How to Steal a Scoundrel's Heart (The Mating Habits of Scoundrels #4)(7)

Prue’s grip on the frayed leather strap loosened at the surprisingly harsh, gravelly tone. He sounded nothing like the bored, overindulged aristocrat she’d met yesterday. In fact, he almost sounded . . . concerned.

She dismissed the foolish notion at once. There was no reason that her circumstances should trouble him. Not only were they strangers, but a rake of his reputed caliber was hardly renowned amongst the ton for his chivalry. Oh yes, she’d heard of him. And a man who kept a constant parade of paramours on his arm, then discarded them with ease, was hardly likely to care about the trials and tribulations of the female population.

Even so, she noted the tight cording of his throat above the crisp edge of his cravat, the furrows of tension in the superfine wool over broad shoulders, and the jagged vein rising beneath the flesh of his clenched fists. He seemed to be waiting for her response.

“Only my toes from where I kicked him rather soundly,” she said. “I believe that is how I broke one of the soles of my half boots.”

Lord Savage issued a curt nod. “Good. I’m certain he deserved it.”

Hmm. Could it be that some scoundrels had a line they would not cross?

She blinked at him with open curiosity as he raked a hand through his hair, slicking it back away from his forehead. On any other man, features on full display without relief, would likely look too austere or even unattractive with any potential flaws front and center—like a weak chin, a Neolithic brow, or even an asymmetrical pair of nostrils.

But not this man. As far as she could see, he had no flaws. Every angle was faultlessly chiseled, from the perfect slope of his brow to the uncompromising edge of his jawline. Even his mouth was the ideal shape. Any more flesh and it would have been too broad. Any less and . . .

She shook her head, not understanding why she’d let her thoughts drift in that manner. It mattered nothing to her that he was inhumanly attractive and broad-shouldered. She still despised all men and refused to be tempted into furthering an acquaintance with one.

As if reading her mind, Lord Savage pointed up to the sky. “Doubtless, you’ve noticed the imposing activity in the clouds. I’m afraid it will only get worse from here. Therefore, I gladly offer the use of my carriage.”

She frowned and leveled him with a glare of warning. “At what cost, my lord?”

“None at all,” he said blandly. “I consider it bad form to take advantage of soggy debutantes. No need to break another sole on my account.”

She scoffed. In her experience, displays of benevolence left the door open to an abuse of power over the recipient. “I do not take charity.”

“I’d presumed as much,” he said, expelling a patient breath. “Therefore, what say you to an even exchange—an undisturbed ride into London for a few hours of your conversation to release me from the monotony of my own thoughts?”

Her gaze slid from him to the carriage. An unexpected tremor of yearning leached from the soles of her aching feet and traveled up through her entire skeleton, leaving her enervated to the very marrow.

Her pride and sense of self-preservation wavered.

“It’s a new landau,” he added with the quiet enticement that the devil likely used when whispering in one’s ear. “Well sprung. Velvet upholstery. Pillowy tufted benches.”

Aunt and Uncle Thorley would have sniffed with disdain over such an extravagance. They disapproved of indulgence in any form and hadn’t so much as draped a horse blanket over the wooden bench in their own curricle.

Prue, on the other hand, imagined it would feel lovely to sit on something soft. The past year had been hardbacked chairs, hardwood floors and hard pillows. Even her mattress had been stuffed with stiff, horsehair ticking. She’d forgotten what velvet was like.

“I’m covered in filth,” she said, her excuse as threadbare as her soaked stockings.

Those vivid green eyes scanned her in shrewd appraisal and he clucked his tongue. “Ah. So you are. Can’t have that. Well, best of luck to you . . .”

Then he turned and began to walk away. Which was fine with her because she didn’t need anyone.

And yet . . .

It occurred to her that she was likely thinking too much of her own charms. Renowned rogue though he may be, she was hardly irresistible, especially in her current travel-worn state with tangled hair, eyes purplish and puffy from exhaustion and a drenched cloak that smelled of . . . Well, she’d rather not think about that.

Lord Savage could have any woman he wanted, and likely did quite often. So it was ridiculous to imagine that he would want her. Not to mention, it was Lady Chastaine who’d suggested that Prue could be his next in line, not he.

“I’m an excellent conversationalist,” she called out to his retreating form, the words spilling out before she could pull them back.

But they stopped him, nonetheless. “As you have proven with the two dozen words spoken since the beginning of our acquaintance. I’ve been positively riveted.”

“I suppose . . . a fair trade would be a ride to London.”

“It would, indeed.” Without facing her, he proffered his arm and waited.

Garnering her courage, she drew in a deep breath. Then she went to him, slipping her hand in the crook of his elbow as if he were leading her to a ballroom floor instead of the uncertain confines of the carriage.

As they reached the door, he hesitated and glanced down at her in shrewd appraisal. “Much as I enjoy the robust aroma of a stable yard on a rainy morning, perhaps you would prefer to leave your cloak with my driver?”