Excerpt of Saint's Temptation by Debra Dier

England, 1809

“Stand back, or I shall be forced to murder you.” Marisa Grantham kept her voice low hoping to handle the situation without summoning anyone to the private parlor in the Red Lion Inn.

She had returned to the parlor to retrieve the novel she had left behind after dinner, finding sleep impossible until she knew the ending of The Lady of Ravenwood Castle. She really had to discover if Lord Ravenwood had actually murdered his wife or if he was indeed the love of Olivia’s life. Although she was quite certain the quiet Mr. Haverleigh would be the hero of the piece. Unfortunately the young man who had followed her into the parlor had anything but heroic thoughts in mind.

“Come now, my lovely. No need to play games. I have plenty of blunt.” The young man lunged for her. She poked his chest. He staggered back a step then stood glaring at her. “Here now, that hurt.”

“I shall be forced to do more than hurt you if you don’t let me pass.” She really hoped she needn’t crack the young man over the head. Although he was dressed as a gentleman, the thick smell of spirits clung to him. Liquor had a way of dissolving the thin veneer of civilization. “I’m not a light skirt. You have made an error in judgment.”

“No need to play coy.” He swept his hand over his thick golden curls and tugged at the bottom of his yellow waistcoat, as though he needed to make himself presentable for her. “By gad you are a handsome piece. A face of an angel and a body for sin. Name your price.”

“Oh you odious blackguard. Stand aside and allow me to pass.”

“It’s obvious the lady does not want your attentions, Ferndown.”

At the sound of a deep male voice, Marisa glanced toward the door as a tall man entered the room. He closed the door softly behind him. Light from the wall sconces flickered in the small room, casting a golden light on the newcomer. His speech would have proclaimed him a gentleman even if he hadn’t been dressed in an elegant close fitting dark grey coat and buff colored breeches. He obviously knew the drunken lout who had attacked her. Had he come to assist her, or join the blackguard intent on ravishing her? Marisa gripped the poker, prepared to do battle, while she fought her rising panic.

“Bloody hell. Didn’t expect to see you here.” Ferndown stared at the other man, squinting as though trying to discern his features. “Which one are you? Devil or Saint?”

The tall young man crossed the room, declining to answer the inquiry. “I suggest you leave, Ferndown. You have obviously made a mistake. The lady is a gentlewoman.”

“I see the way of it. You want her for yourself.” Ferndown lifted his fists. “I don’t bloody well care which one you are. I can knock you down, Devil or Saint.”

The new comer dodged a fist aimed for his nose. “Ferndown you—”

“Stand still, blast you.” Ferndown jabbed with his right fist.

The young man blocked the blow with his left arm. The impact knocked a book from his grasp. Before it hit the floor, he rammed his right fist into Ferndown’s jaw. Ferndown’s head snapped back, his eyes widened, and then he slowly sank to the floor at the young man’s feet with a groan.

The young man studied his handiwork with a critical eye. “Ferndown always did have trouble holding his liquor.”

“If you have any thoughts of picking up where he left off, I would suggest disposing of them.”

He turned to face her, obviously stunned by the accusation in her voice.

Light from the lamps behind her fell full upon his face. Thick black hair fell in disheveled waves around a face carved with strong lines and curves. It was a face that might have graced the pages of a romantic novel, a face designed to add a beat to a girl’s heart, a face any respectable heroine would dream of at night.

In a distant region of her brain she realized she was staring at him. Yet she couldn’t help herself. Not only was he tall, but he was splendidly proportioned—wide through the shoulders and narrow through the waist and hips. Buff colored breeches molded every strong line of his long legs before sliding into shiny black boots. No doubt her stare would earn her one more notation in the long list of things she must learn to control in her quest to become the proper young lady her family expected her to be. The list was quickly reaching epic proportions. Still, no one was here to correct her, and he was so very appealing to her gaze.

Under her close scrutiny color deepened in his cheeks. A subtle understanding filled those beautiful grey-green eyes, as though he knew precisely how very intriguing she found him. Instead of the arrogance she had so often seen in men who possessed such potent physical beauty, his expression revealed an entirely different emotion—he looked as though he wanted nothing more than to turn and run from the room.

“I take it you are not with this drunkard.”

“Although I’m acquainted with Ferndown, I’m not a member of his party.” He moistened his lips. “If the poker has grown heavy, it’s safe to put it down. I assure you, I have never acquired the practice of accosting young ladies.”

She slipped the poker into a stand by the hearth, iron clanking against iron. In the three years she had spent traveling abroad with her parents, she had developed a fairly good grasp of the various sub-species of the human male. Although this young man had all the physical attributes one would associate with a rake, she suspected any gentleman near the age of twenty who still retained the ability to blush must be placed in a far different category.

“Ferndown landed on your book.”

He glanced at the man sprawled at his feet. “It doesn’t look as though he has taken notice of it.”

“I doubt he shall be taking notice of much for a while. You have quite a prodigious right. Thank you for saving me from the gallows.”

“Gallows?”

“I was afraid I would have to hit him over the head. In which case, I very likely would have murdered him. Still, the gallows was a much preferred alternative to what he had in mind.” She plucked at the ragged blue muslin at her shoulder, suppressing a shudder.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

He took the stickpin from the folds of his neck cloth. “Perhaps this will help repair the damage.”

An emerald winked in the candlelight as he handed her the pin. She fussed with the muslin a moment, and then slipped the pin into the fabric, hitching the ragged edges together. “What do you think?”

“It should suffice until you return to your room.” He glanced around the room. “You came down without a chaperon?”

“A woman should not need a chaperon strapped to her side to keep from being set upon by drunkards.”

His eyebrows slid upward at the sharp tone of her voice. “Of course.”

“I suppose I should have thought to bring someone with me, but it seemed simple enough. Instead of awakening my maid, or disturbing my parents, I came down to fetch the book I left behind after dinner.” She glanced down at the drunkard, who lay snoring near her feet. “I should have brought my pistol. I didn’t realize England was so uncivilized.”

“I didn’t realize young ladies had taken to carrying pistols.”

“I’m afraid I have a great deal to learn about being a proper English lady. We have been traveling out of the country for the past three years. Unfortunately, Mama wonders if she will ever be able to pound all the intricacies of proper English behavior into my head before we go to London. I have to admit, I’m a bit apprehensive about it myself.”

“I cannot imagine you having a difficult time in London.”

“You are being kind, but facts betray the truth. A proper lady wouldn’t have gone roaming about a public inn alone.”

“If we lived in an ideal world, you should have no concern about retrieving your book without a chaperon.”

“Another kind way of saying I was a proper hen-wit. Mama is hoping I shall learn how to swim before I take the plunge into the great pool of the ton. She insists we partake of Society in London this September when there will be far fewer people for me to offend in Town. She hopes to give me a chance to polish my manners before everyone arrives this coming spring. I’m eighteen and she is afraid I shall end a spinster if she doesn’t get me to London.” She glanced away from him, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. She was babbling, which was certainly on the list of things she must change. “And here I’m rattling away. Another of my many faults, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps it’s the light, but I cannot perceive any faults.”

He spoke softly, without a hint of flirtation, and somehow that made the words all the more compelling. “You are indeed very kind.”

He held her gaze a moment, as though he was searching for something to say. Instead of a cultivated gallantry, he retrieved a brown leather book from the floor near the hearth, the book that had plunged her into this situation. He turned it over to read the title. “The Lady of Ravenwood Castle.”

“My secret is revealed. I’m addicted to dreadfully romantic novels.”

He smiled as he handed her the book. “Your secret is safe with me.”

She held the book close against her chest, knowing she should leave. It wasn’t at all proper to remain alone in his company. Yet she wanted to linger, if just a few moments longer. “And what book is Ferndown using as a pillow?”

“A history of the reign of James the Second.” He shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “And now you know my secret. I enjoy stuffy tomes on history.”

“I also enjoy reading history.”

He looked surprised. “You do?”

“It provides a glimpse of another time and place. I recently read a book detailing all the reasons for the unrest in America.”

“By Thomas Harding?”

“Yes. Did you also read it?”

“I found it intriguing, particularly the bits about the spies in the King’s court.”

She studied him a moment, realizing he was one of the few men she had ever met who actually thought her interest in history and politics not at all strange for a lady. In fact he looked pleased. “Why did he ask if you were Devil or Saint?”

“I’m afraid our friends at Oxford contrived to saddle my brother and me with those peculiar epithets. Since we are twins and bear an uncanny likeness to one another, I suppose they felt it necessary to label us in some fashion.”

“I suspect you are not Devil?”

“No. I’m not.” He glanced down at the floor. “Since I would prefer not to propagate unduly high expectations, I shall introduce myself. Clayton Trevelyan, Earl Huntingdon.”

“Lady Marisa Grantham.” She offered her hand.

He took her bare hand and inclined his head in a bow, holding her no longer than propriety demanded. She had left her gloves along with her good sense in her chamber. His bare skin felt warm and firm against her hand, and just a bit rough. A delicate shimmer of heat whispered over her skin.

“It’s a pleasure,” he said softly.

“I suspect we would have met tomorrow under different circumstances. My father and your father are old friends. In fact we are headed for Chatswyck. Your father has invited us to stay for the summer. Father mentioned you and your brother might be visiting as well. Perhaps you have met my father, Edgar Grantham, Marquess Westbury. He and your father have often spent time at Father’s hunting lodge in Yorkshire. Perhaps you have had occasion to join them.”

“My brother and I spent a great deal of time away at school,” he said, his words barely rising above a soft rap on the door. “We seldom had the opportunity to—”

His words ended in a gasp as she threw her arm around his waist and spun him around until his back was to the door. “Lady Marisa?”

“Hide me,” she whispered. Behind him she heard the door open, the sound followed by a soft feminine gasp.

He stared at Marisa, as though she had just offered him a rather suspicious looking apple. “Hide you?”

“No one must see us like this,” Marisa whispered.

He flinched as though her meaning had suddenly pierced his befuddled brain. He glanced over his shoulder. Marisa peeked past his arm and saw a young serving maid standing just inside the room clutching a tray laden with someone’s supper.

He swallowed hard before he spoke. “I have changed my mind. You can take the tray back to the kitchen.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, milord.” The maid lowered her gaze to the man who lay snoring on the floor.

“My friend had too much to drink. We don’t require anything else. You may go now.”

The maid looked at him, sly understanding filling her expression. “Yes, milord,” she said, backing through the doorway. “I’ll make sure ye aren’t bothered.”

After the door closed, Marisa released her hold on him and stepped back. “Lud—I mean, my goodness, that was close. I certainly wouldn’t want to compromise you.”

Huntingdon looked bewildered. “Compromise me?”

“Alone with a lady who is dreadfully disheveled. Before either one of us knew what was happening, we would find ourselves engaged to be married to prevent a possible scandal.”

“I hadn’t thought of that possibility.”

“I had better go back to my chamber before anyone else decides to come in.”

“I should escort you back to your door to make certain you have no more misadventures this evening.”

“I don’t wish to put you to any trouble.” She backed away from him. “Thank you again, I really—”

Her words ended in a gasp as her foot collided with Ferndown. The book slipped from her hand. It plopped on Ferndown’s head, eliciting a low grumble from that quarter. She wobbled and tipped backward as her balance deserted her. Huntingdon grabbed her arms, catching her before she fell. She pitched forward, colliding with his chest.

She pressed her hands against his chest and looked up at him, instantly aware of the hard thrust of muscles against her palms, the warmth of him sliding around her. Suddenly it took a great deal of effort to form a sentence. “And now you will think me clumsy as well as brazen and hen-witted.”

“Not at all.”

In a distant part of her brain she knew she should step away from him. It was certainly the proper thing to do. Yet the intriguing aroma of citrus and herbs warmed by his skin curled around her, enticing her in the most unsettling fashion. She sensed a great deal of warmth simmered just beneath the surface of this shy young man, like flames glowing beneath ice, and that warmth beckoned her in ways she didn’t fully understand.

She felt drawn to him, like shards of iron drawn to a lodestone. A curious expression filled his eyes, as though he felt the same magnetic current she did, the invisible tether drawing one to the other. Thick black lashes swept down as he looked at her lips, his lips parting slightly. He wanted to kiss her. She knew it, felt it on a level that dipped below the polite surface of refinement into a pool of something far more primitive. The answering need within her shocked her. What might it be like to feel the soft brush of his lips against hers?

She was quite certain kissing young men she had only recently met was most definitely on the list of things she really should not do. If she didn’t break this web weaving around them, she would do something foolish and far too reckless. “I’m steady now.”

He flinched, as though he suddenly realized his improper behavior. He dropped his hands and stepped back from her. “I beg your pardon.” “There is no need, I assure you.” She retrieved her book and stepped around Ferndown, far too aware of every place her clothes brushed her skin. “Thank you again for coming to my rescue.”

“I shall see you safely to your room. At a discreet distance, of course.”

She stepped back toward the door. “You really don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“I would feel better knowing you were safe.”

“If you truly don’t mind, I would appreciate your company. I suppose you must stay at a discreet distance.”

“I think I must keep my distance.”

“You are right, of course.” After she made certain no one was in the hall, she slipped from the room.

Huntingdon followed her down the hall, up the stairs and down another hall, staying far enough back to avoid any suggestion of impropriety, yet close enough to come to her aid should she need it. She turned at the door to her chamber and lifted her hand. The light of a wall sconce near her door illuminated his shy smile before she slipped into the safety of her chamber.

“Lud!” Marisa leaned back against the door and cringed. She had made a complete fool of herself—running about like a hoyden—babbling like a fool. Still, Lord Huntingdon hadn’t appeared the least bit judgmental.

She hugged her book to her chest, astonished at her reaction to the man. She had never so much as allowed a gentleman the liberty of holding her hand. Tonight she had fought the insane desire to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. What the devil had gotten into her? What was this odd, agitated feeling inside of her? Why did she suddenly feel overly warm?

She twirled around the room and fell upon her bed. Light from the fire flickered on the ceiling, shadows entwining in a sultry dance. Suddenly it seemed morning couldn’t come quickly enough. Tomorrow she would see Huntingdon again. Oh yes, tomorrow couldn’t come quickly enough.