A Wicked Reputation (Once Wicked)

by Liana Lefey

  It was all an act, of course. For the most part, the hands that appeared to be all over her were in fact hovering a scant inch or so above her silk-clad form. René grasped her waist once to turn her around to face him so he could lean her back against Harrow and “kiss” her in a manner that hid her face from view. When he was done, Harrow swept her up into his arms and, followed by their “lusty” guest, proceeded upstairs to her bedchamber. There, before her unveiled windows, they slowly undressed her down to her chemise. As René worked at loosening her corset, Harrow divested himself of his jacket and sauntered to the window to draw the curtains shut, thus ending “the show.”

  As soon as he locked the door and they were safe from prying eyes, Diana waved the gentlemen off. Grinning, they slipped through another door connecting her bedchamber to the special one adjoining it, one built specifically without any windows. Harrow had decorated it all in black silk and had filled it with an array of items dedicated to love play. The servants all assumed the room had been designed for her, of course, but in truth the only time she’d been inside it had been the day she’d taken up residence here.

  Undressing herself the rest of the way, Diana drew on her wrapper and set about unpinning her hair. The temptation to go and peek through her drapes to see if there were any silhouettes in the windows of the house behind hers was almost overwhelming. Throughout the entire farce, she’d felt as if eyes were watching her, but had no way of knowing. It was nerve-wracking. She and Harrow had been convincing enough that their own staff thought them passionate lovers, but never before had they attempted to fool outside eyes in so audacious a manner.

  Diana hoped they’d had an audience in her meddlesome neighbor. For all she knew, more than one person might have been watching their faux ménage à trois, which was all to the good if it made grist for the gossip mill. If no one had seen the illusion, however, it had been a wasted effort.

  Picking up the book she’d been reading earlier, she tried to ignore the occasional soft groan that bled through the wall separating her chamber from the one hosting the lovers. Harrow and René always tried to be discreet on her behalf, but passion was seldom quiet. Such things had shocked her in the beginning, but no longer.

  Though she remained innocent in the strictest physical sense, Diana had acquired an astonishing amount of sexual knowledge during her two years with Harrow. It had been a necessity. She couldn’t pretend carnal knowledge without at least knowing what the act might entail—in various configurations.

  Suppressing a chuckle, she reflected that, despite being a virgin, she likely knew more about bed sport than most married women. If she ever did have a wedding night, she’d have to feign gross ignorance. I wonder if even Blackthorn, with his black reputation, knows as much as I?

  And just like that, heat rushed into her face and made the tips of her ears prickle. That she should have such a thought after concocting this elaborate ruse for the sole purpose of throwing him off the scent told her just how dangerous he was. Still, if she had to guess, she imagined he knew quite a lot, and from experience rather than dry lecture. Harrow, bless him, had told her all the particulars, but it had been a purely clinical instruction.

  Instruction with words is a far cry from the sort of instruction Blackthorn would likely give…

  The faint noises that occasionally filtered through the wall suddenly had an entirely different effect on her. She found herself uncomfortably warm as she wondered if Blackthorn would muffle his groans or unabashedly howl his pleasure. And would her utterances be anything at all like what she’d voiced without any feeling for the benefit of eavesdropping servants?

  Stop this. Stop it at once!

  Too low to be heard outside her door, she began to softly hum to herself to drown out any other sounds. Harrow would doubtless laugh and call her a prude over such a reaction—if she ever chose to tell him about it, that is. Which she wouldn’t. Ever.

  The lady may be removed from her raising, but the raising can never be removed from the lady. That’s what Blackthorn had said to her only yesterday. She would never reconcile her raising with…this. Or with these thoughts of Blackthorn that kept resurfacing despite all efforts to the contrary.

  Diana tossed and turned in her huge bed long after all grew quiet and the lamps were put out. Over and over, she reviewed her interactions with Blackthorn, searching for something that would make him less appealing. It was a study in futility.

  …

  On unsteady legs, Lucas walked away from his window in a state of both shock and undeniable arousal. Palming the stiffness between his legs to ease his discomfort, he put down the opera glasses he’d taken to carrying with him ever since what he’d dubbed “the Shakespearian farce” had been enacted, and sank into his favorite chair before the hearth. His gaze lingered on the glowing coals, the only light in the room, as he contemplated what he’d just seen.

  He’d thought himself uninhibited. He’d even fancied himself a hedonist. But after just witnessing an exhibition fit for the Hellfire Club, he now revised those self-designated labels. He was in no way prepared to accept the reality that Diana, who’d seemed far too wholesome for such an occupation, was in truth utterly debauched. Indeed, the lady had clearly enjoyed being the object of lust for both Harrow and his guest.

  As for Harrow, despite Lucas’s earlier assessment, he had no choice but to admit he’d been wrong about the fellow. The man was a libertine and must have one hell of a penchant for voyeurism to allow anyone else to touch Diana, because heaven knew if she were his, he’d never let another man lay so much as a finger on her and live to tell the tale.

  A ragged chuckle escaped him, its soft mockery competing against the fire’s crackle. Friends. She’d told him Harrow was her friend as well as her lover. She’d also named his wife a friend. It now occurred to him that perhaps the other rumor Westie had spoken of was true, too, and Lady Diana was lover to both the gentleman and his wife.

  Her relationship with Harrow might be lacking in passion—although what he’d just seen certainly challenged that assumption—but her outrage toward Lucas when he’d suggested she might one day replace Harrow’s current wife had been too swift and genuine to be false. Her loyalty to that lady was strong enough to be called love.

  But is it that kind of love? He supposed he’d have to see them together to form an opinion. Westie did say the pair shopped and took tea together…

  A bark of laughter burst from his throat at the very idea of spying on his neighbor when she was out shopping with another man’s wife to determine whether or not they were lovers—in order to decide if she could be persuaded into his bed! The knowledge he’d gained tonight had lessened his interest in Diana not one bit. If anything, it only made her more fascinating.

  Unfortunately, Lucas wasn’t into sharing. Which raised another question: Is she? Did Diana do it to indulge her own desires or only to satisfy those of her protector? If she was being coerced, she hid her dislike well.

  Another thought hit him. They’d be coming to his picnic the day after tomorrow. He’d have to look them both in the face and act like he hadn’t just seen…that. His eyes narrowed in the dark as he replayed it in his mind. Now that his arousal had abated, his thoughts were clearer.

  What exactly had he seen? Touches. A few kisses. Diana nearly naked.

  Nearly naked. The curtains had been drawn before she’d been deprived of all modesty.

  Why?

  His suspicious mind homed in on the question. Why had Harrow drawn the curtains just before the lady was rendered completely nude? Why would a man who was wicked enough to have his mistress participate in threesomes with other men care at that point about them being seen? Especially when his reputation for such depravity was established. Especially in the midst of what ought to have been a moment of lustful abandon. Instead, he’d calmly tossed his jacket over a chair and walked across the room to close the drapes.

  Just as in a play, when the curtain is lowered to allow for a set change.<
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  Stinging heat swept across Lucas’s skin in a great wave, gooseflesh rising immediately in its wake.

  It was staged! The whole bloody tableau had been quite deliberately set up for someone’s viewing pleasure, and he had a good idea who that someone was. Certainty thrummed in his veins, and with it, a sense of triumph. He’d wager that the scene behind those curtains was nowhere near as debauched as his lovely neighbor would have him believe.

  Again, the question begged: why? Why the effort to make everyone believe they were so immoral? What were she and Harrow hiding behind their wicked reputations?

  Of course, he could be wrong. About all of it. But again, certainty settled in the back of his mind. Rarely had his instincts led him astray, and he vowed to trust them now. A grim smile creased his lips. He was going to figure out Lady Diana Haversham—or die trying.

  By the following evening, London’s tattler columns had run amok with a witness account describing “Lord H’s” latest erotic escapade with his mistress, confirming Lucas’s belief that more eyes than his had borne witness to their little act. Unfortunately, from the visual perspective of the tale, it appeared said witness hailed from among his own staff.

  Though offended one of his servants had to have been the culprit, Lucas could hardly blame them for it. There was good money to be had in trading information concerning members of the upper crust. As long as the servant kept their mouth shut concerning his activities, he could not grudge them the extra coin. After all, his neighbor had put on quite a show.

  With the breaking news, preparations for his picnic had surpassed material concerns; mental agility would be required to safely navigate social waters in the wake of the storm. Thankfully, his was to be a small gathering. Westie would be there, of course, and Lucas knew he could count on his closest friend for support. The other attendees might not like being in the company of people who’d been the subject of such lurid gossip, but Westie, the only one he’d warned, was doubtless salivating over the prospect.

  This was the thought that rose to the fore of Lucas’s mind the following morning as he strolled out onto the broad terrace overlooking the gardens. Inhaling deeply, he grinned at the certainty that Westie would be the first of his guests to arrive that afternoon.

  Gazing out over the wall separating his and Lady Diana’s properties, Lucas saw his neighbor’s windows were open to take advantage of the fresh air. The sound of a pianoforte and a sweet, high voice accompanying it drifted through those on the east-facing corner of the house—her drawing room.

  Moving down the terrace as far as he could, he strained to see in, but his view was partially blocked by a potted tree. A curse on his lips, he wedged himself between it and the wall, crouching down so as not to be seen. First checking to be sure he was adequately concealed, he once more brought out the opera glasses.

  Heat crept up from his collar to warm his face and make his scalp prickle as he unfolded them. If anyone sees me like this, I’ll be the laughingstock of London. Shame was a hot coal in the pit of his stomach, yet he didn’t stop. He knew he was behaving like the worst sort of busybody, but damn it all, his curiosity would not be repressed.

  Peering across the divide from his new vantage point, he could see about half the room’s interior. There sat the infamous lady of the house at her instrument, fingers flying over the keys, voice lifted in song. Such was her skill at playing that he forgot for a moment to do anything but enjoy the piece.

  Then movement caught his eye, and he watched her music teacher breeze into view. After a few minutes spent playing under his approving gaze, Diana stopped and scooted over to allow him to sit beside her—close beside her, Lucas noticed. His nimble fingers then joined hers as, together, they played the same song again. A moment later, the man’s rich tenor rose alongside her clear soprano, adding a complementary counter melody.

  Something dark twisted in Lucas’s gut as he watched her throw her head back in open-mouthed laughter when they finished the rollicking piece. It eased only after she relinquished the instrument to the man and moved to a nearby chair beside the window to read while he continued playing.

  Clearly, this wasn’t a music lesson. Her fingers had lingered on the fellow’s shoulder far too long as she’d risen, and her manner with him wasn’t that of a student with a teacher, but rather that of someone much more familiar.

  Why would someone as accomplished as she require an instructor to begin with? Lucas added the question to his ever-growing list.

  A mistress with a passionless protector to whom she was unswervingly loyal. A sham show of carnality clearly meant to shock and distract any observer. A music instructor for a pupil who was, if his ears had told him no lies, equally as skilled as her supposed teacher.

  What is she, really?

  So deep was he amid his own thoughts that he almost missed it when the music came to an abrupt halt. Squinting through the glasses, he saw another visitor had arrived: Harrow, presumably to fetch her for the picnic, though it was still several hours off. Oddly, Diana didn’t deign to stir from her chair to greet her protector. In fact, she only looked up from her book for the briefest moment in acknowledgment of his arrival.

  The music teacher’s reaction, however, was quite different.

  Lucas’s jaw went slack as the man practically leaped up from his seat at the pianoforte to greet Harrow with…a kiss. And it was no dispassionate kiss upon the cheeks, as between longstanding friends, but rather the hungry clashing of mouths reserved for desperate lovers.

  “Blood-y hell,” Lucas muttered to himself, drawing out each syllable as Harrow’s long arms wrapped around the smaller man’s shoulders and clasped him tight in an embrace that would make one think they’d been parted for years—rather than mere hours.

  The epiphany brought with it an invigorating rush of elation. It had to be! He’d wager his inheritance that the gentleman “friend” who’d “shared” Diana’s favors the other night was none other than her music teacher in disguise. The height is about right, the build…

  Lucas’s face stretched with a grin of pure delight. Ha! Now I know your secret, madam charlatan! Diana was no man’s mistress after all. The clever actress had only fooled all of London into thinking it in order to hide her protector’s romantic involvement with another man!

  His smile grew smug as he watched the lady at last put down her book and rise. Going to the men, who were now talking animatedly, she embraced first one and then the other with almost familial affection. Then, as she was conversing with Harrow, Lucas saw the musician’s hand absently drift down to the small of her back and remain there, gently massaging in small circles as he listened to the other two talk.

  When she looked at him, Lucas saw her face in profile, and it was alight with a soft-eyed, adoring smile. Reaching around his waist, she then returned his affectionate gesture with a side hug and leaned her head on his shoulder.

  The ebullience of a moment ago disintegrated in an instant, the fire of his delight turning into cold ashes. Part of him wanted to believe it was another ruse, but reason told him that since her drawing room wasn’t within direct line of sight of his house, it couldn’t be. Desperate, he searched for any clue the three might know they were being watched, but found none. The angles were all wrong, and there was nothing about their positions that smacked of playing to an audience.

  Which could mean only one thing: Diana was part of a love triangle. Lucas sat back on his heels, numb. Harrow and Diana both loved the musician. The musician loved both of them. She and Harrow were friends, seemingly content to share in their lover’s divided affections. That she should be involved in such a convoluted relationship baffled him entirely.

  What sort of female mind could make peace with such an arrangement? Every woman he’d ever known was the jealous sort. The instant her man’s attention wandered in the slightest, the green-eyed monster turned her into a vengeful lunatic. Some women even grew envious of their man’s friendships with other men—the platonic sort. If he
had to wed, and he would at some point, he wanted to marry someone like her, someone who wouldn’t drive him to Bedlam over petty jealousies.

  Determination filled him. Oh, he’d get to know his neighbor; he’d get to know her very well. He might be surprised at her apparent lack of inhibition and morality, but the attraction he felt remained undiminished. He’d sate it, if allowed, and while doing so seek his answers. There must be other women like her. He just needed to know what to look for.

  Rising from his crouch, he stretched protesting muscles and pocketed the opera glasses. There would be no more spying. It wasn’t necessary anymore, now that he knew the truth. With one final glance over his shoulder at his intriguing neighbor’s house, he went back inside to attend to preparations.

  Chapter Eight

  Diana knew the instant their eyes met that something had changed. Blackthorn’s speculative gaze all but impaled her as he offered her a friendly greeting at their shared garden gate. She barely contained a satisfied grin. Oh, yes. He’d seen! He’d seen exactly what they’d wanted him to see.

  It was a small gathering, as promised, for which she was thankful. Aside from a few curious, sidelong glances cast her way, however, there were no untoward interactions. In fact, most of her fellow guests appeared to go out of their way to be friendly toward her.

  Notoriety was a kind of celebrity in itself, it seemed.

  She made a point of talking to Westing, whose pleasure in her company was a balm. They spoke of many things, few of which, if asked, she’d remember thanks to Blackthorn’s rather obvious preoccupation with her. His eyes followed her everywhere.