Heaven Sent the Wrong One Read Online Free

surnames in England, why did he use Huntington—the first thing that materialized in his brain—and not some common name like Smith or White? Huntington was hardly fit for a valet when the name connotes an ancient legacy dating back to the Norman Conquest—not to mention the fact that it commands recognition in the upper echelons of society.
    "Yes, my lady," he inclined his head and tipped t he corners of his mouth just enough for the elusive dimples on his cheeks to show. They have served him well—used sparingly as secret weapons to charm the ladies into forgetting everything else. "Andrew Huntington, at your service."
    "I'm sure I will be ple ased to summon your services," the countess assessed him up and down with a meaningful smile, her gaze lingering at the bulge between his legs.
    Christ. Allayne swallowed the expletive gurgling in his throat. He had always thought that men were the only ones capable of leering at the opposite sex. Obviously, he was mistaken. His new position as a mere servant naturally made him more susceptible to blatant innuendos of a carnal nature.
    A sudden urge to clamp his legs and cover himself brewed at the back of hi s mind. Damnation—the woman must be older than his mother!
    He made a quick bow and elbowed Andy to proceed to the drawing room where the other guests awaited their hostess. God help him, but the overly tight breeches rubbed him the wrong way. He had to for ego his drawers just to squeeze himself in Andy's damned breeches. Now, his docile rod had risen partly like a cat, purring against the friction of the fabric in his crotch.
    Allayne gritted his teeth and brushed the wayward direction of his thoughts as the y strolled into the drawing room. He must remember to have the local tailor sent to his rooms at once so he could order breeches of the correct size—or he would end up walking around with a half-baked erection, hounded by a gaggle of randy matrons.
    "Go and introduce yourself to the other guests," he whispered to Andy, as they positioned themselves near the fireplace mantle.
    "Me?" Andy literally cowered in fear.
    "Yes, you—you idiot!" Allayne rasped, surveying the roomful of elderly guests lounging on the sofas and every available chair. "It's highly peculiar for a servant—that's me, to socialize in exalted company."
    "Oh, no, Sir, please don ’t leave me here—besides you told the countess I couldn't speak," Andy looked dreadfully induced to cry.
    Allayne rolled h is eyes heavenward and inwardly reproached himself for his actions. He did make it known that poor Mr. Allayne Carlyle was bereft of speech.
    "Very well," he grudgingly gave in, "but tomorrow, you are going to make a miraculous recovery. Either that or you can continue to be a pantomime—which is ill advised to pursue, especially without me."
    "A-and where will you be, Sir?" Andy sputtered, genuinely petrified.
    "I shall be about town searching for more stimulating amusements," Allayne grinned at the prospect. Bath was beginning to sound not too bad at all. "After you," he gestured for Andy to precede him.
    Andy swept a worried glance about the room.
    But before the two of them could begin circulating, the countess entered, accompanied by the last arrival and her maid.
    Allayne followed the trio with his eyes as the countess introduced the lady to her guests. Indubitably, judging from her age which must be somewhere between three and thirty or five and thirty, she must be the Earl of Weston's daughter.
    Splendid. Allayne twisted his lips in disgust. His mother had matched him with a spinster older than himself.
    He frowned at the ill-fitting, overly long gown she wore —though it evidently exuded fine quality. She had brown hair, gathered in a simple bun that reminded him of a stern governess. She wore spectacles and walked a little too closely to her maid.
    Allayne thanked the Gods above. The caper he pulled must be the smartest thing he'd done. He did not have an ounce of regret —especially