Still, she could not stay her vanity from smoothing down her gown and being dismayed upon discovering a stain. She tried to rub it out.
“Miss Merrill.”
Her head snapped up to see the Earl of Blythe standing before her, as immaculately dressed as ever in his high polished Hessians, trim cutaway coat with brass buttons and starched cravat.
“Your lordship,” Heloise returned as blandly as she could, attempting not to be unnerved by the manner in which his gaze bored into her as she bobbed a curtsy.
Silence settled between them as he took her in. Heloise pulled at the fingers of her gloves. It was he who had called upon her. Why did he not speak? Afraid that he would unearth her true feelings, she kept her eyes averted and waited unsuccessfully for him to begin the dialogue. When he did not, she was tempted to ask him if he had come all this way simply to stare at her.
“You have a purpose for your visit, Lord Blythe?” she relented at last.
He eyed her carefully. “Indeed.”
The man was insufferable. He was not making this easy for her.
“My cousin is not here,” she informed him, tossing her gloves into a basket with her gardening tools. She was determined that he would not know the pain she had felt when he had left the château with only the slightest by-your-leave. Nor would he know the anger she felt—anger that now fueled her nerves when a part of her wanted only to flee from him that she might shed her tears in solitude.
“I came not for her.”
Of course she knew that. Her uncle had said as much. Nonetheless, and though she knew not the purpose of his call, she felt gratified to hear from his own lips that he was here for her, no matter his purpose.
“Then why did you come?” she ventured.
“Our farewell at the château was unsatisfactory,” he answered, his voice dark.
Ah. She had suspected he had more compassion than he had shown.
“I found it decent enough,” she lied and even managed a small smile at him. Her response seemed to unsettle him, but her triumph was diminished by the wretchedness she felt. She wished he would leave so that she might properly grieve over a romance that lived only in her imagination, berate herself for having been such a dolt, and return to being the sensible young woman her uncle had praised but moments ago. A sensible and wiser woman.
He narrowed his eyes. “It was an abrupt adieu.”
“It was.” She considered as she picked up her basket, proud that she maintained her composure, but she did not trust it to last much longer. “But pray do not trouble yourself on that.”
She turned to leave but he grasped her wrist. Her heart hammered violently at his touch.
“Trouble myself?” he said in a near growl. “I have only slept fitfully these last seven nights since leaving you.”
For the first time she noticed the darkness beneath his eyes. Had he as strong a conscience as that? Despite her anger at him, her heart ached for his distress.
When he did not release her, she glanced toward the house to see if her uncle might be watching. He would not approve of such familiarity from the earl. Realizing the same, Lord Blythe dropped her wrist—reluctantly, it seemed.
“It were my own fault,” he said. “It was not a proper farewell.”
Though his jaw was still tight, the look in his eyes had softened. She faltered and could not stop her voice from quavering as she asked, “What…what would you have considered a proper farewell, my lord?”
His gaze made the space about them intimate without his having to stir. His response was low and husky. “Something I dare not do at present, for I would not cause a scandal in your uncle’s garden.”
She stared at him with her mouth agape. Groaning, he glanced toward the house, then defiantly stepped toward her, placed his finger beneath her chin as he had done that night in the theater, and closed her mouth.
“Your lips will be the death of me, Miss Merrill,” he murmured.
The hammering of her heart moved up into her head, making it difficult for her to think. His touch recalled their night of passion, and her body thrilled to it instantly. In his eyes, she now beheld a smoldering agony. Did she dare hope…?
“My lips?”
“Yes. The vision of which has haunted me day and night.”
She closed her eyes and heard his words echo in her head. Haunted me day and night. Just as he had haunted her thoughts and dreams. The anguish melted from her and with it her calm.
A breeze wafted around them, blowing the scent of the flowers into the air.
As if encouraged by the look in her eyes when she opened them, Sebastian continued, “I came, Miss Merrill, to inform your uncle of my intentions to court you.”
Dumbfounded, she could only stare at him. The words he had uttered sounded almost ludicrous. Court her?
“I intend the courtship to bear all the markings of respectability,” he assured her, unsettled by her silence, “though, damn me, it will be no easy feat when my body burns with desire for you.”
Her mouth fell open again. If her heart could glow, she would be brighter than a beacon. She recovered from the audacity of his statement. “Respectability from you, Lord Blythe?”
“It took me seven days to realize that I have no choice but to attempt respectability if I ever hope to possess you in my arms once more. You deserve no less. But I give you fair warning—you know me for what I am, Miss Merrill.”
“I do not think I do,” she returned. “I thought our affair confined to the château. Your departure made that quite clear, I think.”
“I was appalled,” he explained, “that you might be discovered in a compromising situation.”
She flushed. “You may recall, sir, that you have not the honor of having been the first.”
A muscle rippled along his jaw. “I will not discuss the particulars of that. I thought that you would wake with remorse for what had happened betwixt us and that you would be relieved for me to be gone.”
“Yet here you are,” she pointed out.
“Yes, here am I, for it is the nature of the male sex to pursue, against all odds, until he has been bludgeoned and all recourse dissolved. I want you, Miss Merrill, more than I have ever wanted most other women. If the nature of such feelings should be love, I will not spurn it.”
She contemplated what he said, her gaze raking over him, saying nothing. She felt mastery of the situation, for he had made clear his feelings but she had yet to reveal hers. He was staring at her as if she were prey he meant to devour. Desire lighted his eyes, and the look made her loins warm and a familiar wetness begin to form. But she continued playing the coquette through her silence for well he deserved it.
“You disappointed me, Lord Blythe,” she said at last.
His brows rose.
“I had hoped to stay the full three nights at Lady Follet’s,” she finished.
He beamed.
“As for respectability…” she continued, her eyes bright as she leaned toward him, “that sounds rather boring.”
He groaned. “Miss Merrill, you would make a further rake of me.”
“There is a part of the garden hidden from all view,” she whispered with a sly smile.
“I could not, Miss Merrill,” he said after some hesitation. “I may be a rake, but you will not find it so easy to question my resolve as you had. I will be a gentleman.”
Not for long, she thought to herself. She had no qualms about seducing him. But she gave him her brightest smile and took the arm he offered to escort her back to the house.
“How unfortunate,” she replied lightly, using his words. “Perhaps that can be changed.”
The Earl of Blythe grinned. “My dear Miss Merrill, you are a perfect rake.”
THAT WICKED HARLOT
CHAPTER ONE
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN wrapped in the arms of Radcliff M. Barrington, the fourth Baron Broadmoor, sighed into a wide smile as she nestled her body between his nakedness and the bed sheets. Gazing down at Lady Penel
ope Robbins, his mistress of nearly a twelvemonth, Broadmoor allowed her a moment to indulge in the afterglow of her third orgasm though he had yet to satisfy his own hardened arousal. He brushed his lips against her brow and happened to glance toward the corner of her bed chamber, where a man’s waistcoat was draped over the back of a chair. He did not recognize it as his own. The fineness of the garment suggested that neither did it belong to one of her male servants.
Penelope was entertaining another lover, he concluded even as she murmured compliments regarding his skills as a lover. The realization came as no surprise to him. Indeed, he had suspected for some time. What surprised him was that he cared not overmuch. Nor had he the faintest curiosity as to who her other lover might be. He wondered, idly rather than seriously, why he continued to seek her company. Or she his. They had very little in common. He knew that from the start and yet had allowed her to seduce him into her bed.
He was possessed of enough breeding, wealth, and countenance to be able to command any number of women as his mistress. With black hair that waved above an ample brow and softened the square lines of his jaw, charcoal eyes that sparkled despite the dark hue, and an impeccable posture that made him taller than most of his peers, Broadmoor presented an impressive appearance. He had no shortage of women setting their caps at him. A number of his friends kept dancers or opera singers, but he had never been partial to breaking the hearts of those young things. In contrast, Penelope was a seasoned widow and had little expectation of him, having been married once before to a wealthy but vastly older baronet, and scorning a return to that institution, preferred instead to indulge in the freedoms of widowhood.
Pulling the sheets off her, he decided it was his turn to spend. She purred her approval when he covered her slender body with his muscular one. Angling his hips, he prepared to thrust himself into her when a shrill and familiar voice pierced his ears.
“I care not that he is indisposed! If the Baron is here, I will speak to him!”
The voice was imperial. Haughty. Broadmoor recognized it in an instant.
Penelope’s eyes flew open. “Surely that is not your aunt I hear?”
His aunt, Lady Anne Barrington, was not wont to visit him in his own home at Grosvenor Square, let alone that of his mistress. He knew Anne found him cold, heartless, and arrogant. He had a dreadful habit of refusing to encourage her histrionics, and in the role of the indulgent nephew, he was a miserable failure.
“Let us pretend we do not hear her,” Penelope added, wrapping her arms about him.
It would be easier to silence a skewered pig, Broadmoor thought to himself.
A timid but anxious knock sounded at the door.
“What is it?” Penelope snapped at the maid who entered and apologized profusely for the interruption, informing them that a most insistent woman waited in the drawing room and had threatened, if she was not attended to with the utmost haste, to take herself up the stairs in search of his lordship herself.
“I fear there is no immediate escape,” Broadmoor said, kissing the frown on his mistress’ brow before donning his shirt and pants and wrapping a robe about himself. “But I shall return.”
Before descending the stairs, he took a moment for his arousal to settle.
Whatever had compelled his aunt to come to the home of his mistress had better be of damned importance.
“Anne. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” he asked of his uncle’s wife when he strode into the room.
He discerned Anne to be in quite a state of disconcertion for she only sported two long strands of pearls—far fewer than the five or so he was accustomed to seeing upon her. Her pale pink gown did not suit her complexion and made her pallor all the more grey in his eyes.
“Radcliff! Praise the heavens I have found you!” she cried upon seeing him.
He refrained from raising an inquisitive brow. Undaunted by the lack of response from her nephew, Anne continued, “We are undone, Radcliff! Undone! Ruined!”
His first thought was of her daughter, Juliana, who recently had had her come-out last Season. Had the girl run off to Gretna Green with some irascible young blood? He would not hesitate to give chase, but Juliana had always impressed him as a sensible young woman with an agreeable disposition—despite whom she had for a mother.
“I can scarce breathe with the thought!” Anne bemoaned. “And you know my nerves to be fragile! Oh, the treachery of it all!”
She began to pace the room while furiously waving the fan she clutched in her hand.
“I could never show my face after this,” she continued. “How fortunate your uncle is not alive to bear witness to the most disgraceful ruin ever to befall a Barrington! Though I would that he had not left me to bear the burden all alone. The strain that has been put upon me—who else, I ask, has had to suffer not only the loss of her husband and now this—this unspeakable disgrace? I have no wish to speak ill of your uncle, but now I think it selfish of him to have gone off to the Continent with Wellington when he knew he would be put in harm’s way. And for what end? What end?”
Broadmoor did not reveal his suspicions that his uncle had taken himself to the Continent as much as a means to relieve himself from being hen-pecked by his wife as for military glory. Instead, he walked over to the sideboard to pour her a glass of ratafia in the hopes that it would calm the incessant fluttering of her fan.
“And what is the nature of this ruin?” he prompted.
“The worst imaginable!” Anne emphasized in response to his complacent tenor. “Never in my life could I have conceived such misfortune! And to think we must suffer at her hands. That—that unspeakable wench. That wicked harlot.”
So it was the son and not the daughter, Broadmoor thought to himself. He should have expected it would be Edward, who was four years Juliana’s senior but who possessed four fewer years to her maturity.
“You cannot conceive what torment I have endured these past days! And I have had no one, not a soul, to comfort me,” Anne lamented, bypassing the ratafia as she worried the floor beneath her feet.
“The engagement to Miss Trindle has been called off?” Broadmoor guessed, slightly relieved for he did not think Edward up to the task of matrimony, even with the dowry of Miss Trindle serving as a handsome incentive. But it displeased him that Edward had not changed his ways.
“Heavens, no! Though it may well happen when the Trindles hear how we have been undone! Oh, but it is the fault of that devil-woman! My poor Edward, to have fallen victim to such a villainous lot.”
Broadmoor suppressed a yawn.
“No greater ruin has ever befallen a Barrington,” Anne added, sensing her nephew did not share her distress.
“Madam, my hostess awaits my attention,” he informed her, looking towards the stairs.
Anne burned red as she remembered where she was. “As this was a calamity—yes, a calamity—of the highest order, I could not wait. If your uncle were here, there would have been no need…well, perhaps. His disquiet could often worsen my state. But your presence, Radcliff, affords me hope. I have nowhere else to turn. And you were always quite sensible. I wish that you would learn Edward your ways. You were his trustee and have fifteen more years of wisdom than he. You might take him under your wing.”
He raised an eyebrow at the suggestion. “Edward came of age last year when he turned twenty-one. He is master of his own fortune and free to ruin himself as he sees fit.”
“How can you speak so?”
“I have intervened once already in Edward’s life and have no wish to make a practice of it,” Broadmoor replied coolly.
“But…”
He placed the ratafia in her hand before she sank into the nearest sofa, bereft of words in a rare moment for Anne Barrington.
“But that darkie is a hundred times worse than her sister!” Anne said upon rallying herself. “Oh, are we never to rid ourselves of this cursed family and their treachery?”
Broadmoor watched in dismay as she set down her glass and
began agitating her fan before her as if it alone could save her from a fainting spell. He went to pour himself a glass of brandy, his hopes of a short visit waning.
“What will become of us?” Anne moaned. “What will become of Juliana? I had hopes that she would make a match this year! Did you know that the banns might be read for Miss Helen next month and she has not nearly the countenance that Juliana has!”
“What could Edward have done to place Juliana’s matrimonial prospects in jeopardy?” he asked. “Juliana has breeding and beauty and one of the most desirable assets a young woman could have: an inheritance of fifty thousand pounds.”
His aunt gave an indignant gasp. Her mouth opened to utter a retort or to comment on her nephew’s insensitivity but thought better of it.
“But what are we to do without Brayten?” she asked with such despondency that Broadmoor almost felt sorry for her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The thought overwhelms me. Indeed, I can scarcely speak, the nature of it is so dreadful...”
He refrained from pointing out the irony in her statement.
“Edward has lost Brayten.”
It was Broadmoor’s turn to be rendered speechless, but he quickly collected himself and said in a dark voice. “Lost Brayten? Are you sure of this?”
“When I think of the care and attention I lavished upon him—and to be repaid in such a fashion! To be undone in such a manner. And by that wretched harlot. What sort of odious person would prey upon an innocent boy like Edward?”
“Edward is far from innocent,” he informed her wryly, “but how is it he could have lost Brayten?”
The boy was reckless, Broadmoor knew, but Brayten was the sole source of income for Edward. The estate had been in the Barrington family for generations and boasted an impressive house in addition to its extensive lands. Surely the boy could not have been so careless as to jeopardize his livelihood.
“It is that witch, that hussy and devil-woman. They say she works magic with the cards. Witchcraft, I say!”
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