More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  As if he were enjoying himself.

  Her stomach lurched, and she lowered her hand from her mouth to press it there, afraid she’d be sick.

  “End it?” The other man spat a mouthful of blood onto the dirt at his feet. He raised his head to face his opponent, and laughed.

  Laughed.

  Blood was dripping off his chin, and he was laughing. “Oh, no. We’ve just begun.”

  He raised his fists and lunged again. This time he managed to land a blow to the other man’s face, near his eye, and then a second brutal blow to the man’s ribs, which sent him reeling backwards.

  Hyacinth sucked in a sharp breath, her knees shaking with dread. Surely, that would be the end of it? No man could withstand blows like that and remain on his feet—

  Before she could finish that thought, the first man regained his balance with a few agile steps, and with one graceful leap, he closed the distance between himself and his opponent, and landed two sharp blows to the other man’s stomach.

  His opponent doubled over with a pained grunt, and then he retched, and was sick all over his boots.

  The first man was holding his arm tight against his side, but otherwise he showed no sign he was hurt. “Enough?” His voice was tight and strained this time, every hint of casual politeness gone. His shirt was transparent with sweat, and his chest heaving.

  The other man was struggling to crawl to his knees. The fight was over, but to Hyacinth’s horror, instead of surrendering, a vile string of curses fell from the downed man’s lips, and he lashed out with one leg and struck a blow to the back of his rival’s knees.

  This time the taller man did crash to the ground, but he was up again in a flash, and when he struck again, it was clear he intended to end the fight once and for all. This time, he showed the other man no mercy.

  After that, it was over in seconds, but they were the longest seconds of Hyacinth’s life.

  He grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, hauled him to his feet with one mighty wrench, and then landed a blow to his jaw that should have sent the man back to his knees, except his opponent didn’t allow it. He gripped his shirt in a merciless fist and held him upright as he crashed his fist into the man’s face a second time.

  At last, the hapless victim slumped forward and lay unmoving on the ground, his jaw slack with unconsciousness.

  Was he only unconscious, or…

  Hyacinth stared at his battered face, at the blood spattered everywhere, and the pool of vomit soaking into the dirt beside him. He was so pale, the streaked blood standing out in sharp relief against a face that had turned whiter than his shirt.

  She clutched her stomach and doubled over as if she’d been struck herself. Bile threatened to gag her, but she choked it back down, terrified if she made a noise the man would come for her, drag her from the shadows, and…and…

  Oh, God. Had he seen her? Her breath seized in her throat as his head jerked in her direction, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the gloom. She shrank back against the wall, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

  Please don’t let him see me. Please…

  There was no telling what such a man would do if he discovered her. She’d just witnessed a bloody, brutal beating.

  A beating or a murder.

  Her stricken gaze fixed on the man still slumped in the dirt, then darted back to the other man, her breath whooshing from her lungs when he turned away from her and brought his attention back to the motionless body at his feet.

  He ran a hand through his damp hair, as if he were trying to decide what to do.

  In the end, he did what every murderer does.

  Hid the body.

  He leaned down, grasped the prone man under his arms, and dragged him from the inn-yard.

  For a long time after he’d disappeared, Hyacinth was too terrified to move. She flattened herself against the building at her back, shaking, and gulped down one shallow, panicked breath after another. Her brain was so fuzzy with shock; she began to wonder if she hadn’t imagined the whole thing. But she could see the blood, the pool of vomit, and the two tracks the defeated man’s boots made in the dirt when he’d been dragged away. She could see them with her own eyes, and there were two coats as well, tossed to one side of the yard.

  Two coats.

  If she hadn’t happened to notice the coats, she might have remained there for hours, her limbs frozen with panic, but the realization that the man might return for them made her tear herself from her hiding place. Pounding blood and her own frantic gasps echoed in her ears as she fled for her room. Once she reached it, she darted inside, slammed the door, and fell back against it, nearly sobbing with relief.

  “Hyacinth? Is that you?” Her grandmother rolled over in the bed to peer at her with sleepy, unfocused eyes. “Goodness, child. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “N-no, I’m quite all right, I-I-I…” Her denial faded to horrified silence as the truth crept over her, leaving raised hairs and gooseflesh in its wake.

  I might well have just seen a ghost.

  Or at the very least, a man on his way to becoming one.

  “Hyacinth?”

  “It’s all r-right, Grandmother. I j-just…I-I had a b-bad dream, that’s all. Go back to sleep.”

  Her grandmother muttered something, and then rolled over. Within seconds, she was snoring again, but Hyacinth never closed her eyes that night. She wasn’t sure she even blinked. She lay in her bed; her shaking arms wrapped tightly around herself, and stared at the fire for hours, tears streaming from her eyes as she thought about that man slumped in the dirt, reduced to a bleeding pulp.

  Not half an hour before he’d been beaten, she’d wished for something to happen.

  Anything.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, and longed with all her heart she’d been far, far more careful what she’d wished for.

  Chapter Two

  The First Ball

  Lord and Lady Huntington request the pleasure of

  Your company at a ball held in

  Miss Hyacinth Somerset’s honor,

  At 7:00 o’clock in the evening

  Saturday, January 24

  10 Grosvenor Street

  “If you insist on hiding behind that column, Hyacinth, you won’t be asked to dance at all this evening.”

  Hyacinth peeked around the white marble column she’d ducked behind to find Iris lying in wait for her, ready to drag her out of what had, until now, been a perfectly good hiding place.

  “The gentlemen can’t put their names on your dance card if they can’t find you, can they?” added Violet, who was peering at her over Iris’s shoulder.

  No, and that was rather the point.

  Finn and Iris’s ballroom was massive, and Hyacinth had taken care to tuck herself behind the most inconspicuous column she could find, in a quiet corner at the very back of the room, but here were both of her sisters, like two homing pigeons descending on their nest. For pity’s sake, what use were dozens of immense marble columns if they couldn’t even hide one small lady?

  Hyacinth made an attempt at a carefree shrug. “Oh, well, I don’t care to dance tonight.” To dance, to flirt, to speak, or to be noticed in any way. Not by any gentleman, and not by her sisters either, if the truth were told.

  Iris and Violet exchanged glances. Some sort of mysterious communication must have passed between them, because they pasted identical bright smiles on their mouths, grasped Hyacinth by her elbows, and without further ado, dragged her out from behind her column.

  “Of course you’ll dance, dear. It’s the opening ball of your very first season, and Iris and Finn have gone to such trouble to make it special for you.” Violet patted her hand, but her grip on Hyacinth’s elbow was relentless. “You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?”

  “Or Grandmother, either.” Iris clutche
d Hyacinth’s other elbow. “She has her heart set on your catching a duke, you know.”

  Hyacinth snorted. A duke, indeed. There would be no duke, nor a marquess, an earl, a viscount, or a baron. She’d be fortunate if she managed to land a stable boy, and it was best for all concerned if they didn’t expect more of her than that. A lady who cowered behind a column didn’t become the belle of her season, and she didn’t make a brilliant match. That Hyacinth seemed to be the only one who understood this was either terribly flattering, or utterly terrifying.

  “A duke? I’m far more likely to catch a consumption.” Still, Hyacinth dragged herself from her hiding place, because—short of throwing her arms around the column and clinging to it for dear life—she didn’t have much choice.

  “There, that’s better.” Violet fussed with the folds of Hyacinth’s skirt, then stood back to study the effect. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t have a duke. That gown is worthy of any duchess, and you look lovely in it.”

  Hyacinth glanced down at her gown. It was white, of course—her grandmother had insisted on white for her first ball—with short, puffed lace sleeves and a subtle pattern of vines and flowers worked into the bodice and around the hem.

  It was a beautiful gown, if less elaborate than many of the other gowns on display tonight, but the simplicity of it suited Hyacinth. She’d even felt a little thrill of girlish anticipation when she’d donned the gown in the privacy of her bedchamber this evening.

  Now she just felt exposed, particularly her bosom. A low décolletage was a drafty business. “Perhaps a season wasn’t such a good idea, after all.” Hyacinth gazed at the crowds of people swarming the ballroom, their bright jewels flashing, and her stomach knotted with anxiety.

  “Oh, my dear.” Iris squeezed Hyacinth’s cold fingers. “We know this isn’t easy for you, but I confess I didn’t think you’d find it quite so difficult, especially with all of us here to support you.”

  Violet’s brow creased with a worried frown. “You’ve been more anxious than usual these past few days. Is something troubling you, aside from the start of your season? If there is, you must tell us at once. Perhaps we can help.”

  A ripple of fear darted down Hyacinth’s back, and she sucked in a quick breath of air. She’d tried again and again over the past few days to tell someone—anyone—about the horrific scene she’d witnessed at the Horse and Groom Inn but every time she tried to speak, she pictured that man lying in the dirt, covered in blood, and her throat collapsed around the words.

  She’d looked for him, before they’d left the inn the next day, but there’d been no sign of the beaten man, or the man with the dark, glittering eyes who’d struck him down. Even if she had found them, there was little she could do. She’d been the only witness, and the crown tended to turn a blind eye to an affair of honor between two gentlemen.

  So she tried to forget it, but no sooner would she find a moment of peace than the memory of that man crawling in the dirt would come upon her unawares, and she’d be a shivering wreck once again.

  “There’s nothing to tell. I’m quite well. Just anxious about my season, that’s all.” She forced a smile for her sisters’ sakes, and vowed once again to put the incident from her mind.

  “It will be all right.” Violet linked her arm with Hyacinth’s. “Iris and I won’t leave your side tonight. Will we, Iris?”

  “Indeed we won’t. Not for the entire season, if you need us, and if you truly don’t care to dance with any gentlemen you don’t know, then you needn’t do so. Finn or Nick will lead you out if you wish to dance.”

  It didn’t seem a good time to confess she found her brothers-in-law nearly as frightening as every other gentlemen—especially Finn, who was a trifle forbidding—so Hyacinth offered Iris a wan smile instead. “Very well, then. I’m ready.”

  She cast one last longing look at her column, and then she drew a deep breath and turned resolutely back to face the ballroom. She didn’t need the column. She was in Iris’s home, and no matter what happened tonight, her family was here to support her.

  Nothing will happen.

  She was perfectly safe.

  * * * *

  “You don’t suppose Lord Huntington owns dozens of carriages, do you?”

  Ciaran jerked his chin toward the Grosvenor Street mansion. Light spilled from every window, and even from the street, they could plainly hear the strains of a waltz.

  “No, I think not.” Their sister Isla watched as a fine, black carriage stopped in front of the house and disgorged a trio of ladies half-smothered in silks and costly jewels. “It seems we’ve arrived in the middle of a ball. A grand one, too.”

  “Bloody inconvenient timing,” Ciaran drawled.

  Lachlan stared at the house, his lips tight. It was a damned sight worse than inconvenient. Lord Huntington wasn’t likely to be pleased to see them on any day, but it couldn’t get much worse than interrupting the man while he was hosting a ball.

  “But wait. Perhaps all this fanfare is for you, Lach.” Ciaran turned to him with a smirk. “Did you tell his lordship you were arriving this evening? After all, it’s not every day a man gains a brother.”

  Lachlan’s mouth tightened further, but he didn’t reply.

  “Stop nettling Lachlan, Ciaran.” Isla frowned at her brother. “It’s not as if we’re here just for him.”

  Ciaran laughed, but his obvious resentment robbed the sound of any humor. “We may not be here only for Lachlan, but there’s no question we’re here because of him.”

  Lachlan’s hands fisted, and he carved another crescent-shaped scar into his palm.

  A penance, for all the good it did him. For all the good it did any of them.

  “We might have been here a day earlier if you’d been able to sit a horse yesterday.” Despite his cool tone, guilt burned in Lachlan’s belly. Ciaran had been in no shape to ride after their brawl, and they’d been obliged to remain at the Horse and Groom for a second night so he could recover.

  Ciaran snorted. “Yes, it’s a terrible pity. Just think, Isla. If we’d arrived yesterday, you could be dancing with some grand English lord even now. Either that or the exalted Lord Huntington would have already tossed us out on our arses, and we’d be on our way back to Scotland by now.”

  “We’re not going back to Scotland.” Lachlan’s voice was hard. “No matter what happens with Lord Huntington. The sooner you accept that, Ciaran, the better.”

  Ciaran’s brow lowered, and his jaw twitched with anger. “Perhaps you’re not going back.”

  Lachlan glanced down at the pristine white cravat he’d just knotted, and shot his brother a warning glance. “None of us are going back, and before you get it into your fool head to drag me from my horse for another brawl, keep in mind this isn’t some filthy inn-yard. It’s Grosvenor Square. And that, right there?” He jerked his chin toward the elegant mansion. “It’s not some country inn. It’s Lord Huntington’s home.”

  An ugly sneer twisted Ciaran’s lips. “I know where we are, Lachlan. Christ, how could I forget it? I feel like a bloody Highland sheep dropped in the middle of a herd of overbred stallions.”

  “This isn’t the place for another drunken brawl. Or do you think it will improve our chances with Lord Huntington if we show up in his ballroom with blackened eyes and bloodstained cravats?”

  Ciaran didn’t answer, only gave him a sullen look.

  Lachlan sighed, and made an effort to lighten his tone. “Behave yourself, Ciaran, and maybe Isla will find herself a duke with deep pockets who’ll keep you in wagering and whiskey.”

  “She doesn’t want some bloody Englishman, do you, Isla?”

  Ciaran’s tone was defiant, but Lachlan saw the bleakness in his brother’s eyes, and he jabbed his fingernails into his palms again. “She doesn’t know what she wants anymore.”

  A sharp bark of laughter burst from Ciaran’s c
hest. “Jesus, Lach. Have you only just met Isla? She’s a Ramsey, isn’t she? She was born knowing what she wants. The fact she can’t have it anymore doesn’t change a damned thing.”

  Isla let out a weary sigh. “I beg your pardon, but in case you’ve both forgotten, I’m right here. Kindly stop talking about me as if I can’t hear every word you’re saying. You do realize, Ciaran, you’re only making this harder.”

  “Harder for who? Lachlan? You forget, Isla, he’s Lord Lachlan now. I’d say things are a good deal easier for him than they’ve ever been before.”

  The way Lachlan saw it, there was nothing easy about becoming an English lord, but he didn’t deny things were a damn sight easier for him than they were for Ciaran. His brother didn’t mention Isobel Campbell, but Lachlan heard the echo of her name in every word Ciaran spoke, just as clearly as if Ciaran had said her name aloud.

  Isla glanced at Lachlan, and her face softened. “Lachlan might be younger brother to a marquess, but as far as I’m concerned he’s a Ramsey, the same as you and me. He’s still our brother too, Ciaran, and he always will be.”

  “Half-brother.”

  Lachlan flinched as if Ciaran had struck him, but he remained silent.

  Ciaran glanced at him, and blew out a quiet breath. “Then again, you’re still the same arrogant, overbearing arse you’ve always been, Lach, and I’d still choose to pummel the life out of you as soon as look at you. I guess that makes you my brother right enough, same as always.”

  Lachlan shook his head, but a corner of his lip twitched. That was Ciaran. Stubbornly loyal, even when he’d rather beat you bloody.

  “We’re going to have a devil of a time with these upright English sticks.” Ciaran pointed at his battered face. “Lachlan and I look like a couple of savages. Even if we do get past Lord Huntington, we’re sure to frighten away any of Isla’s future delicate English suitors.”

  Isla grimaced. “Not so delicate as all that, I hope.”

  “Of course they’re delicate. They’re English, aren’t they?” Ciaran straightened his coat, smoothed his cravat, and tried to tame his wild mess of dark hair. “There. Do I look fine enough to meet a marquess?”