Davenport’s great aunt peeked up at him over the rim of her spectacles the following morning as she considered her next move on the chess board and absorbed this latest bit of gossip. “You’re not really going to consider it.”

Eleanor said it as a statement, not a question, because she knew him well. Well enough to know that the insipid Claire Cleveland would never be a fit wife for him. Not merely because she was so proper and respectable that the mere thought of her being paired with the Devil of Davenport was laughable, but because she was far too weak, too soft, too refined.

“No, of course not,” he said. He sighed with impatience as his great aunt took her sweet time studying her pieces on the board, most likely analyzing his future with the same critical eye.

It seemed everywhere he turned, his marital status—or lack thereof—was of interest to someone. In each case, said person would not be tied to a woman for the rest of his or her life so their opinion mattered little. Though he respected Eleanor immensely and, more importantly, he valued her contribution to the Earldom these past ten years after he’d taken over the title from his deceased father. She’d taken on the duties of a countess as his mother had died in the same carriage accident as his father, and he had been too young to marry.

And then he’d been too busy to marry, not to mention too unmotivated. His great aunt ran an efficient household and saw to all the other duties of a countess, and it wasn’t as though he required a bride’s dowry or title. So really, there had never been a need to marry. Besides, what single young gentleman actually wanted to be tied down by the noose of marriage? Not him, and not his friends.

Until recently, that was. Over the past few months matrimony had spread like a taffeta-covered epidemic among his peers. Most notably, his friends at the club. The Wicked Earls’ Club was a place of refuge—a sanctuary in London’s societal jungle. For years it had been the place he could escape to when the persistent mamas and their eager daughters grew to be too much. Most of the other earls at the club had felt the same until recently. One by one he’d watched them fall prey to title-seeking young ladies.

Now it seemed that he would be next, whether he liked it or not. Early yesterday morning when he’d been leaving the club after yet another debaucherous night within the club’s hallowed halls, his old friend Coventry had stopped him, asking for a chat. The Earl of Coventry ran the Wicked Earls’ Club and seemed to have a keen intuition when it came to his club members’ lives. The man was old enough to be his father and in many ways he’d been better than one—at least better than the one he’d been born to. Coventry, for all his secretive ways, seemed to truly care about him, unlike the man who’d raised him.

If nothing else, it was impossible to disappoint Coventry and the others as he’d long ago established himself as an ill-tempered rake. They neither expected nor demanded anything different.

Coventry had taken him aside and asked after Eleanor’s health. In doing so he’d managed to slip more than a few hints into the conversation that it was about time he wed. Cornered in his own club by a man he admired and reminded of his duties—it had been an unpleasant reminder of what he ought to do.

And then to come home to Anne, of all people, demanding that he take a wife. No, not just any wife. To take her sister as his wife.

He shook his head as he toyed with one of the white pawns he’d won from his great aunt. A full day had passed and yet he still marveled at her gall. It shouldn’t have surprised him, perhaps; her straightforwardness and her strong will had always been apparent. Yet it had been years since he’d seen her and Anne was no longer a willful child, but a grown woman.

A beautiful woman. That detail was impossible to ignore.

A beautiful woman who all but begged him to marry her sister. He shook his head again at her audacity as well as the impossibility of such a match. Whether he intended to or not, he’d surely run roughshod over poor Claire in their first week of marriage. His temperament was far too abrasive for someone like that, even if he did find her of interest. Which he did not. Though he’d teased Anne by pretending not to remember who she was, he’d honestly needed help remembering which sister was Claire.

Aside from Anne, all the other Cleveland girls had always blended together in his mind to form one pretty, yet utterly boring blonde. He still couldn’t quite picture Claire though his family’s country estate neighbored hers his entire life. In his defense, he hadn’t been back to the Davenport Estate in years, preferring the slightly less haunted surroundings of his London home, as well as the diverting pastimes and brotherly friendships that the club provided.

His great aunt finally made her move and he leaned forward, his attention turning to his rook and how to block her latest attack against his queen. His focus was so fixed on the game in front of him, he was nearly blindsided by Eleanor’s next statement.

“You do need to marry, Frederick. It’s well past time,” she said.

He scowled at the board. “Indeed.” Though he hated to do anything that would please the ton, the fact of the matter was—he was in need of a bride.

Purely for practical reasons, of course.

Though he’d spent a lifetime perfecting the image of the Devil of Davenport, he took his role as earl seriously. Not for society’s sake, but for his tenants’. As a peer he was incorrigible, as a landowner, on the other hand, he was as responsible as they came.

His property needed a countess, whether he liked it or not. His great aunt was getting too old to visit with tenants and ensure their comfort. While he and his steward dealt with the finances, Eleanor had managed the manor and other properties, making sure the staff was content, the housekeeping running smoothly, and the kitchen efficient and of the highest caliber.

But after her latest bout of illness, he’d had to face facts. Eleanor could no longer run his estates and mind his tenants, much as she might wish to, and he could never ask it of her. Her health was degrading with each passing month, and every doctor advised rest and relaxation.

Running several households hardly qualified as relaxation.

“What is the matter with this Claire woman?” Eleanor asked. Her grey eyes were identical to his and filled with mirth. “From the sounds of it, this Anne girl did a fine job of selling her.”

His lips curved up despite himself at the memory of Anne pleading her sister’s case. To Eleanor, he said, “What kind of proper young lady sends her younger sister to beg for an offer of marriage? Alone and unchaperoned, mind you.”

He shook his head, but he couldn’t seem to stop smiling at the memory. It was the first time in a long time that someone had surprised him and he was delighted. But delighted or not, he would have to disappoint her by rejecting her proffered sister. There was no other way around it.

A pang of something uncomfortably similar to guilt had him hesitating before finally moving his rook forward. He’d known that her brother had gotten into financial trouble after their father died—it was no secret in the gaming hells that Jed was drowning in debts. He was one of those unfathomable fellows who never seemed to know when to walk away. He and Jed had parted ways long ago, partly because they began to run with different circles, but also because he’d grown disgusted with Jed’s carelessness when it came to his family’s estate.

In particular, he’d grown tired of watching his childhood friend piss away his inheritance because he was too weak to say no—to another drink, a pretty face, or one more game of cards. Like Claire, Jed was weak. Soft. Malleable.

But not Anne. He was struck by another memory of her standing there before him, her posture stiff and her chin held high. Still just as willful and stubborn as ever. Still honest to a fault and startlingly straightforward.

She didn’t deserve to suffer for Jed’s faults. That was what made his gut churn with that unfamiliar, and quite unwanted, sensation of guilt. But that was ridiculous. Anne and her siblings were not his concern. Despite what she might remember from their childhood, he was not some knight in shining armor as she seemed to hope.

Once again he saw those eyes, looking at him as though certain that he would come to her aid. To her family’s aid. The churning guilt quickly made him feel irritable as he scowled at the chess board. He was the bloody Devil of Davenport, damn it. Hadn’t she heard?

Eleanor leaned back, having moved one of her pawns. “My guess is Claire had no notion that her younger sister had arrived on your doorstep pleading her case.”

He let out a sharp bark of laughter, his irritation ebbing as quickly as it had arisen at his aunt’s perceptive comment. “You’re probably right. No doubt Anne took it upon herself to save the family home.” He shook his head and muttered under his breath, “Little hellion.”

But she no longer resembled the young girl who’d taken to tagging along with him and Jed. She had the same red hair and the same soft blue eyes—but there was nothing girlish about her luscious body. Her features had gone from youthful and rounded to delicate and refined. She looked like a proper young lady—until she opened her mouth. And then he was reminded of the stubborn, headstrong girl he’d known. The one who’d been unafraid to speak her mind or laugh loudly at any joke.

She’d always been quick to laugh and even quicker to cry. Oh, not like other girls he’d known. She hadn’t mooned over boys or cried over a skinned knee. No, she’d been more prone to weep inconsolably over a bird that had fallen out of its tree or a rabbit swept up by a hawk.

His hand hovered over the board as another memory surfaced. A little redhead with impossibly kind eyes shedding tears because of the lashes on his back—a punishment for having missed a lesson in something or other.

His governess hadn’t tattled on him, but his father had found out anyway and taken it upon himself to “beat the devil out of the boy.”

As if that was possible.

“So? What’s wrong with her then?” Eleanor asked, interrupting his wretched memories.

He sighed. “Everything. According to Anne, she’s demure, accomplished—”

“And as boring as they come, no doubt,” Eleanor finished.

“Exactly.”

As always, Eleanor knew him well—probably because he took after her in more ways than one. Eleanor had been the black sheep in her family in her own right. It had been the family’s worst kept secret that she preferred the company of his mother’s governess above all others. The governess had gone on to be Aunt Eleanor’s companion until the day she died nearly ten years ago.

To society she had been a spinster—even worse, a spinster with a tainted reputation.

At least Davenport was a man, and a titled one at that. No matter how badly he behaved, he couldn’t seem to get himself ejected from society.

The Devil of Davenport was here to stay.

He’d born the “devil” moniker for as long as he could remember. At first it had been teasing. He could remember his father calling him a “little devil” when he was a small child. His mother would come to his defense back then, saying that he was just mischievous. And he supposed he wasn’t all that different from other rambunctious young children. It was just in comparison to his older brother Robert that he came up looking wicked.

For Robert, the heir, was kind and dutiful and obedient. Everything that Frederick was not. In addition to being a splendid heir and brilliant son, he’d also been a devoted brother, chasing after the wayward little boy whenever he got into trouble.

He’d been chasing after eight-year-old Frederick when the accident occurred. Frederick had refused to come inside even though thunderclouds were rolling in and Robert had gone running after him. Frederick remembered how proud he’d been when he’d lost his older brother by hiding in the old woodshed.

He didn’t know how long Robert continued to look for him. Long enough to get soaking wet and catch a cold which would lead to a fever, which left him dead days later.

Killing his older brother had not been his intention, obviously, but it had still been Frederick’s doing. At least, that was how his parents saw it. From that point on there was no amusement in his father’s voice when he called him “devil” and his mother no longer came to his defense.

Only Eleanor, his spinster great aunt, had been an ally. She’d understood when he’d embraced the “devil” nickname, in part to hurt his parents but also because there was truth in it. Intentional or not, he’d always had a knack for trouble—finding it, making it, and stirring it up.

Which was why it came as no surprise to his great aunt that the thought of marrying a simpering debutante with a spotless reputation sounded as appealing as eating gruel for the rest of his days.

He tapped a pawn against the edge of the table as his mind conjured an image of life with someone like that. He had a hazy picture in his mind of a pretty blonde with a kind smile.

The image did nothing for him, except perhaps fill him with a mild sense of guilt and shame. That was what life would be with a woman like that. He would continue to live his life as he pleased and she would be a victim of that selfishness. He’d find himself staring into softly accusatory eyes at the dinner table. He fought back a shudder at that thought. A lifetime of silent recriminations and pathetic martyrdom.

He was certain Anne was right and that she would make a wonderful countess, but he would have to watch her wilt and wither like a lily in winter.

No, thank you. He’d rather be stuck with a woman he despised than be responsible for the death of another innocent, literally or metaphorically.

Though, in an ideal world, he could find a woman he did not despise but who wouldn’t shrink in the face of a life beside the great devil himself.

“So it’s decided then?” Eleanor asked. “You will not marry Claire Cleveland?”

He opened his mouth to say no, he’d never marry her. But something made him hesitate. Regret ate at his guts. No, not regret. Guilt. He liked the Clevelands, he always had. All the Cleveland siblings had been good to him, as a child and as he’d grown older. As his closest neighbors, they’d become something of a staple in his life. The thought of them suffering with financial woes made him want to do something to help.

Knowing Jed, he would never take money outright, even if they were still friends. An anonymous donation, perhaps? Or maybe he could approach Jed with the offer of a loan. But to marry his sweet, meek sister?

That was not an option.

No, he couldn’t marry Claire.

But he did need a wife and it was time he stopped dallying over the issue and made a decision. He’d met every young woman the ton had to offer, it wasn’t as though there was a hidden gem locked in a tower somewhere.

He tapped the pawn once more before moving the piece to a new square.

All his marriage options were well known, it was just a matter of tallying up their traits and finding the woman who was the best match.

His wife needed to be strong, loyal, and dedicated.

He thought of Anne standing there in his drawing room, her jaw set and her eyes filled with earnest righteousness as she defended her sister’s honor.

His wife needed to be intelligent, rational, and perhaps most importantly, she had to be able to stand up to him.

He blinked off into the distance as he once again thought of Anne, meeting his gaze and giving as good as she got. Almost like an equal. A partner, even.

Damn. What was he thinking? Anne could never be his wife. She was too good, too pure, too innocent. If he was the Devil of Davenport then she was surely the closest thing to an angel this country had ever seen. Oh, she was no demure saint, nor was she the epitome of feminine gentility, as she’d described her sister to be. But she had a kindness about her, a genuine sweetness that deserved better than to be saddled with the likes of him.

But Anne is no longer the innocent young girl she once was, an insistent voice reminded him.

The idea had taken hold of his brain, and other parts of his body he’d rather not contemplate in the company of his elderly aunt.

She might have been pure, but she was a woman now. Surely she’d gained some life experience. He thought again of the strength in her eyes as she’d spoken to him, of the way she held herself with such dignity, despite his harsh language and poor manners in bringing up the rumors that plagued her family.

He leaned back, studying the pieces on the board before him but only seeing his current predicament. He needed a wife. The Clevelands needed a good marriage. Marrying Anne would solve the Clevelands’ money issues, just as surely as marrying her elder sister.

This was ludicrous. Was he really contemplating marrying Anne? Little Anne? He ran a hand through his hair, ignoring his great aunt’s inquiring gaze. He was confused, clearly. His brain was still addled from that bizarre interaction. After all, it wasn’t every day he returned home from his Wicked Earls’ Club to find a young lady waiting for him.

Well, not a young virgin, anyway.

He grinned at the chess board. But for a young virgin, Anne had been surprisingly… tempting. Not at all the waifish girl he remembered. At what point had little Anne become such a stunning young woman?

His great aunt’s voice cut into his wayward thoughts. “Surely you’re not seriously contemplating marrying that girl,” she said.

For a moment he thought Eleanor’s ability to read him had gone further than ever. She must have been reading his mind. But then he realized that he’d never answered her question, confirming that he was rejecting Claire Cleveland as a potential wife.

When he looked up, he saw her eyes filled with mirth. “My boy, what will become of the great and powerful Devil of Davenport if he marries a proper young lady?”

She was teasing him, he knew, but his aunt had a point. He’d worked long and hard to live down to his parents’ and society’s low expectations. He’d created a name that men feared and made women swoon. He’d made a new legacy out of the ashes of his good reputation.

There was no way he would ruin that all now by marrying a woman who made him respectable, of all things.

No, his wife needed to be strong, responsible, level-headed… and just scandalous enough to be the devil’s bride.

He saw an image of Anne, with her scandalous red hair. The way she’d responded with shock and then rueful amusement at his abrasive words. There was no proof that Anne was illegitimate and no one had ever dared challenge her father’s word. But there was doubt. There would always be doubt.

Little Anne, despite her good heart and her loyal spirit, would always be doubted. She’d struggle to find a decent match in the ton for the very reason she would make him the ideal wife.

She had a touch of scandal about her and always would.

His grin was slow and satisfied. His aunt muttered a little prayer under her breath as she caught sight of it. “What are you up to now, boy? Whatever it is, it cannot be good.”

He stood from the table quickly and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Nonsense, Aunt. I’ve just decided who I shall marry and there’s no time to waste.”

He didn’t pause to answer the questions she called out after him as he strode out of the room.