Notorious Pleasures

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  But in the meantime, he had other duties to attend to. This morning he was to escort Mater to the shops to pick out a settee or sideboard or some other frippery. Why she had to do her shopping so blasted early in the morning he wasn’t sure, but she’d been quite adamant about the time.

  He nodded to the butler as he entered. “Where’s my brother?”

  “The marquess is in the crimson sitting room,” the butler intoned.

  Griffin began striding in that direction. “I’ll just show myself in.”

  “He has a guest, my lord.”

  Griffin turned, still backing toward the sitting room. “Who?”

  “My Lady Hero.”

  Griffin paused. Hero had been very quiet yesterday as she’d left him. He’d hoped that her silence meant she was rethinking marriage to him, but surely she wouldn’t say anything to Thomas without—

  A shout came from the sitting room.

  Griffin pivoted and ran toward the sound. A crash came and then another shout.

  He flung open the door as the shout coalesced into a single screamed word. “Whore!”

  Thomas was standing, shoulders hunched, face bloodred, over something on the floor. The place where he glared was concealed by the settee. Griffin felt his blood turn to sharp, stabbing ice in the second it took him to cross the room and look over the settee.

  She was alive. That much he saw and comprehended. She lay in a pool of emerald green skirts but she was alive.

  Then his attention was drawn to the red mark on the side of her beautiful face.

  It was in the shape of a man’s hand.

  Roaring filled his head, white and complete, drowning out sound, sight, and reason. He took Thomas low, his shoulder slamming into his brother’s belly. Thomas staggered back, hitting a chair, and they both went over, chair and all. Thomas swung a fist, and Griffin took it on the shoulder, not even feeling the blow.

  Not feeling anything but murderous rage.

  He lowered his head and beat, fists balled, teeth clenched, the roaring in his ears loud and total. He saw only Thomas’s bloody face, his brother’s mouth moving, saying something, perhaps pleading, and Griffin’s heart swelled with gleeful rage.

  He’d touched her. He’d hurt her. And for that he deserved to walk upon crippled legs.

  Someone pounded on his back, but he didn’t pay attention. Not until Hero shouted in his ear. “Griffin, stop!”

  He became aware, slowly it seemed, of people in the room. Of an ache in his shoulder and, strangely, his jaw. He glanced up and saw Mater’s face.

  She was crying.

  His arms fell to his side, and he stared at her, his chest heaving.

  “Oh, Griffin,” she said, and he wanted to weep as well. To howl his shame and sorrow.

  He looked down and saw Thomas lying between his knees, trying to staunch the blood flowing from his nose with one hand. Over his hand, his brother’s blue eyes glittered with rage and an answering shame.

  “Griffin,” Hero said, her hand on his shoulder as light as a bird’s, and finally he turned to look at her.

  Tears sparkled in her eyes, and one side of her face was reddened and beginning to swell. The sight enraged him all over again, but this time he didn’t glance at his brother. Instead he reached for her face, his hands bloody and trembling.

  He cradled her with his bruised hands. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

  He rose and tried to take her into his arms, to somehow try and make right this bloody, awful mess.

  But she shook her head, backing away. “Don’t.”

  “Hero,” he pleaded, and his vision blurred. “Please.”

  “No.” Her hand rose, delicate and pale, to halt him. “No, I can’t… just don’t.”

  And she turned and fled the room.

  Griffin looked around. The butler, a footman, and several maids were standing about gawking while his mother’s frail shoulders shook.

  “Get out, the lot of you,” he barked to the servants.

  They fled silently.

  He took Mater into his arms, feeling the fragile bones of her shoulder blades. “I’m so sorry. I’m a beast.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “What has happened?”

  “Griffin seduced my fiancée,” Thomas said indistinctly through swelling lips. He still lay on the floor. “He couldn’t keep his hands off her any more than he could keep his hands off poor Anne.”

  “Griffin?” Mater looked at him, her eyes bewildered, and it nearly broke his heart.

  “Shut up, Thomas,” he growled.

  “How dare you—”

  Griffin turned his head slowly and glared at his brother silently, his upper lip lifting in a threat so primal, even Thomas understood. “You’ll not talk of this. You’ll not insinuate. You’ll not even speak her name—do you understand?”

  “I—” Thomas shut his mouth.

  “Not a word, or I’ll finish what I began.”

  Mater laid a protesting hand on his shoulder, but this was too important, even if it distressed her further. Griffin held Thomas’s gaze until his elder brother nodded and looked away.

  “Good,” Griffin said. “Come, Mater. Let’s have some tea and I’ll try to explain.”

  And he led her from the room, leaving Thomas on his arse on the floor.

  “I CANNOT PRETEND joy over your actions,” Cousin Bathilda said to Hero an hour later. “But I think you have been quite punished enough for whatever transgressions you may have committed.”

  She gently replaced the wet cloth on Hero’s swollen cheek. Hero closed her eyes, not wanting to see the anxious worry in Cousin Bathilda’s eyes. She lay in her own bed now, hiding from the turmoil outside her room. The entire side of her face throbbed where Thomas had struck her. Mignon was beside her, the little dog’s nose against her good cheek as if to give comfort.

  Sudden tears flooded Hero’s eyes. “I don’t deserve your care.”

  “Nonsense,” Cousin Bathilda said with some of her former vigor. “The marquess had no right to strike you. The very idea of hitting a lady! It’s very lucky he didn’t break your cheekbone. Really, it’s for the best that you shan’t marry the man after all if he has such violent impulses.”

  “He was provoked,” Hero said drily.

  The memory of Thomas’s enraged face as he stood over her made her shiver. And then when Griffin had entered with such force. The sight of the brothers locked in mortal combat seemed like a terrible dream. She’d actually worried that Griffin would not be stopped until he killed his brother. How had things come to this?

  “We’ll have to make it a small wedding, of course,” Cousin Bathilda said now.

  Hero blinked. “But I’m not marrying Mandeville.”

  Cousin Bathilda patted her shoulder. “No, dear, Reading. And as soon as possible, before any gossip gets out.”

  Hero closed her eyes in weariness. Did she want to marry Griffin? Would Maximus even let her? But thoughts of her brother brought a realization.

  “Oh, dear Lord, I forgot Maximus!” Hero sat upright, the wet cloth sliding from her face. She looked at Cousin Bathilda in panic. “Does he know yet?”

  Cousin Bathilda blinked, looking taken aback. “I certainly haven’t told him, but you know how he is.”

  “Yes, I do,” Hero said, climbing from the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “He’ll have found out by now—you know he will,” Hero muttered as she searched for her slippers. “I don’t know if it’s by informants or gossip or plain alchemy, but he finds out everything sooner or later, and considering the scandalous nature of this news…” She trailed off as she bent to look under the bed. There her slippers were!

  “My dear, far be it for me to stop you seeking solace from your brother, but wouldn’t it be better to wait a while until he has had time to properly, er, digest the news?”

  “And what do
you think he’ll do then?” Hero demanded as she shoved her feet into the slippers. Her hair must be a mess! She rushed to the mirror to look.

  “Do? You mean…?” Cousin Bathilda gasped.

  Hero turned and saw from the blanched expression on the other woman’s face that at last she’d realized the peril. Without her marriage to Thomas to stop him, Maximus would attack Griffin—or worse.

  She nodded and gave her hair a distracted pat. It would simply have to do—she didn’t have the time to wait for it to be dressed again. “He’ll want to do something, perhaps even something violent. And frankly I’ve had enough male violence for today.”

  She dashed out of the room and down the stairs, then had to pause in the front hall while a carriage was called.

  “Wait for me, dear,” Cousin Bathilda panted behind her. She held Mignon in her arms like a shield.

  “He’s bound to be in a terrible mood,” Hero said. “You needn’t accompany me.”

  Cousin Bathilda lifted her chin. “I’ve taken care of all of you since your parents’ death. I’ll not let you face him without me. Besides,” she added a bit more prosaically, “it may take two females to calm him.”

  The thought did not make Hero more cheerful, but she entered the carriage with determination.

  Half an hour later, they were knocking on the door of Wakefield House, the imposing residence her father had built. He’d expected to raise his family here, but only Maximus inhabited the grand town house now.

  A flustered butler opened the door, his back straightening at the sight of her. “My lady, I don’t think…”

  Hero pushed past him and turned. “Where is my brother?”

  “His Grace is in his private rooms, but—”

  Hero nodded briskly and mounted the stairs. Normally she would never invade Maximus’s bedroom, but the circumstances were extraordinary.

  As it turned out, his door was open, a secretary scurrying out like a chastised dog.

  Hero took a deep breath and entered the room.

  Maximus was in his shirtsleeves, bent over a desk, writing something. Three other men stood in the room, including Craven, Maximus’s long-time valet. Craven was tall and thin and looked more like a coffin-maker than a valet, dressed as he was all in black.

  He saw her and Cousin Bathilda and turned to Maximus. “Your Grace.”

  Maximus looked up and met Hero’s gaze.

  “Leave us,” he said to the servants.

  Craven ushered the other men from the room, closing the door behind him.

  Maximus stood and crossed to her. He stared down into her face, his own curiously blank.

  Then he touched a finger to her aching cheek. “He’ll die for this.”

  She wasn’t sure which “he” Maximus referred to, but it hardly mattered. “No, he won’t.”

  He frowned and half turned toward his desk again. “I’ve already sent my seconds to Reading. The matter is settled.”

  Cousin Bathilda drew in her breath and moaned softly.

  Hero caught his arm. “Then call them back.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Maximus was a duke, after all. No one talked to him thusly, not even she.

  But this was life or death.

  “I don’t want a duel,” she told him, holding his eyes firmly. “I don’t want any more violence, and I certainly don’t want a death.”

  “It does not concern you.”

  “It most certainly does!” she said. “I am the one responsible for Mandeville’s rage. I am the one who chose to give away my virtue and cause this problem.”

  He shook his head. “Hero—”

  “No, listen,” she said low. “I am ashamed of what I’ve done, but I will not let shame make me hide from the consequences. Call back your seconds, Maximus. Don’t fight a duel that will ruin you on my behalf. I don’t think I could bear to live with that.”

  He gazed at her silently for a moment, then crossed to the door and cracked it open. Craven must still have been waiting outside, because Maximus held a murmured conversation before closing the door again and coming back to her.

  “I do this for you,” he said. “Only for you, and I do not promise that I will not pursue a duel at a later date if I feel this matter is not adequately settled.”

  Hero swallowed. It was a great concession, even if it was only a partial one. “Thank you.”

  “Thank God!” Cousin Bathilda pronounced, and plopped into a chair.

  Maximus nodded and crossed to the desk. “Now, we must settle how soon you can marry Mandeville. I’ve no doubt the servants will have started gossiping over this morning’s affair already.”

  Alarm climbed Hero’s spine. “Maximus—”

  He frowned down at the papers on his desk. “No doubt he’s upset about your liaison with his brother, but I think he will come around when he has a chance to think. The marriage settlement was very much to his liking, after all.”

  “Maximus!” she repeated a little desperately.

  Her brother looked up, frowning.

  Hero lifted her chin. “I’m not marrying Mandeville.”

  “Do you want me to arrest Lord Reading?”

  She swallowed. “No.”

  He looked at her a moment and then glanced down again at his papers as if her feelings hardly mattered. “Then you’ll marry the Marquess of Mandeville.”

  His flat tone sent a chill down her spine. She knew that voice: It was the voice of the Duke of Wakefield.

  And the Duke of Wakefield did not change his course once set.

  Chapter Fifteen

  That night the queen summoned her suitors to her throne room to hear what their answers might be.

  Prince Westmoon came forward and unfurled a magnificent flag at her feet. On it was the emblem of her kingdom along with an embroidered castle. “This castle,” he said, “is the heart of your kingdom, Your Majesty.”

  Next, Prince Northwind unveiled a silver compass, cleverly inlaid with mother-of-pearl and coral. “The harbor, Your Majesty. That is the heart of your kingdom.”

  Finally, Prince Eastsun laid before her a sparkling crystal globe that held a miniature town at its center. “The city is the heart of your kingdom, Your Majesty….”

  —from Queen Ravenhair

  The Duke of Wakefield was not an easy man with whom to procure an audience.

  Griffin had spent half the afternoon cooling his heels in first one sitting room and then another at Wakefield House. Presumably he was moving closer to the great man, but at the rate he was going, it would be well past Christmas before he got there.

  Which was why he was striding down a long and formidably elegant hallway in search of His Grace’s study. He had no doubt that the man didn’t want to see the seducer of his sister—and a gin distiller to boot—but that was just too bad. His and Hero’s future depended on this meeting.

  He passed a small library and yet another sitting room—how many did one man need?—before coming to a closed door on the right.

  Griffin opened it without knocking.

  Considering that he had a huge mansion with an overabundance of rooms, the Duke of Wakefield had chosen a relatively small space for his study. The room must be nearly at the back of the house, an odd situation for the master. The study’s walls and ceiling were covered in dark wood, intricately carved as if from some medieval monastery. Beneath his feet was a carpet richly embroidered in amber, ruby, and emerald. At one end, taking up nearly the entire width of the room, was a huge, rather ugly desk, also carved from dark wood. Behind the desk was the duke, scowling at him.

  Griffin made a leg. “Your Grace, I hope I am not disturbing you.”

  One ducal eyebrow slowly rose at this bit of blatant lying. “What do you want, Reading?”

  “Your sister.”

  Wakefield’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “According to her, you’ve already had her.”

  “I have.” No use trying to pretend innocence. “And that is why I desire her hand in marriage now.”

/>   Wakefield leaned back in his chair. “If you think I’m letting my sister be seduced into a trumped-up marriage with a fortune hunter—”

  “I’m not a fortune hunter.” Griffin flexed his fist, still sore from his brother’s jaw. Losing his temper now would not serve his cause well. “I have enough money of my own.”

  The duke’s upper lip curled ever so slightly. “Think you that I haven’t made inquires about you and your business?”

  Griffin stiffened.

  “You’re a profligate rake,” Wakefield said. “You enjoy the affections of numerous ladies—the majority married. You have only a small inheritance yourself, but your brother for some reason sees fit to let you manage both it and the Mandeville lands. Add to that the fact that you are distilling gin illegally in St. Giles, and it’s not a very nice picture, is it?”

  Griffin looked the other man in the eye. “I don’t gamble or drink to excess. I have increased what you term a small inheritance fourfold since I got it and confidently intend to continue to build it. I may be known for my affairs of the heart, but I fully plan to be faithful to your sister when she marries me.”

  Wakefield smiled cynically. “Few men of our class refrain from keeping a mistress once married, and yet you expect me to take you on your word alone that you will not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what of your still? Will you give it up for my sister?”

  Griffin thought of Nick covered in jellied eels and his own life’s blood. “No, not yet anyway.”

  The duke watched him silently for what seemed like a full minute. Griffin could feel a bead of sweat trickle down the small of his back. The urge to say something was nearly overwhelming, but he knew he’d laid his case before the man as strongly as possible. Speaking now in the face of the intimidating stare would only show weakness.

  Finally, Wakefield spoke. “It doesn’t matter anyway. This entire discussion is moot. I’ve already informed Hero that she will be marrying your brother on Sunday. And if you haven’t given up your still by then, no doubt I will be visiting you with my soldiers very soon thereafter.”