Chapter One
Miss Sybil Atwood had seen many depictions of the devil amongst the literature in her father’s library. The master of the underworld was often drawn as a monstrous creature with horns, a forked tail and huge wings capable of scooping up a damsel and carrying her off to the infernal regions of hell.
And yet Mr Lucius Daventry possessed none of those qualities.
As their gazes locked across the crowded auction room, Sybil couldn’t help but notice the physical attributes that marked the gentleman as the most dangerous, most sinful man ever to make her acquaintance.
Like Lucifer, Mr Daventry’s strength came from his muscular physique, from his coal-black hair and penetrating stare. For her to feel the full force of his wrath, he did not need to rant and rave or charge from the dais at the far end of the room—the place where Atticus Atwood’s precious journals and scientific equipment were displayed in such a fashion as to attract the highest bidder. The firming of his sculpted jaw, the reprimanding arch of his brow, the clenched fists hanging at his sides created a volatile energy that he sent hurling her way.
Sybil swallowed past the lump in her throat.
Don’t let him know you’re intimidated.
Mr Daventry shook his head and appeared to mutter an obscenity.
The men occupying the rows of seats whispered amongst themselves and craned their necks to observe the person foolish enough to rouse the devil’s ire. Some took advantage of the delay to dip into their snuff boxes, and the musty air was suddenly filled with the scent of spice and ground tobacco.
“It seems you have the measure of Mr Daventry’s character,” her friend, Mrs Cassandra Cavanagh, muttered as they lingered in the doorway of the private room hired by the scoundrel to conduct his devious business. “We’re the only ladies here. Regardless of your connection, Mr Daventry would never sell your father’s possessions to a woman.”
No one had been more shocked than Sybil to discover her father had bequeathed his life’s work to a man as immoral as Lucius Daventry. No one had been more shocked to discover Atticus Atwood had parted with his treasured journals a week before his sudden demise. Most shocking of all was the fact that a parent with a logical brain had made a terrible miscalculation. Dissolute rogues cared nothing for science. Dissolute rogues were not interested in society’s advancement.
And Lucius Daventry was the epitome of dissolute.
“Mr Daventry believes women are incapable of understanding scholarly works.” Why else had he refused to extend her an invitation to the sale? What other reason could he have for being so rude and downright disagreeable?
Cassandra arched a brow. “Then Mr Daventry needs enlightening.”
Sybil agreed. “The rogue suggested I take up painting to ease my boredom. Something less taxing. Only those immune to bouts of sentimentality should concern themselves with intellectual matters. Apparently, marriage and children would serve as a better means to occupy my time.”
Cassandra snorted. “I assume he wasn’t offering his services.”
“I doubt Mr Daventry knows the first thing about art.”
“I meant as a husband, not a painting master.”
Sybil’s stomach flipped at the thought of sharing the infamous man’s bed. “Heavens, no. I imagine the rake quivers at the mere mention of matrimony.” Even so, taming a man like Lucius Daventry was a challenge far beyond the realms of her capabilities. “He made it quite clear I lack the wherewithal required to tempt him.”
In truth, he had been crude in his delivery, and took pleasure firing offensive remarks in Sybil’s direction.
“You must be mistaken. Mr Daventry finds you far from lacking in that department. Benedict said he spoke highly of your physical attributes.”
Sybil’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of the intimate conversation. “Mr Daventry finds it amusing to tease me. He must have known your husband would tell you.” Blood rushed to her cheeks when she stole a glance at the gentleman who roused lust in the breasts of women and fear in the hearts of men.