“Mm.”
“I love that sound,” he confessed. “I intend to be the cause of it for the rest of my life.”
“Good!” Sinking her fingers into his thick hair, she raised his head and kissed him in return. Her happiness bubbled over.
“Enough sitting, don’t you think, my lord? Let’s pretend we’re at a particularly boring ball and go for a stroll.”
She waggled her eyebrows at him, and he laughed with a husky tone that made her quiver.
“Perhaps to the river,” she suggested, glancing at the house with its many windows, “away from prying eyes.”
He was on his feet practically before she finished speaking.
“To the fishing hole,” he proclaimed, “where I shall give you a lesson.”
They ambled down across the brick and onto the grass.
“I don’t need to be schooled by you in how to fish.” She swept her curls over her shoulder and walked faster, thinking of other things they could do at the water’s edge.
Catching up with her, John grasped her hand, matching his stride to her shorter one.
Maggie couldn’t imagine being any happier. Then her husband stroked the soft skin on her wrist, and she shivered.
“I shall think of some other lesson,” he promised. “Because I am a generous teacher, and I have a most willing pupil. What would you like me to teach you?”
Stopping, she stood upon her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, delighted when his eyes widened and a slight blush appeared on his handsome face.
Flashing her smile, she broke away, running toward the Great Ouse, with laughter upon her lips and her heart filled with love. Hearing his solid, steady footfalls behind her—her earl, now healthy and strong—she thought it the best sound in the world.
Lord Vile
Beastly Lords
Book Three
Sydney Jane Baily
Dedication
To Toni Carol (née Baily) Young
My loving sister, whom I treasure
and who always has my back
Acknowledgment
Thanks to my kind and capable copyeditor, Violetta Rand, tidying up after me like the good fairy she is, and to Dar Albert for another gorgeous cover. And a big hug and kiss to my smart and beautiful mother.
Chapter One
1849, London
“Why are you ’ere?”
Michael Alder, viscount and heir to an earldom he hadn’t seen in over a year, raised bleary eyes to the inquisitor seated on a stool beside him in a gin palace in Drury Lane. He felt no compunction to answer. He drank alone.
Turning away, he smacked his hand atop the sticky counter until the barkeeper responded with an enquiring grunt.
Nodding at his empty glass, Michael watched as the man refilled it with gin.
London Dry or Belgian gin? he wondered briefly. Then he downed it. He’d had too many to feel the burning sensation as it hit the back of his throat. No matter. It did the job nonetheless.
“I mean, you’re not like the rest of us,” continued the voice at his elbow. “You could be drinking brandy at White’s or Boodle’s.” Then the man laughed. “I betcha didn’t think I’d even know the names of them fancy clubs, eh, m’ lord?”
Couldn’t a man get himself positively ran-tan in an obscure and shabby pub without being buttonholed by some nosey bloke?
Feeling a hand stroke his back, Michael turned slowly to see the barmaid with the wide smile and even wider hips tilt her head toward the stairs.
“You won’t answer, eh? Too arfarfanarf!” His unwelcome examiner pointed out the obvious—Michael was well and truly in his cups!
Too many pints of ale followed by too many glasses of gin.
Nodding at the wench, Michael slid off his stool and followed her upstairs. He wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. All the better.
*
Miss Ada Kathryn Ellis, known simply as Ada to her friends, acknowledged a sense of deep disappointment. It was the first time she’d allowed herself to do so in months. Her first Season, which was the previous year, had been all nervousness and learning the correct modes of behavior. This Season, having mastered the art of flirtation and witty conversation, she’d excelled at being in the right place at the right time, and often with a partner whom she didn’t entirely dislike, occasionally one whom she even found agreeable.
That wasn’t to say she’d found someone to tickle her fancy. Unfortunately, she hadn’t, and not for want of trying. Oh, she had tried!
To every dinner companion or dance partner, she’d compared one man, a young viscount she’d encountered two years earlier. As she’d not yet been brought out into society, he had been firmly off limits. Thus, at a dinner to which her parents had munificently allowed her access, Ada could only watch Lord Alder from afar.
Fervently hoping he would still be available when she was on the marriage market, alas, she’d seen neither hide nor hair of the viscount this entire Season.
His inexplicable absence hadn’t stopped her from participating in all the excitement of London society. However, whenever she thought she might fancy someone, a gentleman with a particularly nice smile or attractive eyes, she weighed his merits against the now nearly mythological memory of Lord Alder.
If only she could see him and maybe even speak with him, then she’d be able to disabuse herself of the ridiculous notion—he was the one.
As her friends got engaged, particularly her best friend Maggie Blackwood, who snagged an earl and became the Countess of Cambrey, Ada grew a little less interested in each social event. Perhaps her parents, the Baron and Baroness Ellis, had wasted their money on a daughter who seemed neither a wallflower nor a dazzler. Firmly in the middle of the pack of society misses, Ada was unsure how to proceed as the Season drew to a riotous close.
Should she grab any man who showed an interest in her fair face and large dowry? She could get engaged to a viscount’s son, who nearly declared himself before she ran off to the ladies’ retiring room in order to avoid the unpleasant task of saying no. There was another, an older bachelor who still had all his hair, a sizable yearly income, and a townhouse on the west side of Arlington Street. She was confident she could be mistress of his house by Christmas, if she so chose. In fact, there were half a dozen others who’d shown an interest.
If only she could decide to settle.
Or should she set her sights on the following year and go home to Juniper Hall in the Surrey countryside? Perhaps cut her hair in the new fashion or take more music lessons? Maybe she should learn to speak French like Maggie or attempt to stop talking so much about her interest in commerce. The latter scandalized her mother, yet Ada found most interesting the rise and fall of commodities on the London Stock Exchange. Fluctuations of price could make or break a man between sunrise and sunset. There was the Spanish panic of 1835. And four years after the 1845 crash, newspapers still wrote about the burst “bubble” from railway speculation. Some very old families, indeed, had been ruined.
Fascinating, Ada thought, whenever she picked up her father’s well-read copy of The Banker’s Magazine or the Economist, infinitely more interesting than the silly romantic novels her friends were reading. She could listen for hours to her father espousing about what he encountered on the floor of the exchange, even though he was speaking primarily to her younger brother, Grady.
Gentlemen in search of a wife, however, didn’t want a young woman to have an interest in business. It was too manly!
Sighing loudly, Ada let her maid prepare her for yet another end of the Season soirée. Yes, the violet silk gown. Yes, hair up in a braided bun with blonde ringlets hanging from her temples past her ears. Yes, the matching lavender silk gloves, because why not? Yes, yes, yes. Except she didn’t want to go. Not really.
She looked at her blue eyes in the gilded mirror and hoped they didn’t appear as weary as she felt, and then she went to the Fontaine’s ball.
With her mother in her usual position seated with th
e other hopeful mothers nearby, Ada let her card be filled, holding out her wrist dutifully to every young man who asked. When had this become such a dreary chore?
The next hour passed in a carousel of dances—the Grand March, then a quadrille, polka, and waltz. When her mother wasn’t looking, she had a glass of champagne. Waving to Lady Adelia Smythe, the daughter of an earl but still very friendly and who also hadn’t found a match, Ada headed toward her when a man bumped her elbow as he brushed past.
“Well, excuse me,” she said loudly enough that he halted and turned.
Intending to take him to task for his rudeness, she pursed her lips and stared up at—
Ada had to stop herself from gasping. It was he! At last. Her viscount. Lord Michael Alder.
He narrowed his eyes as if studying her, perhaps to see if he knew her. When he didn’t, he relaxed and shrugged.
“My apologies.”
Good God! He was speaking to her. His voice sounded as she recalled, rich and deep, causing a delightful shiver in her spine.
Say something, she ordered herself, but her tongue was frozen. She could do naught but stare at his handsome face below thick brown hair that curled slightly, giving him a rakish air.
She’d never been close enough before to see how instead of plain brown eyes, his were a striking amber color. Unusual, reminding her of one of her family’s cats.
“Are you well?” he asked, undoubtedly thinking her addlepated as she gaped at him.
Nodding, still speechless, she did the only thing she could think of—she held out her wrist with the card dangling from it.
He looked at is as if it were on fire, practically recoiling.
“No,” he said, without preamble. “I don’t wish to dance.”
At her distraught expression, he added, “Not with anyone,” as if to soften the blow.
She swallowed. Think of something brilliant, amusing, interesting. Anything!
Then he nodded quickly, turned away, and disappeared into the throng.
Blast! She’d lost her one and only chance. Yet it didn’t truly matter. Obviously, she held no attraction for him, and whatever words she’d spouted wouldn’t have changed that fact. Especially not her personal notion one could become extraordinarily wealthy from investing in the developing technology of undersea cables. The newspapers indicated they would be laid between England and France within two years. She ought to have blandly praised the music, the champagne, or even Lord Alder’s ascot, or brought up Dickens’ latest.
Expelling an unladylike puff of air, she sent her golden bangs flying high with frustration. Then her next partner found her, perused her card for his name, and hauled her onto the dance floor.
Another eternal hour, during which she tried to spy Lord Alder while she twirled and spun. To no avail. Overheated by the crush of bodies, disappointed in not only this event but the entire Season, and even her future prospects, Ada left the security of the ballroom. In a hasty, ill-conceived moment, she ventured to the other side of the multi-paned glass doors and onto the marble terrace.
Unfortunately, there were couples who must have already publicly professed agreements as to their future associations since they were openly together, alone and unchaperoned. The practice was still frowned upon, but if the couple was engaged, the ton deemed it practically acceptable.
One such couple was a mere few yards from Ada and another was at the far end of the terrace. In each instance, the man held the woman close.
Ada rolled her eyes at the sheer awkwardness of being outside in a romantic spot without a suitor of her own. Between the couples were the stone steps leading to the wilds of the topiary and sculpture gardens.
In a flash, she darted down the steps and into the darkness.
*
Michael stumbled out onto the terrace after one too many dance cards had been dangled before his face, and one too many glasses of champagne had found their way down his throat. In fact, he carried one with him at present.
Downing the bubbly liquid, he set the empty glass on the edge of the terrace’s stone railing and made his way down the steps into the silence.
Having stayed away from so-called polite society for many months, he couldn’t imagine why he’d talked himself into this particular ball. Actually, yes, he did know. He’d read the guest list in the newspaper, knowing she would be there, the woman he’d loved and lost.
Of course, he knew she was married, and happily, too, which he didn’t begrudge her one bit. After all, it wasn’t her fault his treacherous parents had lied to them both and ended their engagement due to her lack of fortune. Yet, like an animal which can’t stop licking a raw wound, he liked to make certain he still fancied her above anyone else.
Seeing her, on the rare occasion he did, confirmed this fact. Seeing Jenny Blackwood, now the Countess of Lindsey, reminded him of what he’d lost and why. It renewed his anger and refreshed his bitterness against those who professed to love him most. His own parents.
Betrayal most foul! Pulling a sterling flask from his pocket, he took a sip of brandy and sauntered onto the brick path leading farther into the garden.
After a minute, he crossed a sickeningly romantic bridge over a tiny fake stream and found himself next to a gazebo, dark except for two torches, lit to show guests they’d reached the end of the garden. Beyond was a brick wall higher than his head.
Taking another sip, he thought he was seeing a vision. Not the first time, either, since his favorite state lately was ‘half seas over’ if not fully passed out.
Before him came an enchanting creature in such a pale pastel shade, she was practically glowing in the moonlight. She seemed to float toward him, and as she did, bone deep, he knew he wanted her.
When the torchlight caught her golden crown of hair, he made a sound, alerting the bewitching goddess to his presence. She froze. Yet, instead of fleeing as a sane and reputable maiden should, she took a step closer.
Slipping the flask back into his pocket, he held out his hand. Silently, she took it, letting him draw her close.
“I had no idea when I came out here, I would encounter such a creature as you. You are so lovely.”
She trembled.
But was she real? There was more than one way to discover if she were.
Wrapping his arms around her, still feeling her shuddering movements, Michael decided she must be real and quite cold. He would do his best to warm her.
Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against hers. A bouquet of some exotically lush, floral scent tickled his nose, and her soft lips were warm and encouraging.
Mm, she smelled good. No doubt in the cold light of day, she was older than she appeared in the dimly lit garden. Yet for this moment, he would accept she was a sprite, sent for his enjoyment.
He settled his mouth upon hers once again, tasting her sweetness. Tilting his head slightly, he found they fit together perfectly, and when he licked the seam of her lips, she opened them with the smallest gasp. It inflamed him.
Apparently, she was willing.
Glancing around, he took in the glossy white gazebo, also seemingly glowing in the torchlight. Inviting, beckoning, the ideal spot!
With finesse, though he tripped slightly on the threshold, he led her into the secluded place. How thoughtful of their hosts.
There was a divan, undoubtedly used for reclining whilst reading a book during the day. What a mundane waste for such a magical place!
It took only a single step and he had the back of her skirts pressed against the settee cushions, and then they were both falling upon it. Too small for stretching out comfortably, yet it offered them a suitable place to engage in a quick sensual dalliance.
His goddess went rigid as soon as she was prone beneath him. He couldn’t imagine she didn’t want this as much as he did, since he could feel her warm and curvaceous body thrumming under his. She was made for a man to embrace and to enjoy.
“My lord?” Her first words to him were soft and questioning.
> Mayhap he was taking too long to please her.
He lowered his mouth to hers again, and as he kissed her thoroughly, she relaxed. What’s more, he could feel her heart beating a strong tattoo of desire. His own was doing the same.
Raising himself up and reaching between them, with practiced hands, Michael unfastened the fall of his trousers, letting his manhood spring free.
He watched her eyes in the darkness. Though he couldn’t determine their color, he could see them widen with delight. Ever so gently, he lifted the hem of her dress, smoothing his fingers up her stockinged legs until—her fingers suddenly met his, holding her gown in place across her thighs.
Was she truly wanting to stop?
“It’s all right,” he soothed. “I want you. Beyond anyone else, I want you.”
Her voice a whisper, she asked, “Do you know me?”
“Of course,” he responded. She was his goddess, a gift to soothe him for all he’d lost. “Do you know me?”
“Lord Alder.”
He felt a frisson of surprise. Indeed, she must be a fairy sprite, an otherworldly creature, for how else could she have found him in the darkness?
“Then we are meant for each other,” he stated. “Let me love you.”
After another moment, her hands fell away, and he pushed her gown and petticoats and cotton shift up to her hips, baring her drawers to him. As expected, she wore two separate legs tied together at the waist, so he needn’t even remove them to have access to her coveted core.
Wondering if he could last even for a few moments, he came over her body, fit his stiff member to her warm channel and slid himself inside his magical nymph.
He groaned in delight at the same time as her hands came up to his chest.
Was she pushing him away?
Kissing her, he began to move his hips, and her hands relaxed, though still grasping his jacket. He wished to hear her moan with pleasure, but she was breathing shallowly. He wished he could see and touch her breasts, but he was pressing both hands into the divan for support and couldn’t spare one to ease down the neckline of her gown.
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