Defiant Angel by Stephanie Stevens Page A

grounds, it was rumored, were strewn with broken hearts.
    Women flocked to him, eager to enter his bed, for he was rumored to be an excellent lover. He was considered an excellent catch and was much sought after despite his questionable reputation. Which is precisely why Smedly thought it odd Mr. Barencourte would bother with Lady Courtland. He pushed his spectacles back up, shaking his bald pate. The man could have any woman he desired.
    As the carriage drew closer to its destination, Smedly pursed his lips wishing he had had the time to check further into Mr. Barencourte's mysterious ancestral beginnings. He had only gotten as far as the man being a formidable enemy, an expert in the use of firearms, and a skilled horseman. With an affirmative nod, he promised himself he would indeed find out exactly who this powerful man was.
    The carriage drew up and was opened by a liveried footman who placed a stepstool in front of the door, assisting Smedly in his descent.
    A stiff, aged butler admitted him, escorting him to the library, leaving him alone to view the room. Smedly's eyes fell to the paper-laden desk, giving evidence that the man ran his business from here. Shifting comfortably in the leather-back chair, he noted portraits of famous horses and priceless dueling pistols and rapiers decorating mahogany-paneled walls. He was disturbed from his observation by the opening of the door. He rose from his chair to look behind him. Striding purposefully across the room toward him, dressed casually in breeches and a cambric shirt, was Clinton Claremont Barencourte. Smedly rose to accept Clinton's extended hand, noting the young man's strong
    grip-
    "Bring us brandy and two glasses," Clinton called to the waiting butler. His piercing gray eyes returned to Smedly. "Have a seat, Mr. Doonesbury." Smedly did as requested, pulling his briefcase onto his lap.
    "You come highly recommended, Mr. Doonesbury. Let's hope you live up to your reputation."
    Smedly, fumbling with the catch on the briefcase, briefly wondered if he detected a threat in those words. Finally opening the catch, he withdrew his report, turning it over to Clinton.
    The butler returned and poured their libations. Smedly, for the first time, was able to take note of the man who sat casually on the edge of the desk, his leg swinging nonchalantly as he read the report. Smedly thought that mere words could never do justice to the man. He was uncommonly tall, at least six two. He was broad of shoulder, and the expanse of a hard, well-muscled chest strained against the fabric of his shirt.
    Smedly took another sip of his brandy, hearing the flip of pages and a deep laugh from Clinton.
    Mr. Barencourte was no indolent fop; his long legs were sheathed in bluff-colored breeches, advantageously displaying the broad sinews of his thighs, giving evidence to rigorous outside activity.
    A roar of laughter startled Smedly, causing him to stare wide-eyed. Smedly took note of Clinton's face. Breeding was apparent in the classic features--high, sculptured cheekbones, chiseled, strong jaw, and a straight partrician nose. Piercing smoky gray eyes were offset by dark brows which Smedly imagined could arch in humor or draw together in anger. Hair the color of rich roasted coffee fell to his collar in deep, thick waves.
    "Mr. Doonesbury." Clinton's voice broke the silence. "You have indeed met all my expectations."
    The smile that broke the handsome face, Smedly noted, was devastating. White even teeth flashed against the tanned skin. Smedly had no doubt women fell to their knees for this man. For his whole being emitted an aura of aggressive virility, uncompromising authority, and commanding presence.
    "Thank you, Mr. Barencourte."
    Refilling their glasses, Clinton asked, "The time allotted to you was short. Is there anything else I should be aware of?"
    Sipping his brandy and placing his glass carefully down, Smedly cleared his throat before beginning. "Well, sir, there is one matter not