Free London's Last True Scoundrel by Christina Brooke Page B

you I will do my level best to seduce you. In the face of those warnings, your presence in my bedchamber is clear provocation. Don’t come near me if you don’t want me to put my hands on you.”
    Davenport sounded distinctly irritated now. He rearranged the bedclothes across his lap. Which of course drew her attention to that very area.
    “Ah,” she said, nodding wisely. “I see that you are like most men, grumpy as a bear with a sore head in the morning.”
    His jaw turned to granite. “My dear Miss deVere, I have an erection between my legs the approximate size and hardness of a flagpole. If you don’t want me to use it on you, go away.”
    For a moment, Hilary actually thought it was possible that her head might explode. She choked, gasped, turned, and scampered for the door.

 
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    A flagpole?
    A giggle rose up in Hilary’s throat as she put the finishing touches to breakfast. She rather wished she had someone with whom she could share that tidbit.
    Trixie would split her sides over it.… Hilary frowned. Where was Trixie? She should be down here by now.
    Davenport sauntered in, seemingly recovered from his bad temper. “Ah,” he said, sniffing the air appreciatively. “An Englishman’s breakfast. Food of the gods.”
    He strolled over to where she scrambled eggs in a skillet and stood behind her, peering over her shoulder. “You really can cook.”
    He sounded surprised. Of course, most ladies of her station did not know how to boil an egg.
    He did not touch her, but he stood close enough that she felt him, all the same. She was hot from the blaze of the kitchen fire, but her body temperature rose again now, several degrees. She even felt a little light-headed.
    “I—y-yes,” she stammered. “I learned from the cook at Miss Tollington’s.”
    He reached over to nick a piece of bacon and pop it in his mouth, brushing her arm as he did so.
    Hilary swallowed hard. It was all quite deliberate; she was sure of that.
    She kept thinking of flagpoles. Tall ones, straight and hard.
    No.
    “Take care; this is hot,” she warned. Hilary turned with the sizzling skillet in her hands, so he was obliged to make room or be scalded.
    She maneuvered past Davenport to slide the bacon onto their plates. Ordinarily, she would not have troubled to make such a breakfast for herself, but she wanted to fill her companion’s stomach so they wouldn’t have to stop too often for sustenance on the way to London.
    They sat down to bacon, toast, and scrambled eggs. “Not your usual fare, I don’t doubt,” she said. “But I gave you a large serving.”
    “Delicious,” he asserted. “Best breakfast I’ve ever tasted.”
    She doubted that, but he ate every morsel and accepted a second helping.
    Hilary felt absurdly pleased. It was only bacon and eggs, of course, but she enjoyed cooking and feeding people. Something most true ladies never turned their hands to, of course. Well, she wouldn’t have, either, but her brothers could never keep a decent cook for long. The choice had been to live on bread and cheese or learn to cook herself.
    Davenport was a sensual creature, she thought now, watching him savor the simple meal. The easy domesticity of this scene suddenly struck her as amusing. She and the scandalous Earl of Davenport, sitting down to breakfast at a kitchen table.
    Passing the last twenty-four hours under review, she marveled at what a transformation her life had undergone. All because of this man.
    “What were you doing yesterday, riding about the countryside in your evening clothes?” she asked. A question that had occurred to her many times, only to be supplanted by shock at his next outrageous exploit.
    He grimaced. “My cousins, bless them, thought I could benefit from some country air. They drugged me, bound me, and threw me in a farmer’s cart, then drove me out here and dumped me in a barn.”
    She gasped. “But that’s terrible. These cousins of yours sound like brutes.”
    “Oh,