The Devil Himself
TheMetropolitan Review’sprinting office hummed with activity even at this late hour, the massive press clanking rhythmically as Amelia traced her finger beneath the lines of her latest editorial. “‘While Lord Byron’s poetic merits cannot be disputed, one must question the posthumous deification of a man whose moral compass pointed decidedly hellward.’ Yes, that should do nicely,” she murmured, making a small mark with her pencil.
WHOOSH. BANG!
The back door crashed open with such force that she jumped. Charles Eldem Bartholomew Hereford, the Marquess of Hereford, practically fell through the doorway, his dark hair wild and chest heaving beneath a half-unbuttoned shirt that had clearly begun the day in a much finer state.
“Pardon the intrusion,” he gasped, those aristocratic features looking rakish and apologetic at once. His eyes darted around the cramped room, searching for cover.
The sound of approaching footsteps and angry shouting from the alley revealed his predicament. The marquess dove behind the printing press where Amelia had been standing, moving with remarkable speed for someone who’d clearly been drinking.
“I say,” he whispered urgently, gripping her skirts, “be a dear and pretend I’m not here.”
Amelia looked down at his hand tangled in her dress. “My lord, Iassure you my skirts are not public property, regardless of your extensive experience with others that are.”
He had the audacity to grin up at her. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, Miss Thornton.”
Just then, the back door burst open once more. A gentleman of middle years stood there, face puce with rage, brandishing a silver-tipped walking stick. “Where is he?” he demanded, chest heaving with exertion. “That libertine! That scoundrel!”
The man began searching behind the machines and under the tables, leaving the staff frozen in their stations.
Amelia casually adjusted the paper feed tray, extending it several inches outward so it pressed uncomfortably against the marquess’ shoulder, forcing him to contort his tall frame into an even more cramped position. The libertine’s eyes narrowed at her.
Becoming frustrated, the pursuer started walking in Amelia’s direction, shouting, “Where is he? I know he came this way!”
Amelia reached for loose type, casually scattering the metal letters on the scoundrel himself, creating a trap of noise-making hazards. The Marquess of Hereford, in the meantime, uttered silent threats using language that Amelia was certain would have his marchioness mother washing his mouth with soap.
“Sir,” she called to the man while holding Hereford’s gaze, “what does this scoundrel look like?”
The pursuer stopped to look under a desk as he said, “He looks like the devil himself! Charming as a man can be but has no qualms about compromising the innocent.”
Amelia glared down at the marquess, who was vehemently protesting by shaking his head. Shaking her head in response, Amelia stepped to the side. “Sir, you’ll find your quarry attempting to hide behind this machine. Though I would request that if you plan to commit murder, you do so away from the printing press.”
The hidden man popped up, his mouth agape. “That’s hardlysporting of you, Miss Thornton!”
The gentleman lunged forward, his walking stick whistling through the air as Hereford ducked with impressive agility.
“I may have been more generous had you not hidden in the lady’s wash closet at the Duchess of Lancaster’s wedding,” she exclaimed as the marquess vaulted over the table with surprising grace, scattering her carefully arranged papers. “How many innocent women must you ruin?”
“They were hardly innocent!” he shouted indignantly while being chased around the room by the man with the cane. “I do not dally with ladies of less than five and”—he paused to duck under a table—“twenty!”
“They can still be innocent!” Amelia called after him.
“You have only your character to blame!” he called over his shoulder as he fled toward the front door. “Do mind the leading on that editorial!”
The older gentleman cursed, following his quarry out the door in what was obviously a futile pursuit.
Once the building was devoid of both men, Amelia noticed the scent of Hereford’s cologne lingering in the air—something expensive and masculine that made her think of crystal decanters and leatherbound books. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his hands on her skirts.
Despite her irritation, she couldn’t help but recall how he had looked in that disheveled state—his fine lawn shirt gaping open to reveal a glimpse of tanned skin and well-defined muscle. Those striking blue eyes had fairly glowed with mischief as he had grinned up at her from his hiding place, dark hair falling to his shoulders and across his forehead in a way that made her fingers itch to brush it back.
What would it be like, she wondered, to be the object of such focused charm? To have those clever hands moving with purpose rather than desperation? At six and twenty, she was well past the agewhere such thoughts should make her blush, and yet…
“Don’t be a fool,” she muttered to herself, heading back to the office where Elisha was carefully crafting her review. She’d seen exactly what became of women who fell under the marquess’ spell. How many crying ladies had she consoled at literary functions?
Besides, she’d seen the way his lip curled ever so slightly when addressing those he considered beneath him. The way his eyes would slide past her at Hyde Park as though she were just another weed in the garden. No doubt he saw her limp as just another mark against her, assuming he’d even noticed it at all.
A commoner. An invalid. A bluestocking who dared to critique his peers.
