Lord Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “It’s all right. Honestly, it is.” Her heart contracted. She told herself to be grateful for the reaction, for it meant she would be protected in future. Better a mild hurt now than a worse one later.

  “Mrs. Forrest is in my past, Anne. And there she shall stay.” He sighed. “I should like to know why you came in here.” He went to her and took her by the shoulders. The contact rocked her, for she felt the difference between what happened to her when Cynssyr touched her and when it was Wilberfoss. That same shivery apprehension, but with her husband, it wasn’t sick-making. The feeling still frightened her, but not at all in the same way as with the viscount. With effort, she reined in the reaction.

  “What did Wilberfoss do or say to disturb you? The truth, for I know you would not be angry or upset without cause.” He thought that damn dress of hers fit too well. It hugged her bosom, clung to her thighs and knees, and distracted him from what she was telling him.

  “He...He, he is no fit husband for Emily.”

  Ruan frowned. Normally, Anne kept iron control of her emotions, but now he sensed a crack. Tempered steel taken beyond that metal’s endurance. Even considering she’d just been ill, she was too pale. Her fingers worked nervously at a seam of her gown. Undoubtedly, something had happened, and she was keeping it bottled up inside like she did so much else. “If you wish me to keep Emily and Wilberfoss apart, I will.”

  Her chin lifted and a bit of her spirit flashed in her eyes. “Would you do such a thing? Could you?”

  “Yes.”

  Anger tightened her mouth. “Then do it. Do whatever it takes.”

  He nodded. “Consider it done. But, Anne, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask why.”

  “No,” she whispered, looking at the floor. Her fingers resumed their worrying of the seam. “It’s not.”

  He saw the torn lace of her sleeve and did not at all like the way the puzzle came together. Not a small tear such as one might easily get by accident, but practically a rend. He felt himself go dead inside. “Did he make an advance?” He needed that deadness to keep the rage from overwhelming him. Had he ever been so murderously angry in his life? Indeed, how long had it been since he’d felt anything as deeply as this?

  She kept her head bowed, refusing to look at him.

  “Did he?”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

  “Are you all right?” He put a hand to her chin and lifted her head, waiting patiently until she met his gaze. “Are you all right?” She nodded, but he could see the effort it took her to maintain her composure. “He’s a boy,” he growled. “A harmless boy. Damnation, Anne. Tell me what happened.” Her inability to see herself as the object of a man’s lust made her vulnerable to the wolves constantly on the prowl for a new amusement. If Wilberfoss had so much as laid a hand on her, he would pay. Dearly.

  Cynssyr’s flat, chill eyes made her shudder. Carefully, she blocked off her emotions until she felt just like her husband’s eyes. Chips of green ice. Arctic. “With all the dancing and, and the excitement, and, well, you know I am so tired, Cynssyr. I wished to sit down. I left the ballroom. He followed me. Lord Wilberfoss, I mean. And he seemed to think I wanted to be alone with him, but I didn’t. I didn’t at all.”

  “Did he touch you?” Speaking casually took effort. He dared not let her see the rage. She must at all costs think her answer was of no great consequence. But her luminous eyes reflected a battle between giving him an answer that would exonerate the viscount and the truth. Whatever she said now, he already knew the truth. “Did he?”

  Her eyes were huge in her too pale face, but she spoke serenely. “Yes.”

  Cynssyr went absolutely still, and her lungs refused to draw air. She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself as if that would protect her from his anger.

  “I was frightened. He frightened me. He was mean, and awful and I don’t understand why he—I couldn’t bear to have him near me. Even though he was drunk, he was bigger and stronger, and I couldn’t get away.” She stopped, appalled that she’d resorted to excuses. Best come at the thing straight on. “I struck him, sir, and then he tried to push me into the room, but he stumbled and, and I didn’t. I ran, and he ran after me, and I wanted so badly to find you I just kept running until I found Henry and I made him take me to you.” She let go of her waist and stood again, drawing herself up with a terrifying control. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s got me so upset. How ridiculous I am tonight. I assure you, I am not usually so excitable.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, and he felt her flinch. “I am not your father, scolding and disapproving at every turn.” Studying her, he said, “You aren’t concerned about having struck him, are you? You defended yourself. It was brave of you.”

  “Ruan.” Devon’s voice, a low, velvet utterance.

  “Christ!” Ruan whirled. “Am I to have no privacy whatever?” Ben coughed into his hand and hung back while Devon walked straight in. “What do you want?” His tone of voice was definitely dangerous. He meant it to be, but neither Devon nor Ben took heed.

  “It’s about what happened at Marylebone Gardens,” Ben said, strolling past him and Anne. He exchanged a look with her, then sat.

  “What about it?”

  Anne moved away, but Ruan’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. All this time he’d been worrying about Julian Durling, and it was Wilberfoss who had actually tried something. “I’ve not done with you, Madam.” Fury bubbled up. Not at Anne. Never her. At Wilberfoss having the gall to put his hands on her. At himself for not protecting her from the sod. At Thomas Sinclair for coming so damn close to breaking his daughter’s spirit.

  “Last night,” Devon supplied.

  Ben stood to his full height. “Let her go, Cyn. You’re hurting her.”

  He glanced down and saw his fingers tight around Anne’s wrist and then saw her face. He was hurting her. Abruptly, he released her. “My apologies.”

  “I was not hurt, Aldreth.” The way she rubbed her wrist gave her the lie.

  Ruan found himself the object of two malevolent glances from Ben and Devon. They blamed him for Anne’s pallor and her tension. Not knowing how often she was ill nor that her early pregnancy was the most immediate reason for her chalky complexion, nor that Wilberfoss had laid hands on her, no wonder they put him down as the cause. Particularly since the effects of her encounter with Wilberfoss showed plain in her face and eyes. “Will her father let me see her?” he asked.

  Both Ben and Devon looked at Anne and remained silent.

  “I don’t think it’s Durling,” Devon said too carefully. “Thrale’s our man.”

  “Thrale?” Anne repeated, guessing immediately what they meant. Ruan silently applauded her quickness of understanding. “Surely not. He couldn’t be.”

  “Be what?” Ben said with exaggerated innocence.

  “The man you’re after.”

  “Who said we’re after anyone a’tall?”

  “Oh, please, Aldreth.”

  “Why couldn’t it be Thrale?” Ruan asked, interested to know the reason for her certainty.

  “He’s not capable of violence.”

  “Given sufficient compulsion, every one of us is capable of violence, Anne,” Ruan said. He lifted one eyebrow. “Did you not learn that for yourself just tonight?”

  “Not the Marquess,” she protested over a furious blush. “He simply could not.”

  “That’s a quick defense for a man you hardly know.” For the second time in one night, he was jealous and not equipped to deal with a reaction so entirely foreign to his experience. Anne didn’t reply. She just accepted what must to her have seemed a rebuke.

  “Enough of this,” Devon interjected. “This is a ball, and we are keeping Anne from her triumph. Besides—” He bowed, eyes and voice rich with sensual undertones. “I’ve yet to dance with you.”

  Was he going to have to kill his best friend, too?

  “May I?” Anne asked with a carefulness that struck to his heart
and brought a frown to both Ben and Dev.

  Ruan summoned all the calm at his command, a niggardly portion that didn’t feel like nearly enough. “Dance with whomever you like. If you are up to it.” It wasn’t enough. He came off sounding like he’d couched a criticism of Anne in a sarcasm directed at Devon. He could not fathom how the evening had turned so horribly wrong. He’d not minded so much that Anne had been leered at by every damned man present. Dressed as she was, a man would have to be blind not to look and keep looking.

  Looking was one matter. Having Anne preyed on by Wilberfoss was another entirely. But worst of all was having her walk in on him and Katie. Though she pretended otherwise, he’d seen the betrayal in her eyes. Of all he’d done to Anne, this was by far the worst. Tonight, he’d damaged something precious. Really, he didn’t see how the evening could get worse except, to top it all off, Ben and Devon believed he mistreated her, and he’d had enough trouble with those two over Anne.

  Ben grasped Ruan’s arm when he would have followed Anne and Devon from the room. “You are my good friend,” Ben said in response to Ruan’s questioning look. “You have my admiration and esteem in almost every respect. But I tell you honestly, the thought of you taking Anne to wife made my blood boil. If I’d seen any other way—Any way at all—What happened at Corth Abby was entirely your fault. My God, man, you violated her. You stole her innocence. You robbed her of the chance to marry someone not afraid to admit his feelings for her. And yes, I do mean Devon.” Benjamin jabbed his finger in the direction of Ruan’s chest. “You owe her. Good God, man, don’t you see she did you the favor, not t’other way round? She deserves better from you than damnable gossip about how much time you spend with bloody Katie Forrest.”

  Ruan felt the chill of those clear blue eyes. “Are you quite done?”

  “No.”

  “Pray continue.” He waved one hand toward his friend in a hurry-up motion.

  “Anne has spirit. Real spirit, Cyn. The kind that runs deep and true. A man doesn’t often find a woman like that, and when he does, why—” He made a grabbing motion with one hand “—he snatches her up before it’s too late. I know, for Mary got her spirit from Anne. Anne’s the best of the lot. For all that I love Mary, that’s plain truth.”

  “Then why didn’t you save me a pack of trouble and marry her yourself?”

  Ben drew a silver case from his coat pocket from which he extracted a slender cigar. Ruan refused the offer of one. “Don’t think,” Ben said, examining his cigar, “that I didn’t notice her.” With elaborate care, he lit the end and watched Ruan through a cloud of smoke. “Those exquisitely long legs. Good God, I love to watch her walk.” He shrugged, and tossed his spent match into the fireplace. “I wanted to take her to bed the moment I laid eyes on her. But by the time I met Anne, I was hopelessly in love with Mary. I didn’t admit that, of course, but I loved her madly.” Another column of smoke went spiraling to the ceiling. “Doesn’t Mrs. Forrest bore you to tears by now? She ought to. I should think Anne would be a breath of fresh air.”

  “She is.”

  “If ever you harm her—if ever I see a mark on her—”

  “Damnation!” He faced Ben with fisted hands, itching to lay into him, to anyone at all. “I will not have this. Not even from you.”

  Ben shifted his balance to the balls of his feet. “Go ahead, Cyn. I’d like to see you try.”

  Ruan turned on his heel and went to the fireplace. He gripped the mantle, staring into the embers. He would die before he hurt Anne. Or let anyone hurt her. The certainty consumed him like fire devoured tinder. “Have I so far managed this marriage well?” he asked of the fireplace. “I’m the first to admit I have not.” He faced Ben. “Have I given Anne anything like the affection she deserves from her husband? No, I admit I have not. But harm her physically? That I have not done. Nor shall I ever. Do not believe me capable of lifting a violent hand to her.”

  “If you harm her in any way, Cyn, I’ll come after you.”

  “Be my guest, Aldreth.” Ruan laughed. “From the look of things, there’ll be a long line.”

  Ben drew on his cigar. “You poor bastard. If she didn’t hate you before,” he said, “she must by now.”

  The hell of it was, Ruan was afraid she might.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ruan lasted three hours at his Whitehall office before he gave up believing he could concentrate on anything meaningful. So far, he’d snarled at anyone to come by and sent more than one man running to safety. Hickenson hadn’t left the anteroom since the last time Ruan had practically taken off his head for his pains. He shoved away the pile of papers before him. He’d made no inroads in the height of the stack.

  Plainly, working was an unachievable goal. Going to one of his clubs didn’t appeal. He didn’t want the company of men. Blast it. He wanted to be with Anne. Read her a poem, perhaps, or just talk. He wanted to see her lovely, seductive smile. For pity’s sake, he was a fool and nothing else. But, he still wanted to be with her. He grabbed his coat and stalked out. Anne, unfortunately, wasn’t any too pleased with him. Ever since she’d seen him with Katie, she’d been cool as ice. Cooler, even. And he didn’t blame her for it, either.

  Hickenson shot to his feet. “Your grace!”

  He pulled so hard on the lapels of his coat the garment fairly snapped to his shoulders. “The afternoon is yours.”

  “Good day, your grace.” Hickenson quickly bowed but not before Ruan saw his relief.

  “Good day.”

  He found himself on the street outside Whitehall with no notion of what to do with himself. Finding himself at loose ends for an afternoon, he would normally call on Katie. Perhaps even spend through the late evening with her. For the last three years, Herriot Street had been his home away from home. He made a mental note to send Hickenson to fetch his things. Half his clothes and his best boots were there, yet to be collected. He didn’t regret the break with her. No other woman interested him. Not even Katie. Only Anne.

  He went home.

  Calling cards with corners bent to convey one meaning or another filled the salver on the table kept by the door for the very purpose of collecting such mementoes. He put his hat on the table and glanced through them. A veritable register of London Society. Lord Eldon. Lord Fenrother. Sather. Kinross. Brenley Cooke and his wife and daughter. Richmond, Portland, Essex. Lady Prescott. Sir Reginald Dinwitty. The Fairchild mother and daughter. Julian Durling. Durling, the great ruddy sod, had scrawled an extempore poem on the back of his engraved card.

  To Anne

  The duchess, for whom, whatever

  my desires, alas,

  I cannot rhyme a poem

  that will not roam

  all over the d————d page.

  Durling had written the last line so that it curled around to the top right of the card. “Precocious bugger,” Ruan muttered as he climbed the stairs. He paused outside Anne’s door and wondered why he knew she was inside. Ridiculous, to feel so certain. All the same, he knew she was.

  “Come in,” she called out when he rapped lightly on the door.

  His heart beat a familiar drum when he saw Anne. She rose from the desk where she’d been writing a letter. Her violet gown fit well. Not low cut, but nipped tightly under her bosom and narrow at the hips and of a flattering color that deepened the blue of her eyes. Slipping Durling’s card into his pocket he inclined his head. She looked delicious. Delectable. He wanted to take her in his arms and make love to her right now.

  “Anne.” His pulse raced as he watched her lean over to blot the page.

  “Sir.”

  It struck Ruan that Anne, who of late existed on a diet of toast and porridge had lost weight. “I must consult with Dr. Carstairs about whether it’s usual for a woman to be so ill and tired.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “If there is cause for concern, I want to know. You are pale. Are you certain you are well?”

  “Yes, sir.” Anne could not help staring at Cynssyr
. He moved with the lithe, powerful stride that always threatened to strike her dumb. No weakness, she chided herself. From now on in, she would be strong and as impervious to feeling as ever she’d been in Bartley Green. And she tried to be. She really did. But she felt so out of place in her clothes, the ridiculous violet silk more suited to one of her sisters, and Cynssyr so impossibly beautiful that it was difficult to maintain her equanimity.

  She retreated to her desk, sitting to fold her letter and write a direction on the outside. Cynssyr did not leave. Nor did he say anything, but she could feel him standing there, a vital presence. She closed her eyes, trying to make herself feel nothing. “Someone called while you were out.”

  “Indeed.”

  “A man.” Having gotten herself under control, she turned on her chair and faced her husband. “My sisters were here. He told the most amusing stories you can imagine. Even Emily laughed at him. But I could not make myself like him. Something about him unsettled me. He claimed he knew you from the war. But he did not strike me as someone with whom you would have an acquaintance.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Mr. John Martin.”

  “Martin? A bad bargain.”

  “I thought he was not much a gentleman.”

  “I was his commanding officer in Spain and Portugal. He cashed out when the fighting got rough. No one was sorry to see him go. Least of all me.”

  “I cannot say I am entirely surprised.” She took up something on the desk. “Someone else called, too. She gave me this.” She held out her hand and dropped the object onto Cynssyr’s palm. A signet ring.

  His long fingers turned the heavy ring over and over.

  “You recognize it, then,” Anne said, determined to keep her distance, physical and otherwise. But, dash it all, he was in her room, and he just took over the space.

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “A—woman.” She faltered because she had known the woman was no proper lady. “A, a Cypriot.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You received a prostitute?”

  She matched his aplomb. “I give alms to anyone who asks. If Merchant is not present, then another is.”