Heaven Sent the Wrong One Page 3

She lifted her chin to catch his attention.

  His gaze lowered, capturing her with those stunning, curly-lashed green eyes.

  She must be dreaming—or seeing things—because his delicious mouth curved up to partly reveal straight white teeth, bestowing her with a dimpled smile.

  Lord, could there be a man more charming than this specimen before her? Where was he when she was younger, when her idealism transformed her into a silly moon-eyed chit looking for love in a ballroom-full of midgets? Or when she was searching the ton for a gentleman who approximated the likeness of the man of her dreams—or when she was fantasizing about the existence of the dashing heroes in her books?

  Probably polishing his master's boots, a little voice whispered in her ear.

  Her face fell.

  Right. She forgot about that particular detail.

  Who would have thought that her fantasy hero would be buried in his master's wardrobe, brushing, cleaning, and folding clothes—hidden and forbidden from her aristocratic world? Nothing in his outward appearance indicated he belonged to the lower class. He was impeccably groomed; his skin smooth and clear, his nails clean, trimmed and polished, his jaw freshly shaven. His hair, though long, was fashionably cut and layered. He even smelled of expensive men's perfume with hints of cedar, sage, and mint.

  If not for his clothing and the valise in his hand, one would never guess his station. And if she was not mistaken, he most likely was the valet of the viscount's son.

  Botheration. Now, what? She could hardly fool around with a servant—she was a lady—it just wasn't done.

  Her disappointment must have manifested in her expression for the valet cleared his throat. "It is rather awkward to speak for another, is it not?" His dimpled smile deepened as he glanced sideways at the countess, who was prattling a monologue at Anna and Mr. Carlyle. "If I may be so bold to introduce myself," he inclined his head slightly, "my name is Andrew—Andrew Huntington. I am Mister Carlyle's valet."

  Ah, she thought so—though she couldn't help but notice the refined manner of his speech. He must have gone to the university at some point, perhaps the son of a decent family who must have fallen on hard times and was forced to withdraw from his studies. Not an impossibility. She heard of similar cases from other households and encountered a few such characters in the novels she read.

  She returned his amiable attitude nonetheless. "Yes, it is. Rather inconvenient, I must say. I am Anna. Anna . . ." her brows knitted and her gaze rolled upwards to the ceiling. What was Anna's last name anyway?

  Banana, the voice in her head whispered.

  "Banana," she added without hesitation.

  "Banana?" The dimpled angel lost his dimples.

  Fiddlesticks! Her eyes widened. Did she just say that out loud?

  "Well, er—," Mr. Huntington seemed to absorb her name with a marginally straight face. "That is—um, ah—, a very curious surname. But it is charming—" He appeared determined to either convince himself that it was—or look convincing for her sake, "it rhymes well and it sounds rather pathetic—I meant, poetic."

  "Thank you. I think." Alexandra wanted to kick herself. Of all the blasted names in the kingdom—why did she associate herself with the offensive exotic elongated fruit that reminded her of a man's phallus?

  Because you have been ogling at his phallus, the exasperating evil voice in her head answered.

  Well, yes—she was. But who could resist from gawking at his crotch? It certainly could not be ignored—its prominence was an awesome sight to behold. If one looked closely, it gave the impression that he was hiding something: a deadly weapon—a sword-length banana that he could whip out, brandish about and fence with!

  Oh ... she sighed, floating in a dreamland of high seas and treacherous waves buffeting her captors' ship. What she would give for him to bury his sword to the hilt in her shield ... She gazed longingly at the bulge in his breeches—imagining herself as a hostage, a medieval heroine, waiting to be rescued by her green-eyed pirate prince.

  The valise obstructed her view.

  "Miss Banana," the pirate angel uttered in a strangely strangled tone, clutching the wretched traveling case in front of him as if his life depended on it. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you been working for Lady Alexandra Davenport?"

  Oh dear. Alexandra's whimsical thoughts bounced back to the land of the living. Of course, Anna had worked for her since she was fifteen—that meant two decades, but it would not seem plausible on herself because of her age—which was five and twenty, and seven days. She was young compared to Anna.

  "Ten years," she thanked her stars for quick thinking.

  "Impressive," he nodded. "It is the same for me."

  Those simple words imparted Alexandra with a crucial epiphany. Why yes—both of them were servants. She was an Abigail to Anna—not the daughter of an earl—at least for the next fourteen days.

  Her lips twitched from the excitement of it all. She could dally with the angel and no one would know! Nothing would seem out of the ordinary either. She was a maid, and he, a valet. No discrepancy in rank to violate, no society decorum to emulate. They both belonged to the working class and were past the age of consent.

  Bath, indeed, had redeemed itself. Suddenly, it did not seem so dreary after all.

  "I see we have something in common," she fluttered her lashes and gave him a demure simper. A lot in common, in fact.

  He reciprocated with an intense green gaze and another dose of that mesmerizing dimpled smile.

  Bah! Was he flirting with her?

  Her heart leaped at the prospect—two weeks of paradise with her handsome pirate, her dashing hero, her sword-bearing, banana wielding masked crusader!

  And she did not give a fig if in reality he was a valet.

  Oh, no-no-no, the intrusive little voice in her head vehemently objected.

  She shushed it aside. At her age, she was officially on the shelf. What sort of man would care to dally with a spinster? Life is too short; time is of the essence. The chance of romance with an earthbound Olympian such as this one rarely comes along—even if it is only for the moment....

  She drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

  Should she believe in magic, follow her heart, and live for today?

  Her eyes alighted on the beautiful Angel, heaven sent.

  Oh, yes-yes-yes.

  Chapter 5

  The Maid and The Valet

  Day One

  Inside the Honourable Allayne Carlyle's lust-induced head, the clouds parted, light poured in, and a rainbow appeared with the banner that read, "She Wants Me,” arced in bold letters.

  Ah, things certainly looked promising. The way Miss Banana acted, coy and come-hither, could not signal a more unambiguous attempt to reconnect on a more intimate level.

  You lucky handsome devil, he gave himself a mental pat on the back. Who would have known he would become a valet and meet a maid luscious enough to bed?

  Andy discreetly tugged on his sleeve. "Sir," he whispered in his ear, "what do we do now?"

  Allayne tore his eyes away from the comely maid and saw that the countess had moved on to the next guests.

  "Flirt with the earl's daughter," he muttered under the guise of clearing his throat.

  "Flirt?" Andy immediately stiffened, a worried grimace on his face as he shook his head. "Oh no, Sir—"

  "Don’t tell me you don’t know how," Allayne bit out with a feigned cough.

  "N-no Sir, I don't. M-maybe I should just go home?" Andy flushed into an alarming pine tint and appeared ready to pass out.

  "For Christ's sake, get a hold of yourself!" Allayne rasped under his breath. The fool looked about to drop dead any second and their charade would be foiled before he even had the chance to peel Miss Banana out of her skirts!

  He cast a glance at the earl's daughter. Damn and blast—she looked as frightened as Andy was! Good thing Miss Banana had come to hold her hand and whisper something in her ear; otherwise, the silly chit would
have needed smelling salts.

  Allayne blew out a deep sigh. What to do... what to do... Oh well. No matter how embarrassing it might be, he must find out exactly what the deal was with Andy.

  "Andy," he nudged his elbow so he would get his full attention. "Tell me the truth—you're still a virgin, aren't you?"

  Andy stared at him in dismay, his mouth turning into an inverted crescent, seeming almost ready to cry.

  "I thought so," Allayne cursed to himself.

  Damnation! The man must be two and forty! As to how one could be celibate for that long, he could not even imagine. However, in the case of quiet, bashful Andy, perhaps his very nature had become a handicap. Well—he could not allow this disability to incapacitate Andy for the next two weeks, nor could he let it ruin their charade.

  "Alright, Andy," Allayne darted his eyes at the earl's daughter who was being consoled by Miss Banana. "Let me ask you this—what do you think of Lady Alexandra Davenport?"

  "Sir, I've never seen anyone more divine," Andy, gushed, before sinking back to his signature pale shade of green.

  "I see," Allayne observed the lady in question. Though her countenance was pleasant, giving one an impression of gentleness, she was plain and unremarkable. Her overlong dress draped about her in the most unflattering way and her eyeglasses were of no help in improving her comeliness either.

  Some kind of twisted miracle must have occurred while he was speaking with Miss Banana and had his back turned. Andy either had the moon in his eyes when he first gazed upon Lady Alexandra Davenport, or more accurately—had birds chirping and stars circling about his head.

  Allayne darted his eyes from one to the other. Lady Alexandra kept peeking beneath her lashes at Andy, and Andy was doing the same—except he was turning greener and greener.

  Aha. Now, he could most definitely see.

  "Andy," he whispered with a knowing smirk, "if you want to lose your virginity with Lady Alexandra over there—you need to learn from the master."

  "Sir?" Andy's brows shot to his forehead, visibly quivering in his boots. "What—"

  "Watch me," Allayne put the valise down and winked, before he walked over to where Lady Alexandra and Miss Banana stood.

  ~

  Alexandra had the feeling of impending doom.

  Anna would never make it. She would expire of anxiety and then her father would discover what she had been up to and have her neck.

  "Just relax and take deep breaths," she whispered in Anna's ear. "Mister Carlyle seems like a nice man—you do find him agreeable, do you not?"

  "Oh yes, Milady," Anna bobbed her head quite eagerly. "He's the finest gentleman I ever met."

  "So you do like him," Alexandra saw a ray of hope for the first time. Perhaps all Anna needed was a little bit of encouragement, some reassurance to boost her self-confidence.

  "Have you had a beau before?" She peered at her earnestly.

  "Oh, I never, Milady," Anna twisted her hands.

  "Not even a little courtship?"

  "No, Milady," Anna's cheeks flushed in embarrassment, making her look younger than her thirty five years.

  "Well then," Alexandra beamed in triumph—perhaps, she was onto something here. "If you wish for Mister Carlyle to notice you, you need to watch me and learn."

  "Milady?" Anna's eyes widened beneath her glasses. "B-but you've never had a beau before, either!"

  "Posh!" Alexandra snorted and rolled her eyes. "I don't need to. The novels I read have plenty of information on the subject. In fact, I even know what couples do under the sheets. Now, watch me," she chuckled at Anna's mortified expression and turned to go to Mr. Huntington so she could show Anna how to flirt.

  "Oh!" She exclaimed, as she ran into the subject of her mission, dropping her reticule in the process.

  Large hands steadied her on both arms. "Miss Banana—are you alright? I'm sorry, I should've—"

  "No, no—it's my fault. I should have paid attention to where I was going," Alexandra tilted her head to find her pirate angel assessing her with a concerned gaze. His hands slid down to her elbows, a warm and gentle caress.

  Her knees wobbled at his touch, but she disguised her discomposure by shuffling her feet.

  A crunch sounded beneath her slipper and she looked down.

  Her reticule! She had forgotten all about it.

  "Allow me," he bent down to retrieve it from the carpet.

  Riiippp!

  ~

  Shit. Allayne paused mid-bend. Was that what he thought it was?

  It must be, he realized in dismay as cool air brushed his posterior. The damned breeches had split in half!

  He abruptly straightened, shoving Miss Banana's reticule into her hands.

  Tack-tack, tack-tack!

  He glanced down in horror to see that his waist and flap buttons had popped out from his sudden movement, belatedly recalling that he had forgone his drawers to make himself fit into Andy's breeches.

  Allayne muttered a slew of profanities.

  Too bloody late.

  His long-suffering manly arsenal sprang like a wild creature from its cage.

  "Holy Mother of God," Miss Banana gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth, eyes glued to his exposed member.

  Disconcerted, Allayne held up the blighted breeches with one hand to keep them from falling and tugged on the front of his coat with the other to conceal his privates.

  But the damned thing proved predictably undersized and would not close.

  A louder-than-intended curse flew from his mouth, dominating the conversation in the drawing room.

  All heads turned in their direction.

  Fuck. Allayne blinked at length in the silence that ensued.

  "Is anything the matter?" The countess started a path towards them, followed by a retinue of curious elder guests.

  Bloody hell! Allayne glanced helplessly at Andy who was standing a few feet away—gaping, apparently having witnessed the disaster.

  The valise, Allayne mouthed to him, releasing his hold on his coat and frenziedly pointing at the traveling case by Andy's feet. He could at least hoist that in front of him to shield himself.

  Andy stared at him with big round eyes, lowered his gaze at the valise on the floor, and then lifted his head slowly to gape at the approaching mob.

  Allayne had an instant feeling of dread in his stomach.

  True enough; Andy colored into a lizard green, his eyes rolling in their sockets before he fell flat on his face on the thick Aubusson carpet.

  Allayne closed his eyes and slapped his hand on his forehead.

  "Hand me that throw!" Miss Banana's voice rang strong and clear over the ensuing pandemonium provoked by the collapse of the viscount's son.

  Allayne opened an eye to watch her gesture frantically at Lady Alexandra Davenport to surrender the small, fancy blanket draped over a nearby chair.

  The agitated lady, unfortunately, chose that moment to follow Andy's example—and fell into a dead swoon herself.

  Miss Banana uttered an oath that would put to shame all the Cockneys across the continent.

  The mob of matrons and elderly gentlemen advanced to Lady Alexandra's aid.

  Allayne met Miss Banana's eyes for a moment.

  An odd camaraderie flitted between them and Allayne knew—somehow—they were in this together.

  With a determined set in her mouth, ignoring the need to aid her mistress, she stood with her back before him, wrapped her skirts backwards about his hips, and successfully covered his nakedness.

  "Hold my skirt around you," she ordered in a firm voice that did not encourage further questioning.

  Allayne was speechless. Good God, Miss Banana was surely made of sterner stuff. She took charge of the situation like a cavalry officer and now, she stood with her back against him, bravely facing the perplexed crowd.

  Allayne could not remember a single instance in his life where he took an order from a female other than his mother, but somehow, with this one, he felt inclined to
do as he was told.

  An elderly gentleman elbowed his way through the throng of guests to the front.

  To his consternation, Allayne recognized him as hard-of-hearing Lord Bhramby, an ancient pillar of the ton.

  Lord, he shook his head in resignation, how could everything be roses and promises one minute, and then the next—a calamity on the brink of becoming unleashed?

  "What do you have there, gel?" Lord Bhramby raised a quizzing glass at Miss Banana, then went on to examine her skirts before lifting his glass to study Allayne.

  "Don't I know you from somewhere?" His bushy eyebrows knitted.

  "I shan't think so, my lord," Allayne gulped. Lord, please don't let old Bhramby recall the last time they met. "I am but a mere valet."

  "My lord, Mister Huntington had a little accident," Miss Banana interjected, redirecting the conversation with effectual calmness.

  Lord Bhramby was about to answer when the countess rushed towards them, her gaze instantly alighting to their rather compromising position. "What is the meaning of this?" Her face reflected her befuddlement.

  "The gel said Mister Huntington here, caught a rodent," Lord Bhramby volunteered without a qualm.

  "A rodent?" The countess exclaimed in chagrin, a hand flitting to her titanic bosom. "In my home?"

  "Yes—it's trapped in her skirt," Lord Bhramby stuck his head between Miss Banana's back and Allayne, and peered down through his quizzing glass, seeming to deliberate the rodent's fate.

  "A rodent?" A lady from the crowd cried.

  "Ah yes," Lord Bhramby nodded at the object of interest. "That is a monstrous rodent, alright."

  Allayne felt a trickle of sweat slide down his brow. God knows it wasn't a rodent Lord Bhramby was looking at.

  "A rodent! A rodent!" The words reverberated in the drawing room, swiftly spreading amongst the matrons.

  In a matter of seconds, all hell broke loose as the ladies stampeded to the double doors, their frail husbands in their wake.

  "Well, that certainly got rid of 'em," Lord Bhramby let out a hoarse guffaw in the deserted room where only the three of them and the two unconscious dimwits remained.

  Miss Banana's shoulders sagged.