Love and the Shameless Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 3) Read online

  “What do you suggest, Miss Daisy? Tea? By the way, allow me to introduce Sir Julian Kerr, a friend and fellow scholar. Sir Julian, Miss Warren.”

  Julian stood hurriedly and bowed.

  Daisy didn’t bother to curtsey. After another quick glare at Bennett, she put her nose in the air. “Delighted, I’m sure. Tea or coffee, suit yourself, just let Sally know.” Brusque to the point of rudeness, she stalked—still gracefully—back to the kitchen and slammed the door between the two rooms.

  What a pity. Despite her bad manners, she was still good to look at. “Who is she?” Julian asked again, reseating himself. “She seems to be a lady by birth, but if so, what’s she doing in an inn frequented by smugglers?”

  Mr. Bennett sighed. “Her name is Desdemona Warren, Daisy for short. She’s the sister of Colin Warren, who lives not far from here, and a cousin of Lord Garrison.”

  “Garrison,” Julian said. “I’ve met him . . . at Brooks’s? No, a couple of times at Tattersall’s, I think.” He took a bite of rock bun. “He doesn’t belong to any of the usual clubs. There was a scandal years ago, I believe, at which point he resigned his memberships and told the beau monde to go to hell.”

  “Something of the sort,” Bennett said.

  “I don’t believe I’m acquainted with her brother, but the name sounds familiar. Still, none of this explains why his sister—unmarried sister—resides in a disreputable inn.” He took a sip of ale and another bite of the rock bun. Miss Warren was correct. The flavors didn’t go well together.

  “Because when only eighteen years old, she seduced a smuggler, and is now persona non grata with people of her sort.”

  Julian choked. “She what?” When his fit of coughing finally subsided, he said, “Her brother turned her into the street, I suppose.”

  “No such thing,” Bennett said. “Warren would prefer to keep her safe at home, but she chose to leave because the local gentry will have nothing to do with her. Here we’re not so fussy. Warren gives her an allowance and lets her go her own road.”

  Julian tried to imagine permitting a sister of his such freedom, and couldn’t. “No decent brother could allow his sister to live in such a place.” He recalled something Bennett had said earlier. “If she needs a gun and a knife by her at all times . . .”

  “She doesn’t, but I believe she was fearful at first that every Tom, Dick, and Harry would think her fair game. Now it’s a safeguard, and if it makes her more comfortable, so be it.”

  The kitchen door banged open. Sally came through with a tray of tankards. Behind her in the kitchen, Miss Desdemona Warren swept the floor with brisk, vigorous strokes.

  Unbelievable.

  “Besides that, they’re all afraid of her brother, who is a crack shot and an excellent fencer, and most of them wouldn’t want such a termagant in any case.”

  Julian watched Daisy sweeping until she shut the door again. He still wondered what she looked like when she smiled.

  His eyes were indeed blue, just as she’d suspected.

  Why the devil had Mr. Bennett introduced them, Daisy wondered, as if she were still a lady? Admittedly, it was partly her fault—she’d been too preoccupied whilst tending to the dog and had forgotten to alter her accent, which had probably aroused the visitor’s curiosity—but Mr. Bennett knew full well that she preferred to keep her circumstances secret from strangers. She didn’t relish being gaped at like a freak at a fair.

  Although to be just, Sir Julian didn’t gape. He had a thoughtful sort of gaze that boded no good.

  No, most likely that was just her general distrust of the opposite sex, apart from her brother Colin, who’d been extremely patient and kind. Whatever Sally might choose to imagine, Sir Julian’s gaze probably indicated nothing but an alert mind, a quality she couldn’t deprecate, no matter how prejudiced she had become.

  He might just do as the hero of her next novel. All her books so far had done well, but The Lady’s Ruin had sold beyond all expectation. Any day now its sequel, The Lady’s Revenge, would be published. The dashing hero was based on a handsome Frenchman who’d frequented the Diving Duck on and off over the last year and more. The scion of an émigré family, Monsieur Bonaventure was typically dark and angular. The attractive, tidily dressed newcomer, his fairish hair touched with burnished copper, had an air of . . . calm competence and would do perfectly for the next story.

  The heroine? Oh, regardless of her size, shape, or hair color, the heroine was always Daisy herself. All her lustful longings, all her anger and indignation at the inequalities between women and men, as well as the certain knowledge that her fate was her own stupid fault, were poured into those stories.

  It didn’t change anything, but it felt good. Cathartic. She could get it out of her system over and over again, while thumbing her nose at society’s rules. Her heroines always took risks, invariably suffered misfortunes and betrayals, but hers were not cautionary tales. In the end, the heroine won the hero and a happily ever after.

  Just like a fairy tale, if a rather naughty sort. Needless to say, her identity was a secret between her and Mr. Doughty, the publisher.

  Daisy put the broom away, stoked up the fire in preparation for baking the bread, and made herself a pot of tea. Then she shooed the kitchen cat off the chair, sat at the deal table, and bit into one of the rock buns. Half an hour and it still wasn’t hard. Better than last time, but perhaps they needed more butter, another egg, juicier raisins . . .

  Below the notes she’d made of their latest attempt at rock buns, she added a shorthand description of Sir Julian Kerr from a lusty heroine’s point of view. The cookery book was an excellent excuse for the hours she spent alone in her chamber, the expensive candles she burned, and the copious amounts of paper and ink she used. Fortunately, the allowance Colin gave her more than covered these supplies, and she was beginning to accumulate quite a nest egg, thanks to the popularity of her novels.

  Sally had been going back and forth to the coffee room, but it didn’t matter anymore if she left the door open, for the newcomer was now playing darts and out of Daisy’s line of sight, which meant she was also safely out of his.

  The last thing Julian intended was to pursue the intriguing Miss Daisy. In the first place, ruined or not, she was a lady, and he was an honorable man with no intention of marrying. In the second place, he was here to become familiar to the locals, so that if the French émigré and his servant reappeared, they would have no reason to consider him out of place.

  He was a tolerable darts player, but not as adept as some of the locals. They would enjoy winning some of his money, which in turn would encourage friendliness and good will. Mr. Bennett, who was doing an excellent job of pretending to like him, rocked in a chair by the window and read a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

  Julian sympathized with the former smuggler’s dislike of informing for the government, but needs must in time of war. Julian divided his time between London and wherever the Home Office sent him. He played the role of a scholar and progressive thinker, attending philosophical meetings all over England, occasionally reporting someone who seemed to have crossed from radical thought to genuine sedition. He reminded himself regularly that he needed the money, but that didn’t make the work any more palatable.

  Mr. Bennett, on the other hand, stayed at home, read his books, and pottered in his garden. He had merely to alert the government of anyone whom he suspected of spying for France. He’d informed on a Frenchmen, Mr. Bonaventure, and his servant, who frequented the Diving Duck from time to time. He didn’t understand French well, but enough to guess that they were up to no good.

  Their very presence at this inn made that highly likely. Whether or not they were spies was another matter. Julian intended to find out.

  In the meantime, he played darts middling well and got mildly soused on ale.

  “D
aisy! Daisy!” One of the locals pounded the table with his empty tankard.

  Another joined in. “Aye, play for us, Daisy!”

  Julian raised his brows at Bennett, who returned the slightest shrug.

  Daisy opened the kitchen door and scowled at them, arms akimbo. “I’m busy, ye louts. Do you or don’t you want bread to eat?”

  “Aw, leave the baking to Sally,” said the one who’d called her first. “Play for us, love.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “I’m writing a recipe. I can’t play just now.” She rejected their pleas with a swing of the hips that would have done justice to any tavern slut.

  Julian wondered if perhaps he’d drunk too much ale.

  “Daisy! Daisy!” Soon they were all banging the tables with tankards and fists.

  Appalled, Julian felt himself darkening with rage. He caught the amused gaze of Mr. Bennett, who shook his head. “Leave them be.”

  Devil take him, he was as bad as the rest. Julian half stood, fists clenched. He would knock a few heads together, throw a few punches . . .

  A pair of firm hands pushed him into his chair again. Behind him, his fingers gripping Julian’s shoulders, Mr. Bennett called out, “Come, Miss Daisy, kindly grace us with your presence.”

  “Go,” Sally said from behind the kitchen door. “I’ll take care of the bloody bread.”

  Daisy muttered something unintelligible.

  “I’ll take it out when it’s done. I’ll write down how long it took.”

  “But—” Daisy began.

  “Coward,” Sally said in a stage whisper.

  Julian shoved Mr. Bennett off and leapt to his feet.

  “You’ll regret this, Sally.” Daisy stormed into the room.

  Pure humiliation.

  Daisy glowered at the drunken revelers. One would think she’d be accustomed by now, but no. She was used to playing for the smugglers. She even enjoyed it. Liked acting coy and mock-threatening Sally for teasing her. But to play and sing bawdy songs while Sir Julian Kerr watched . . . oh, the mortification was enough to make her ill.

  Which was absurd, as she didn’t give a hedgehog’s arse what the man thought of her. She’d been nowhere near as mortified in front of that Frenchman, Bonaventure, who often came to stay for a few days. Perhaps this was because Sir Julian knew she was a lady, whilst the Frenchman didn’t. Damn Mr. Bennett for introducing her properly.

  Sir Julian rose to his feet upon her entrance, a fearsome scowl on his handsome face.

  Oh, God, he probably thought she’d been insulted. Well, to hell with him. She didn’t need defending. She would show him just how low she had become.

  She sashayed over to the frightful old pianoforte. She had become quite accomplished at swaying her hips like a lightskirt. With a murmured apology for displacing it once again, she pushed the kitchen cat gently off the bench and sat down.

  Whoops and cheers greeted her. She ran her fingers up and down the keys and played the opening bars of “Watkin’s Ale,” which was the least bawdy song they might enjoy. It even had a moral, one that didn’t quite apply to her, as she luckily hadn’t become pregnant when she’d given in to her lust for a smuggler.

  She led them through all eight verses, glancing after three or four at Sir Julian. He was slouched in his chair, eyeing her with . . . what? Disbelief? Disgust?

  She’d give him something to truly disgust him. She didn’t always take requests, but tonight, why not? Most of the men were smugglers, many of them sailors, so their taste in songs was horrid.

  With a flourish, she played the final chords of “Watkin’s Ale.” “What next, boys? Tonight it’s your turn to choose.”

  They roared with approval and shouted their requests.

  Julian stared, both aroused and appalled. She was behaving like a common whore.

  No, perhaps not a common one. Most whores couldn’t play the pianoforte so very well. She had a pleasant singing voice, too, although after leading them through “Watkin’s Ale,” she merely played the accompaniment.

  Rightly so. Any decent woman, and many an indecent one, would balk at some of those lyrics. More than bawdy, they were downright vile, which was hardly surprising considering how many of the men were sailors. Good God, someone had even put a lewd poem by the Earl of Rochester to music.

  He watched Daisy’s face for some sign of mortification. None. She was extremely competent on the keyboard, hardly glancing at it as she moved from one key to another, one song to the next. The instrument was out of tune, but that didn’t seem to matter. She smirked and winked at the men, jested at their requests, glowered at Mr. Bennett, and avoided Julian’s eyes entirely.

  Did that mean she was embarrassed by his presence? Perhaps. Or perhaps because he was so strongly attracted to her, he was seeking redeeming qualities where there were none.

  In any event, it was his mission to fit in, so he clapped and cheered with the rest, even joining in when he knew the lyrics.

  At last, when they were all uproariously drunk on songs and ale, she played “Hush-a-Bye Baby.” They all laughed. Evidently a lullaby meant she was done. She ignored the few desultory pleas for more, curtsied lavishly, and was gone.

  Daisy grabbed her notebook, pen, and ink from the kitchen, snatched a slice of newly baked bread, and went upstairs without a word to Sally or anyone else.

  There. She’d degraded herself once again. It felt horrid, but it was a relief all the same. Since she could never prove herself to be good and worthy, she made a point of showing her worst possible side. She’d done a bang-up job of it tonight.

  Sir Julian’s gaze had burned into her the entire time. Was he likely to make an attempt to bed her? She didn’t think so. He’d seemed appalled, but men were strange creatures. She locked her door, then verified that her gun was loaded and set it beside her on the desk.

  One benefit of being bad: it gave her good ideas for her naughty heroines. Since she’d decided to use Sir Julian for the next hero, she would reproduce the very scene below—the bawdy songs, the brooding blue eyes . . .

  She wouldn’t call Sir Julian brooding, exactly. His gaze was more like a knife, sharp and cutting. In her case, any judgment Sir Julian made was bound to be wrong, not that she cared. If he dared come to her bedchamber, he would regret it.

  The fictional version of Sir Julian, on the other hand, would judge the heroine fairly. He would understand her instinctively. He would respect her. And bed her, of course, but that had to take place behind closed doors or no one would publish the book.

  Still, she didn’t mind that. The last thing she wanted was to try describing an experience she’d only had once and was doing her damnedest to forget.

  She wrote the scene, reveling in the realism of it, and the one that followed, where the fictional Sir Julian displayed both the intensity of his desire and the power of his self-control. That, of course, was pure imagination. No one disturbed her. The noise below subsided as the revelers trickled out and Sally and Ned, her brother, retired to bed. Daisy wrote well into the wee hours and slept late.

  What a pity Sir Julian of the thoughtful stare hadn’t tried to bed her. She would have taken great pleasure in refusing him. He came to the Diving Duck the following two evenings, once with Mr. Bennett and once without, but he seemed to have lost interest in her, thank God. She found out the next day that he’d left on another leg of his riding tour. Good riddance.

  A fortnight later, she copied what she’d written of the new book into shorthand, packed up the originals, ordered the gig, and drove the few miles to Warren Hollow, her brother’s house.

  A lonely place just now, as Colin and his family had gone to Ireland to inspect an orphanage and visit his wife Bridget’s Irish relations. A pity, as Daisy had become quite friendly with Bridget and actually felt welcome there. They’d tried t
o convince her to leave the Diving Duck and return home, but she’d refused. Bridget was good company, but the other ladies in the area would still shun her. Besides, she’d forgotten how to be ladylike and well-mannered. At the Diving Duck, they accepted her as she was.

  She secreted the manuscript pages in the strongbox she kept in her old bedchamber, still hers officially, although she rarely spent a night there. She always kept a copy of her current novel there for safekeeping. If someone broke into the strongbox to see what it held, she would know about it. So far, no one had. No one seemed to care. She didn’t know whether to be hurt or relieved.

  She went downstairs to where Snappish, her stallion, was saddled and ready, and set off on the long ride to Liverpool. All the mail from her publisher was delivered there. Did Colin know about it? If so, he’d never said so. Which was a good thing, she reminded herself.

  She spent several hours in town, first taking a solitary meal at an inn patronized by the gentry, then being fitted for two new gowns, buying some gloves and a hat, and pondering a fur cloak and muff for the winter. Everything would be delivered to her brother’s house in due course.

  At the receiving office, she found two letters waiting. One came from her publisher, and included payment and the information that The Lady’s Revenge would be published immediately. The initial orders, he wrote, were stupendous. She grinned at that. How could she not? She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the other and put it into her reticule for later. For now, she must hurry to the bank.

  It was then that she got a strong feeling of being watched.

  She stopped, turned, and looked about her. Carts, carriages, and pedestrians crammed the street. Curs and children dodged here and there, narrowly missing being kicked or crushed. In other words, the usual chaos of a busy town.