Lord Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “I adore dancing,” Anne said to cover the nervousness caused by Cynssyr holding her so close. He moved with wicked grace, all polish and perfection.

  “With four girls, I imagine the Sinclair family attended its share of dances.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed.”

  “Did you waltz often?”

  “Never, I’m afraid. Papa always said I oughtn’t dance.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, what would have been the point?”

  Pulling her closer, he stared as though he wanted to see inside her, a look that made her insides shiver. “To the devil with your papa,” he said, and effortlessly whirled her in a tight turn.

  A fortnight in London, and Anne knew exactly why so many women had loved Cynssyr. A similar fate awaited any incautious woman. Already she wanted badly to believe he cared for her more a little.

  “Anne,” he murmured, a low sound that felt like water to a parched throat. The sound caught at her, ensnared her. She lifted her gaze, met his eyes and was trapped there, too, willingly drowning in the peridot depths. A smile curved his mouth and her breath stopped, simply stopped. He was so lovely when he smiled.

  Seeing the shadow of exhaustion in her eyes, he cursed himself for his selfishness. “You are fatigued.” He touched a finger to her cheek, tracing a line from temple to just beneath her eye. At the contact a jolt of awareness sped through him, of her strength of character, her scent, her wholly unanticipated charm, and of his body’s response to her, sharp and hungry, which he had damn well better learn to curtail.

  “A little,” she admitted.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, not yet. Soon I imagine.”

  “You need to rest. Shall we go to the card room?”

  “All right.”

  Tables set up in the Octagon room were already crowded with guests. Footmen in the Cynssyr livery of green and gold circulated with bottles of wine, champagne and glasses. There were discreet and not-so-discreet looks when Ruan strolled in with Anne on his arm. The men eyed Anne speculatively, pausing at bosom level before moving on or returning their attention to cards or dice. The few women present patted their hair, adjusted their gowns or arranged their positions to better advantage.

  He didn’t dare hold Anne as close as he wanted. For one thing, he had no intention of making a spectacle of himself with her. Anne deserved a dignified introduction to his circle. For another, he feared if he did he’d soon drag her off to some secluded spot and make love to her again. God knows she needed some respite from him as much as he needed to exercise restraint.

  “Thank you, Cynssyr,” she said after he saw her to a chair at one of the tables.

  “What do you think, my dear?” God, how he wanted to touch her, to have his hands around her waist helping her ride him to oblivion. “Faro? Whist? Hazard? Backgammon?” He leaned down and put his mouth next to her ear. “I wish you were sitting on my lap right now.” She tilted her head in a quizzical motion. “Wearing nothing but those diamonds.” The tip of her ear turned red, and the color spread slowly downward. She looked around, trying to gauge whether anyone had overheard. “I wish I were inside you right now,” he whispered. A vision of the two of them doing exactly that nearly sent him cross-eyed.

  “Hist!” she said in a low voice.

  He straightened, caressing her shoulder while he nodded at a lanky man whose pale hair fell in ringlets to his ears. “Whatever you choose, Mr. Durling will have a game with me.”

  “Backgammon, if it pleases you, sir.” When he sat, she refused to look at him for quite a bit.

  As predicted, Julian Durling eagerly assented to a game. Sky-blue eyes lingered at Anne’s throat then swept downward to take in the rest of her. He fancied himself a gamester and a lover both, and Ruan did not object to the suggestion of a small wager on the outcome.

  Durling drew up a chair next to Anne. While playing, he kept up a running account of his failed attempt to learn the guitar, which skill he had intended to use in wooing a woman who’d caught his eye. The man managed to get his fill of Anne’s figure and so did not play well. Anne appeared fascinated by his insipid story. If she wasn’t, she was an actress the likes of which had never been seen outside Drury Lane. Several times Ruan caught Durling staring at her waist and lower down where the act of sitting had tightened her gown over her hips and legs. After one such lingering perusal, he caught Ruan’s eye and gave an appreciative nod.

  “Y’know, Cyn,” Durling said in an unaffected manner that proved Anne had gotten to him, too, “she’s not at all what I expected.”

  “Really?” Fierce desire to toss the man out on his ear made Ruan’s voice dangerously flat. Durling had a reputation for chasing other men’s wives, and he was getting that look. Ruan knew that look all too well. A gleam of appreciation. Anticipation of conquest, as it were.

  “You never cared for substance before.” He seemed to get himself under control for the drawl reappeared. “Tell me again, Duchess, that you think I might learn the guitar.”

  “I am convinced you could learn to play wonderfully.”

  “Dashed if I’ve never met a woman to make me think better of myself than you.” He brushed at his cuff with a perfectly manicured index finger. “Remarkable. I am a renowned ne’er-do-well, as Cyn will tell you. Do you know I once took up painting, too? Gave it up after a week. I’ve no talent for art.”

  “I don’t believe it, Mr. Durling. No one who dresses with such a splendid sense of color could be a failure at art.”

  “You don’t say?” His eyes flashed with distinctly lecherous light. With a flourish, he produced a set of dice. “Cynssyr?” When he looked at Ruan, his expression was far too innocent. “Another game?” He closed a loose fist around the dice and vigorously shook them. “You’ll give a kiss for luck, won’t you duchess? What do you say, Cyn?”

  Her eyes danced with humor and earned a look, more admiring yet. “Against my own husband? I think not, sir.”

  Ruan nodded. Durling lost on the first toss. The stakes quickly streaked upward from a few pounds to a few hundred pounds with the other man losing more often than not. Forty minutes later, he wrote out his note for nine hundred thirty pounds.

  “I needed that kiss, duchess,” Durling said, grinning as he handed over his voucher. “Brilliant play as always, Cynssyr. Your grace. Think I’ll go see if Miss Sinclair will dance with me.” Rising, he took Anne’s hand. “Once again Cynssyr comes away with the best. I am heartbroken.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Inconsolable to be the loser again.”

  Anne laughed. “Hardly that, Mr. Durling.”

  He bowed and clicked his heels, still holding Anne’s hand. His eyes flicked up, settling on something past Anne’s shoulder. “Well, well. Your brother-in-law approaches. Such a serious look on his face. I fear your husband is to be called away. Matters of State, perhaps.” He put a finger to his chin, aping deep thought. “No, that cannot be. The subject is something else entirely, for Bracebridge is with him.” He waved a hand, still holding her hand in his other. “I depart, dear duchess. I am not in the mood for the fright I get whenever I see that brutal face.”

  “You disappoint me, sir,” Anne said, pulling her hand free. “I do not find Devon brutal in any respect.” She missed the suggestive rise of his brow in response.

  “Ah, duchess,” he said archly, “but then you are his particular friend, are you not?”

  “Indeed I am, sir.”

  He bowed once more, contrite. “Forgive me if I offend. Good evening.” Durling vanished just before Ben and Devon reached them.

  “Aldreth. Devon.” Anne extended a hand to each, taking in their expressions and feeling sharp curiosity mixed in with a goodly portion of disappointment. “It’s true, I see. You’ve come to take Cynssyr away.”

  “If we may,” said Devon, lingering over her hand.

  “Stay away from Durling, Anne,” Ruan said, hearing too late that he sounded accusing of her.

  Anne’s expressi
on smoothed out. “Yes, sir.” She bent a knee and was gone.

  The three men walked to Ruan’s study. “Well?” Ruan asked when he’d lit a lamp and closed the door.

  “You might at least pretend to care about her feelings.” Devon planted himself legs apart, arms crossed over his chest.

  “You might pretend to care less.”

  “Gentlemen. Gentlemen.” Ben walked between them. “Let’s not quarrel. Though frankly, Ruan, you could have been more chary of Anne than you were.”

  “I don’t like the way Durling looks at her.”

  “Well,” said Ben affably. “Deal with him.”

  “I will,” he said.

  Devon cleared his throat. “As I was saying—”

  “You weren’t saying anything at all,” Ruan said. He spoke sharply because he knew Devon loved Anne, and he didn’t like it.

  “Please!” Ben said. “Stop baiting one another.”

  “There may be a gentleman involved,” said Devon. “I’m hearing only whispers. But I have the names of men who’ve recently been in—and out of—dun territory.”

  “Who?” Ben asked.

  “You might not like the list.”

  Ben laughed. “I’ll wager I can guess three-quarters of the names.”

  “Get on with it.”

  Devon ticked off the names. “We can start with our friend Julian Durling.”

  “No doubt he still spends his allowance before the quarter’s ended.” Ruan glared in the direction of the door. “And is in debt to his ears.”

  “So does most every gentleman in London,” said Ben.

  “Hell,” Ruan said. “He owes me nearly a thousand pounds.”

  “There’s also Kinross and Jamison. Wilberfoss, too, but he solved his difficulties some time back. Been in the clear ever since. But, were either of you aware that John Martin is in Town?”

  “Indeed?” Ruan imagined the man as he’d last seen him. A whipcord thin man whose generous mouth, ready smile and warm eyes disappeared entirely whenever he drank, which was often. Not particularly successful with women, though not at all a bad-looking fellow. His indolence was a flaw of character that ended Martin’s otherwise promising military career. A pity. But for that flaw, he would have been an excellent solider.

  “Tempting as the notion is,” Ruan said, “if Martin has only just arrived in town, we can’t consider him.”

  “What if he hasn’t?”

  “We’ll find that out soon enough. At any rate, Wilberfoss has always paid his debts so I doubt it’s him. Besides, his mother had money, too, and she left him everything. Durling’s a convincing suspect. Perhaps too convincing,” he reluctantly conceded. “Kinross surprises me though. I’ve heard he has certain tastes. Think he could be our man?”

  Devon stroked a finger down the length of his crooked nose. “There’s one more name.”

  “Who?” said Ruan and Ben together.

  “The Marquess of Thrale.”

  “Impossible. I won’t believe it,” said Ben. “Thrale’s bloody rich.”

  Devon shook his head. “His father was bloody rich. And jolly good at spending his money, too. It’s been what? Six months since the present marquess came to his estates? There’s whispers the title’s bankrupt.”

  Ruan felt a shiver of dread. A gentleman responsible for the brutal assaults? Inconceivable. And yet. It explained so much. How easily the women were lured away. With the exception of John Martin, any of the men Devon had named possessed sufficient knowledge and familiarity with society to concoct the tricks played on the victims. Without doubt, the man responsible knew the Ton and the men and women who moved in it.

  “There’s more,” said Devon, thrusting his hands into his trousers’ pockets as he leaned against the wall.

  “What?”

  He gave Ruan an inscrutable look. “Katie is here.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Anne scanned the crowd, looking for Cynssyr like a child who knows she will have a treat and is constantly on the lookout for its arrival. Further than twenty or thirty feet distant she recognized people mostly by shape or coloring. Despite not having her spectacles, she’d feel it if Cynssyr were in the room, and he wasn’t. She rubbed her eyes. Not having her glasses made her head ache. Her temples throbbed with the effort of trying to see. She felt more tired than she’d ever been in her life, and not just from dancing. The fatigue never really left her anymore, and now, with the late hour, she felt ready to collapse.

  “Duchess?”

  Recognizing the voice, she turned, smiling. “Lord Thrale.”

  “I’ve come to claim my dance.” The marquess had a smile to rival Cynssyr’s, surprising for so grim a man. He took her arm, preparing to lead her into line. His slate grey eyes swept over her, and he stopped short. “Perhaps some refreshment instead?”

  “Would you mind terribly?”

  “Not at all.” Thrale walked with her to a crowded salon where he somehow managed to find her a chair. She sank gratefully down. “I’ll fetch you some punch.” People who’d come for dinner had left, others who’d not been invited to dine had just arrived, and judging from the number of people crushed everywhere she looked, a good many people who’d not been invited at all had come. Quite a different mix than earlier.

  “My lord,” she said when Thrale returned with a glass of orgeat. She motioned for him to bend close so she could speak softly. “Who is that?” Anne pointed to a tiny woman holding court at the far side of the room. Hardly five feet tall, she was surrounded by admiring men, and with reason. Brilliant blue eyes flashed in a heart-shaped face and shining auburn hair made a striking counterpoint to her pale skin.

  “Which?”

  “There. The woman in the exquisite gown.” Snow-white silk gauze set off rubies the color of blood. They encircled her slender throat and sparkled on her wrists, fingers and delicate shell-like ears. “I’ve seen her several times tonight, but we’ve not been introduced. She must have come late, for I don’t recall her from the receiving line.”

  “Mrs. Forrest.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  Thrale gave her a penetrating look. “You’ve been a married woman for all of six weeks now.”

  “Is that all? It feels as if I’ve always been married. No, that’s not quite it. Inevitable.” She moved a hand in a gesture that encompassed the whole of the scene before them. “That this all was inevitable. Isn’t that strange?”

  “Yet you are innocent. Among the Ton, that’s a rare commodity.”

  “You mean unpolished, but I thank you for your tact.” She smiled, expecting him to smile back, but he didn’t.

  “I mean innocent. He must find that fascinating.”

  “Cynssyr?”

  “Shall we take a turn?” Thrale rose. He tucked her arm under his and began a slow stroll around the perimeter of the crowded salon. “Tell me what you think of London. Do you find it as tiresome as I do?”

  “Honestly, I’ve not seen much. Queen Anne Street and Portman Square. Once to Hampstead Heath for tea with the duchess. Goodness, what an ordeal that was.”

  They continued their circuit, coming quite near Mrs. Forrest. The woman saw Thrale and lifted one fragile hand in greeting. Every finger glittered with gems and filigreed gold. As close as they were, Anne saw no flaw in the porcelain skin, no imperfection in her features or figure. Thrale acknowledged the gesture with a nod, but he continued past.

  “Will you introduce us?” Anne asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  They’d reached the door, and as he led her back to the ballroom, he said, “May I give you a word of advice?”

  “I should welcome it.”

  He pressed Anne’s forearm. “Your husband can be very charming when it suits him. I expect just now it suits him to be charming to you.”

  Anne laughed. “Charming to me? No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.”

  “How unlike him.”


  “Cynssyr is himself around me.” Anne knew that for fact because this evening she’d seen him charming the ladies and it wasn’t anything like how he behaved with her. She’d know if Lord Ruin ever set out to deliberately charm her.

  “Now that, duchess, astonishes me.”

  A stir distracted them and they both turned toward the salon they’d just left. They saw him at the same time. Cynssyr. Anne shivered inside, and she smiled without realizing she did it. Goodness, but he was handsome. The crowd near him parted so that he appeared to move effortlessly where everyone else had to start and stop and jostle one another. Cynssyr lifted a hand in greeting to someone off to his left and continued his course toward the salon.

  Thrale glanced down. “The moment he holds your heart in his hand, he will crush it. That is his way.” He gave a very Gallic shrug. “I have seen it happen so many times. To so many women. I should hate to see you hurt that way.”

  “Oh, I’m safe from that danger.”

  “Ah!” someone called. “I say, Thrale, it’s not sporting of you to try to hide her away.”

  “Wilberfoss.” Thrale greeted the man with a somber nod.

  “It’s my dance now.” He wasn’t a particularly tall man, nor terribly handsome either, but he reminded Anne of Aldreth, with his look of perpetual good humor. Wilberfoss reached them and bowed, a trifle too deep to keep his balance. “Your grace.”

  “Now, I really should let you go,” Anne said to Thrale, taking the viscount’s arm. “I need a word with Lord Wilberfoss.” She tapped his arm. “If he wants to marry my sister, he’ll have to prove himself worthy.”

  Wilberfoss nodded gravely. “I very much hope to, Madam.”

  “You’ve been kind.” She touched Thrale’s sleeve. “Thank you.”

  “I would be glad if you called me Thrale.”

  “Then you must call me Anne.”

  Thrale bowed, and with one brief glance at Wilberfoss, left.

  “Lovely duchess,” Wilberfoss said, speaking so that half the consonants disappeared into the vowels. “You will honor me with a dance?”

  “Delighted, my lord.” She sent one last look toward Thrale and had the very briefest glimpse of the exquisite Mrs. Forrest leaving the salon with Cynssyr at her side.