A Gentleman's Curse: Avenging Lords - Book 4

by Clee, Adele

The lofty matrons would consider Lissette too familiar for a lady’s maid, but she put Claudia at ease, and that was all that mattered.

  Claudia followed Lissette into the dressing room. The maid flung back the door of the armoire to reveal a host of silk gowns in an array of colours. Monsieur Dariell had spared no expense when instructing the modiste in matters of her wardrobe.

  “You are to attend the masquerade tonight, no?” Lissette beamed.

  “Yes.” Feeling somewhat overwhelmed, Claudia added, “Though having never ventured to town, I don’t have the first clue what to wear.”

  “Let me see.” Lissette pursed her lips and narrowed her gaze. “Perhaps you should look at the masks.” The maid did not wait for an answer but pulled a hatbox from the top shelf. She placed it on the floor, lifted the lid and removed two sparkling creations. “We have the proud peacock or the red devil.”

  Claudia admired the masks in Lissette’s hands. The blood-red mask was rimmed in black silk, boasted red and black feathers and a large onyx stone between the brows. Tiny teal jewels decorated the bronze arabesque swirls on the other mask. A teal feather served as a backdrop for a fan of small peacock feathers. The mask looked exotic and far more mysterious than the bold red one.

  “Peacocks are proud creatures,” Claudia agreed. “Is there a gown that might suit it, do you think?”

  Lissette’s eyes widened. “Is there a gown? Madame, there is a gown that will make every man in the room stop and stare.” The maid returned the masks to the box before drawing a cerulean blue dress from the armoire.

  A soft sigh left Claudia’s lips.

  The blue silk taffeta was trimmed in gold brocade. The sleeves were designed to bare the shoulders, the bodice cut scandalously low. Heavens, how would she wear such an elegant gown without looking like an imposter? One would need a natural sensuality, the confidence of royalty. Yet she was a mere country girl.

  Panic surfaced.

  And she thought feigning love proved challenging.

  “Isn’t it marvellous, madame?” Lissette hung the dress back on the hook. She bent down, opened a drawer and withdrew a length of blue velvet ribbon. “Monsieur Dariell, he chose this choker. He said a lady has no need for jewels when she sparkles like the stars in the night sky.”

  Claudia snorted. Perhaps Monsieur Dariell had another lady in mind when he chose the wardrobe.

  “Well, I must try on the dress and hope it needs minimal alterations. I’m told you’re skilled with a needle and thread.”

  “Oui, madame. I learnt my trade in Paris.”

  “Paris? You served as a lady’s maid there before coming to England?”

  A chuckle escaped Lissette’s lips. “This is my first position in a grand house. I came to England to work for Madame Armand five years ago. Monsieur Dariell, he asked me to serve you, and I owe him a debt of gratitude that I long to repay.”

  Claudia drew her brows together in confusion. She wasn’t sure which question to ask first. “You’re a seamstress?”

  Lissette nodded. “Monsieur Dariell said you are a lady without prejudice.”

  Claudia pondered the maid’s comment. The Frenchman had been staying at Falaura Glen when Claudia accepted Mr Lockhart’s proposal.

  “When did Monsieur Dariell tell you that?”

  “A week ago, madame, during his last visit to the modiste.”

  A week ago?

  Then he was definitely speaking about someone else. Mr Lockhart must have approached another woman with the same proposition. Ridiculous as it was, Claudia couldn’t help but feel disappointed. She was the second choice—the inferior model.

  “And what is the debt you owe Monsieur Dariell?”

  Lissette hung her head and cast her gaze to the floor. “It is a shameful subject, madame. Please, do not make me speak of it.”

  Claudia was not one to judge, nor was she one to pry. Besides, the notion that Mr Lockhart had not been completely honest left a sour taste in her mouth. Pain throbbed in the base of her throat as she held on to the feeling that she had been naive, naive to imagine he saw something in her other than a usefulness to serve his own ends.

  “Then I shall try on the dress so you may make the alterations.” Claudia raised her chin and kept her voice even. She would approach the task of playing Mr Lockhart’s wife as she would any other chore—with a determination to do her best whilst remaining indifferent.

  “I doubt we will need to make any adjustments, madame.” Lissette removed the gown from the armoire, shook out the material and held it against Claudia’s body. “Monsieur Dariell, he was most precise in his measurements.”

  Of course he was! Mr Lockhart had chosen her because she resembled the previous candidate.

  Heat crept up Claudia’s neck to burn her cheeks, punishment for believing Mr Lockhart’s lofty praise of her character. If she hadn’t already made a pact with one devil—in promising to marry Mr Thorncroft—she would have gathered her valise and taken the next mail coach home.

  But there was more at stake than her fragile pride.

  Claudia needed the seventeen hundred pounds he had promised. Emily needed a sister with the strength and courage to see this task through, not one whose vanity had led her to believe the gentleman held her in high regard.

  “Nevertheless,” Claudia began, resigned to take her role seriously, “we won’t know if the dress fits if I do not try it on.”

  If Mr Lockhart wanted a devoted wife, that’s what he would get. Claudia would give a performance worthy of royal patronage, a performance to show him she was far from second best.

  Chapter Seven

  “What the hell’s keeping her?” Lockhart muttered to himself as he paced the hall, stopping every few steps to examine his pocket watch should the long-case clock need winding.

  Perhaps the dress she’d chosen for the masquerade needed extensive alterations.

  Perhaps Miss Darling’s courage had abandoned her at this crucial stage.

  He was about to mount the stairs, hunt her down and berate her for her tardiness when the sound of feminine laughter reached his ears. The hushed mutterings of a conversation—thank you being the only audible words—preceded the rustle of material.

  Lissette appeared. She descended the stairs wearing a mischievous grin—the look of a woman who had a secret she was desperate to tell. The maid curtsied when she reached the hall before disappearing through the door leading down to the kitchen.

  Somewhat confused by Lissette’s excited expression, Lockhart’s attention swept back to the stairs.

  The seconds ticked.

  He watched and waited.

  His heart pounded hard in anticipation.

  With the slow, graceful steps of a duchess, Miss Darling approached the stairs in a breathtaking gown of cerulean blue. Her golden hair was swept up in an elegant coiffure. One long curl snaked around her neck to dangle seductively over her shoulder. The minx kept her mask high to hide her face. Lockhart didn’t know if her eyes swam with excitement or fear, not until she descended the stairs with a sensual sway, trailing her fingers down the length of the bannister like a skilled temptress might tease a man’s throbbing shaft.

  Lockhart held his breath.

  For one so innocent, Miss Darling certainly knew how to seduce her husband.

  She stopped on the bottom stair so that they were almost eye level.

  “The peacock reveals his fan in a display of courtship,” he said, hoping to prompt her to lower her mask. “From your choice this evening, I can only surmise that you intend to woo me, my darling.”

  Her blue eyes sparked to life, the hue enhanced by the teal gems covering the bronze mask. “I wish for every person in the ballroom to know how much I desire my husband. Is that not what this evening is about?”

  The evening was about shocking his brother and wiping the arrogant grin off his face, about proving Selina had a heart of stone. So why did it cross his mind to capture Miss Darling in his arms and remain at home?

  �
�Then before we leave for Comte de Lancey’s masquerade, lower your mask and permit me to judge your ability to rouse a reaction.”

  He was confident she would rise to the challenge.

  “Very well.” The lady lowered her mask in the teasing way a courtesan might slip out of a silk chemise.

  Something had changed during the hours she had spent alone with Lissette. It had nothing to do with the magnificence of her gown, or the way the sapphire comb sparkled in her blonde hair. It had nothing to do with the scandalously low neckline that offered him an opportunity to admire her ample breasts.

  No, the lady had a steely look in her eyes, harder, more determined than before. Her resolute chin looked capable of sustaining more than a few knocks.

  Miss Darling had slipped into the role of his wife as easily as any skilled actress, and yet in doing so she had lost something of herself, lost the innocence he found just as fascinating.

  As a man who could not recall the last time he’d taken a woman to his bed, he scanned the delightful swell of her breasts once again. “If I’m to spend the evening feigning love, Miss Darling, permit me a moment to bathe in the lust flowing through my veins.”

  The lady arched a coy brow. Had Lissette been giving her lessons? After all, the maid had dressed the finest whores in France.

  “I wonder if I was not mistaken,” she said. “Perhaps when a man loves his wife he lusts after her, too.”

  Lockhart had to agree. He could not envisage living with a woman he did not want to bed. “I imagine if I loved you, my darling, I would want to pleasure you until you clasped my buttocks and cried my name.”

  Despite sucking in numerous breaths, Miss Darling’s cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. Ah, there she was, the woman in the ugly dress who brought him supper each night and panicked about pheasant. The woman who struggled to look him in the eye.

  “Then I am thankful we are only pretending,” she said, as the naive maiden shrank back behind the curtain to give the actress centre stage.

  Lockhart laughed. If only his task were to bed Claudia Darling. It would make for a far more interesting game than a need for vengeance.

  “You may have a different view once the week is out,” he said, for he relished a challenge.

  “Yes, in a week I may hate you.” Thankfully, her voice lacked conviction.

  “But for now you love me. Let’s not forget that. Let’s not forget why we’re here.”

  “I have not forgotten.”

  Silence ensued.

  “You look beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.

  Rather than accept the compliment and smile as other ladies were wont to do, a sadness passed over her features.

  “Are you thinking about Miss Emily, about Falaura Glen?” he asked.

  She exhaled. “I am always thinking about Emily.”

  “No doubt she will enjoy hearing your tales of the ball tonight.” Lockhart offered his arm. “We really must be on our way. Come, our carriage awaits.”

  Miss Darling wrapped her fingers around his biceps rather than place her hand lightly in the crook. “Let us hope we cause a stir tonight.”

  “Cause a stir? Madam, we will be the talk of the ton.”

  * * *

  The Comte de Lancey was a man possessed of extravagant tastes coupled with a desire to please. Consequently, a horde of eager revellers had squashed into the elaborate ballroom of his Mayfair mansion. Hermits, magicians and many characters from Greek mythology mingled with those whose desire to dress for the occasion extended to naught but a simple mask.

  Buffoonery topped most people’s agendas. Fools believed their masks rendered them invisible. The rakes and scoundrels grasped any opportunity to make mischief. As with all masquerades, the air in the room carried a licentious undertone that infected all those in the vicinity.

  Greystone had secured Lockhart’s invitation. The comte cared more about the quantity of guests than their quality. Assured of Terence’s attendance, Lockhart had specifically chosen this event to make his appearance. The black domino and mask gave him anonymity until the grand reveal. While the masquerade made it more difficult to locate Terence in the crowd, Lockhart’s friends had gathered to offer support and assistance.

  Had Devlin Drake hidden himself beneath a shroud, Lockhart would recognise him in a room packed with people. The giant stood a head taller than most men. As a man unamused by tomfoolery, Drake had forgone a costume.

  “Come, let me introduce you to my friends,” Lockhart said as he led Miss Darling to the far side of the room. The lady gripped his arm as if they were walking through Whitechapel at midnight draped in diamonds and pearls. “Relax. I shall not leave your side.”

  “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  They squeezed past a monk telling bawdy tales to anyone willing to stop and listen, past a Roman emperor with knobbly knees intent on flashing them to every passer-by. Numerous men raised their masks. None were interested in the man dressed in the same black domino as a hundred other guests. All focused their hungry gazes on Miss Darling’s luscious breasts.

  Devil take it. Lockhart would lay odds he’d have a fist fight before the night was out.

  “You look ready for your bed, Drake.” Lockhart raised his mask as he joined his friends. It had been a little over a month since he had last set eyes on the men who’d dragged him from a pit of despair and given him a reason to live.

  Drake’s smile enveloped Lockhart like a warm embrace as their gazes locked. “I am, and if I don’t leave soon I shall punch one of these fools making inappropriate gestures to my wife.”

  Lockhart noted the lady at Drake’s side, dressed as a shepherdess and wielding a crook. She was Drake’s opposite in every way—petite, dainty, with kind eyes beneath her mask.

  Introductions were made.

  Valentine and Greystone, both dressed in plain black dominoes, patted Lockhart numerous times on the back, though their curious gazes lingered on the lady at his side. He met the women who had captured his friends’ hearts. Juliet was the delicate lady who held the giant, Drake, in thrall. Aveline’s intelligent eyes were surely the reason Valentine had fallen in love. And Lydia’s lively spirit had captured Greystone’s heart. Greystone’s playful exterior belied the intelligent, methodical, hardworking man whose business acumen had helped to secure all their fortunes.

  “Welcome home,” Greystone said, his gaze flicking in Claudia’s direction by way of prompting an introduction. “I trust everything in Russell Square meets with your approval.”

  “It does,” Lockhart said, confused at his own reluctance to present Miss Darling. Perhaps it was because these men knew the truth, and he liked playing husband, liked keeping Miss Darling all to himself.

  Valentine fixed a stare and bowed low. “As my friend seems somewhat lapse when it comes to manners, Mrs Lockhart, let me welcome you to London.”

  Miss Darling smiled. “Thank you, my lord, though I must admit to preferring the peace of the country,” she said, remembering what Lockhart had said about remaining in character, even with his friends. “And I like devoting my time to my husband without unnecessary distractions.”

  Valentine’s smile expressed approval.

  Lockhart turned to look at her. He gazed into her innocent blue eyes—eyes that did not look so innocent tonight—without looking at her breasts. “The next few hours will pass quickly and we will be alone again soon.”

  The other six people in the group gaped.

  Greystone arched an inquiring brow. “May we know your wife’s name or is it to remain a closely guarded secret?”

  “Of course.” Lockhart inclined his head. “Allow me to present Mrs Claudia Lockhart, wife of an infamous rogue.”

  All three ladies broke into excited chatter, inviting Miss Darling to tea, to a shopping trip at the Burlington Arcade, to a meeting with a group of ladies who studied literature as a means of enlightenment.

  Lockhart cast his friends a look that conveyed the depth of
his fear, conveyed the dangers Miss Darling faced once Terence Lockhart learnt the truth.

  “There is plenty of time to shop for new bonnets,” Lord Valentine said. “I doubt Lockhart will leave Claudia’s side during—” He broke off abruptly and turned to Miss Darling. “May I call you Claudia?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What Valentine is trying to say,” Greystone interrupted, “is that Lockhart is besotted with his wife and will, no doubt, monopolise her attention whilst in town.”

  “And we must make time to reunite with family,” Lockhart added, though keeping his hands from wringing his brother’s neck would prove problematic. “Speaking of which, I assume Terence is here this evening.”

  Drake nodded to a point near the orchestra. “Terence is wearing the burgundy domino and Scaramouch mask. Selina has come as Minerva though some have mistaken her for Athena.” Drake snorted. “Roman, Greek, they are pretty much the same.”

  “I would have to disagree,” Aveline countered.

  While Aveline and Drake conversed about the Roman goddess taking her influence from the Greeks, Lockhart scanned the crowd, searching for his quarry.

  Bitterness formed like bile in his throat when he located Selina Lockhart. The ebony-haired coquette had the gall to look sad, subdued. He had wanted to wipe the arrogance from her face, wanted to knock her off her polished marble pedestal and see her grovel. While Terence spoke to friends, she simply stared at the jugglers and then at those dancing the quadrille.

  “De Lancey has spared no expense when it comes to entertainment,” Lockhart said. “He’s hired every sideshow act except for a performing monkey.”

  Valentine raised his mask and sharpened his gaze. “Dariell told you, didn’t he?”

  “Told me what?”

  “That I have developed a dislike of the creatures.”

  “A dislike of sideshow acts?”

  Valentine groaned. “Of monkeys.”

  “Did you not befriend that monkey who stole from the market in Ghaziabad?” Lockhart said, finding the conversation amusing, for Dariell had spoken about the night Raja attacked Valentine at the Westminster Pit.