tugging Miss Davenport along, the burly behemoth and Joey coming in behind.