“Let go of me at once!” she commanded.
The man-lion stared up at her. He did not speak. Neither did he release her.
A strand of his red-gold mane stuck to her cheek and tickled her nose. She managed to pry one hand free and swatted his hair away from her face. He lifted an eyebrow, and she glared in return. She hated him with the heat of a thousand burning suns—and yet, for the briefest moment, she regretted wearing gloves.
And then everything happened at once.
The chandelier fell like lightning and smashed like a thunderbolt, scattering shards of glass and wax through the air like rain. She felt herself rolled and pinned, shielded from the storm by his broad shoulders and strong back. She gripped the front of his shirt tightly in her fists, tucking herself in closer to him, and buried her face against his chest.
There were screams, and she was aware of men beating out the flames with their coats. And then…nothing. The ballroom went completely silent. She could hear nothing but the viscount’s labored breathing.
“For the last time, and now I really must demand an answer, what the devil?” Wessex bellowed.
No one had an answer, but everyone had a response. The ballroom was again a bustle of noise and movement. Servants appeared to clean up the fragments of chandelier, and guests elbowed their way to the cloakroom. If the Duke of Wessex’s ballroom was to crumble to the ground, they would rather watch it from the outside.
When Alice could see again, she found herself face-to-face with a white cravat.
When she could breathe again, she found her nostrils once more filled with her enemy’s male scent—clean soap and balsam. It was rather like being in the Scots pine forest that bordered her parents’ estate.
When she could think again, she hoped to God the villain wasn’t mortally wounded. He couldn’t die. Not yet, not before she had even begun to exact her revenge. Nothing but his long life full of abject misery would sate her.
Also, if he were mortally wounded, she would never get the oaf off her. He must weigh fifteen stone.
“Do get off the poor girl before you suffocate her to death,” Wessex said.
The blue eyes above her flashed, and for a moment she was sure he would refuse the command, duke or no. But the arms loosened and he rolled off, allowing her to breathe again.
“Now, then,” Wessex murmured. He stretched out his hand.
She took his assistance and allowed him to haul her gracefully to her feet. She smoothed a hand over her hair, determining whether everything was in place. It was not. The braid that had looped around her knot had come quite undone, and the curls that sprang around her face and neck were now flailing madly in all directions.
Bother.
“I know that introducing oneself is not at all the thing, but we are beyond such conventions at the moment, are we not? I am Lord Sebastien Sinclair, Duke of Wessex. To whom do we owe our deepest gratitude for saving our lives?”
She gave her dress a firm shake to set the shape to rights again and dropped into a curtsy. “Miss Alice Bursnell, Your Grace.” She glanced over her shoulder at the man still prostrate on the floor. She expected him to show some surprise at her name. After all, the last person he had seen with this face was called Adelaide, not Alice. But he did not so much as blink.
Was it possible he didn’t recognize her? Her already-dark thoughts turned to thunderclouds. Perhaps the man bedded so many women they were all the same to him and he could not distinguish one lady from another, any more than he could fruit flies.
Oh, how she loathed him!
“Miss Bursnell.” Duke Wessex bowed. “We thank you.” Then he noticed that his friend had not yet risen. “Get up, man. Introductions must be made.”
Alice turned to watch as he scrambled to his feet. There was nothing graceful about it. The man was simply enormous. He reminded her of an octopus, long limbs flailing, stuck on its back.
When he was finally upright, Duke Wessex clapped him on the back. “Miss Bursnell, allow me to introduce Lord Nathaniel Eastwood, Viscount Abingdon, whom you so cunningly assailed at the best moment possible.”
Nathaniel Eastwood. NE.
There was no mistake.
She tried to curtsy but found that her knees refused to cooperate. Bow to her dear sister’s seducer? Bow to the man who had ruined Adelaide and deserted her? No, indeed. She simply froze and glared at the man before her.
“Oh, Alice!”
She grimaced at the exasperated reproof in her aunt’s tone as she bustled to the top of the stairs. Aunt Bea was a very plump woman, and she was breathing hard by the time she reached them. That did not stop her from talking, Alice noted. Nothing ever did.
“Please excuse Alice, Your Grace. Of course, we will make reparations. Of course. She didn’t mean anything by it. She never does, you know.” Aunt Bea fluttered her hands nervously before clasping them together.
Duke Wessex burst into laughter. “Quite all right, ma’am.” He studied her carefully, then said, “I believe we have been introduced?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I am Lady Shaw.” She curtsied.
“Ah.” His expression cleared. “The late Baron Shaw’s widow.”
“And sister of Viscount Westsea, Your Grace. Miss Bursnell, his daughter, is my niece.” She gestured to Alice, who curtsied yet again.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Viscount Abingdon interjected. They all turned to look at him. “But what didn’t she mean?”
Aunt Bea fluttered her hands again and blinked her pale brown eyes rapidly. “My lord?”
“You said Miss Bursnell didn’t mean anything by it, that she never does. What didn’t she mean?” His smile was pleasant, but Alice detected a threat in that rough voice.
“Why, causing the chandelier to fall, naturally,” Aunt Bea said.
Abingdon’s smile, Alice noticed, didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh? It was Miss Bursnell’s doing, then?”
“Well, I didn’t see it myself,” Aunt Bea admitted. “But it seems the sort of mischief she would find herself in. She is forever having disasters.”
“Oh, really, Aunt! I did nothing of the kind,” Alice protested, stamping her foot. Viscount Abingdon gave her a hard look and her insides shivered. She might be hell-bent on revenge, but how was he to know that? Anyway, her revenge would be a great deal subtler and more devastating than a falling chandelier. “How would I even accomplish such a thing, I ask you?”
Abingdon said nothing, but Duke Wessex tipped his head back and laughed. “How, indeed? I daresay you could do anything you put your mind to, Miss Bursnell. You did, after all, manage to save our lives quite nicely.”
Alice dipped her chin in recognition of the compliment. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She directed an icy glance at Lord Abingdon before turning to her aunt. “I must beg that we retire, Aunt. The excitement of the evening has left me quite weak.”
Aunt Bea patted her arm reassuringly. “Of course, dear. Here, take my arm.”
Alice did her best to appear subdued as they made their way to the ballroom doors, but inside she felt anything but weak.
She felt galvanized.
Yes, indeed. She had found her man.
And now she had a revenge to plan.
Chapter Three
Nathaniel watched Miss Bursnell exit with her aunt. She gave him one last glare over her shoulder as she swept from the room. His cheeks heated. Confound it, why was she looking at him like that? Had he not just saved her from a face full of crystal shards? True, she had tackled him first, and therefore might reasonably claim to have saved his life, but if he hadn’t rolled, she would surely be disfigured. Or at least scratched. He hated to think of all that perfect porcelain marred.
Her back was straight as a maypole and there was no sign of droop or weariness in the tilt of her chin or quick step of her foot. Weak, she had claimed? No, she was not that.
“I do believe we shall be seeing more of Miss Bursnell,” Wessex remarked. When Nathaniel raised a speculative eyebrow, h
e added, “Not on my account, I assure you.”
Wessex did not intend to seek her out, then? That was unexpected. Miss Bursnell was, after all, female. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Wessex drawled. “We were both standing under that cursed chandelier, you realize.”
Nathaniel furrowed his brow.
Wessex sighed. “We were both standing under the chandelier, and yet she only pushed you out of the way. Seemed hell-bent on saving you, in fact. I was left to my own devices to escape the danger, which I must say is not the usual treatment of a duke.” He flicked a small crystal shard from his shoulder. “What do you make of that?”
Nathaniel watched Miss Bursnell’s retreating form with a puzzled frown. If she had created the danger, why had she rescued him? What sort of assassin foiled her own plot? She did not strike him as a stupid woman. “I have absolutely no idea.”
But he intended to find out.
Chapter Four
Alice’s exploits at the ball made her a celebrity. Callers had been streaming into Aunt Bea’s rose-colored drawing room since ten o’clock the next morning, an obscenely early hour according to Aunt Bea.
Alice was tired of the whole thing. If only they would go away and leave her to plot her revenge in peace! But she knew Aunt Bea was delighted with her newfound success. It had been two years since the death of her fiancé at Waterloo and one year since the death of her sister. Those years had been difficult and sad, and Aunt Bea was undoubtedly eager for Alice to set them firmly in the past and move forward with the business of living.
“You have spent so much time mourning the loss of loved ones,” her aunt had argued when Alice had tried to escape the drawing room after the first wave of visitors. “It is time to put grieving aside and find a little joy.”
Alice vehemently disagreed. Now was not the time for joy. Now was the time for vengeance. She could not simply set aside her grief for her sister, any more than she could set aside her love. They were mingled together, feeding off each other. She could not destroy her grief without first…not exactly destroying her love for Adelaide, but certainly diminishing it. As long as Adelaide remained in her daily thoughts, Alice would love her. And she would grieve her.
But she could not bear to disappoint her aunt, so she stayed put in the drawing room. Her current visitors, at least, were all females. They were silly females, to be sure, but at least they were not here to woo her.
“To think you saved the life of the Duke of Wessex!” Lady Claire Harrison exclaimed with a hand flutter and dreamy sigh. Alice gritted her teeth, but Lady Claire didn’t notice. “Did you actually touch his person?”
“No, I did not.”
The other girls looked at Alice expectantly, waiting for more, but she refused to utter another word, on the grounds that the conversation was rapidly approaching a level of ridiculousness that she refused to be a part of.
“It was Lord Abingdon that Alice actually touched,” Miss Eliza Benton said, imitating Lady Claire’s whispery tone. “I must advise you, Alice, that the next time you are faced with choosing between a viscount and a duke, you should aim for the duke.”
The girls tittered, and Alice laughed outright. It was odd to hear such dry wit coming from such an angelic countenance. Miss Eliza Benton was as fair as Alice was dark. Her hair was so pale that it was almost white, her eyes were a lovely shade of aquamarine, and she possessed a dimple in each rosy cheek. She was the sort of woman one might mark as a rival, showing her nothing but friendliness to her face and nothing but judgment to her back.
Alice instantly adored her.
“I was very careless with my heroism,” Alice agreed. “I really ought to have requested an introduction first!”
To which Miss Benton threw back her lovely head and laughed.
“Oh, Alice,” Lady Claire said. “Do not fret, dear. I am sure his grace understands that you would have seen to his safety first, had you known who he was.”
Alice hid her smirk behind her teacup. No doubt, Lady Claire would have shoved aside any number of viscounts to save a duke.
“It really is such a pity,” Lady Claire continued. “Duke Wessex is so amusing and affable, and Lord Abingdon is…er, not.”
Lady Claire emphasized nearly every other word, her voice going up and down like a warbler’s. It gave Alice a mild bout of seasickness. But, at last, here was her chance to learn more of Viscount Abingdon! If only it did not require encouraging Lady Claire to talk.
“Oh, is he not?” Alice asked, then steadied her nerves against the onslaught.
“No, indeed!” Lady Claire exclaimed. “Lord Abingdon is grouchy and unbearably smug. I am sure he looks down on us all. He never comes to London, as he prefers his estate in Hampshire, even during the season. I daresay he only attended last night’s ball to appease Duke Wessex. They are good friends, you know, though heaven knows for the life of me I cannot think why.”
Up, down, up, down. Alice took a bracing sip of tea to calm her stomach.
“And he is not so handsome as Duke Wessex, either,” Lady Claire continued, unaware that Alice was close approaching a very bad temper. “It is truly inelegant of him to be so tall.”
“Yes, he really should do something about that,” Miss Benton murmured to her teacup.
“And his hair!” Lady Claire giggled.
Miss Benton set down her teacup. “I believe he would hide behind that mane of his if he could. He is such a shy, suspicious man.”
Before Alice could digest this information, Aunt Bea’s butler interrupted.
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” Carthright said. “Duke Wessex and Viscount Abingdon are here.”
Aunt Bea straightened, her eyes brightening. “Show them in.”
Viscount Abingdon entered the drawing room first and immediately found himself confronted with eight pairs of staring female eyes. He took a quick step back, and Alice thought he would have fled if Wessex had not blocked his path.
“Good day, ladies.” Wessex bowed. His gaze landed on Miss Benton’s golden head. “Ah, Miss Benton. Good day.” He turned to the lady of the house. “Ma’am, Lord Abingdon and I have come to offer Miss Bursnell our most sincere thanks for saving our lives last night.”
“She was delighted to be of assistance, Your Grace,” Aunt Bea said. “Please, do sit down.”
Wessex cast his eyes about the room. There were no seats to be had. Alice felt a moment of panic. They could not go! Surely, revenge could not be thwarted by something so trivial as a lack of chairs.
Fortunately, Miss Benton stood. “We really must be going. Thank you for the tea.” She sent a look to Lady Claire and the others.
“Oh, yes, we must be going,” Lady Claire said, springing to her feet.
The other girls followed suit.
Miss Benton curtsied to the gentlemen. “Do give my regards to your sister, Lady Freesia,” she said to Lord Abingdon, who nodded in return.
The ladies exited. Viscount Abingdon and Duke Wessex sat down.
“May I offer you tea or refreshments?” Aunt Bea asked.
Alice truly loved her aunt, but if she did not cease that ridiculous nervous fluttering, Alice would be forced to bind her hands together with a hair ribbon.
“That would be lovely,” Wessex said.
“I will ring for a fresh pot.” Aunt Bea summoned the maid. “Now, then. We are so honored by your presence, Your Grace.” She glanced at the corner where the other gentleman sat. “And, of course, by yours, as well, Lord Abingdon.”
Lord Abingdon inclined his head in acknowledgment but said nothing. He had spoken not a word since his entrance. Miss Benton’s words came back to her: He is such a shy, suspicious man.
He was even taller than she remembered, and his red-gold hair was tied back in an old-fashioned queue. She dug her fingernails into her palms against the nearly overwhelming urge to undo the ribbon and allow his hair to flow free. It was most unfair that the villain was blessed with a head of hair that any woman would envy
. He was ridiculous, she decided. And so was his hair.
The tea arrived. “How do you take your tea, Your Grace?” Alice asked.
“Strong and plain, thank you.”
Alice prepared the cup and handed it to Wessex.
“Lord Abingdon? How do you take your tea?”
The man started. “Ah.”
Well. That was not very enlightening. Alice crinkled her forehead and waited. Lord Abingdon said nothing. He looks down on us all, Lady Claire had said. He is a shy, suspicious man, Miss Benton had countered.
Which was it?
A mottled flush formed on his cheeks. Alice cocked her head to the side and considered. She rephrased the question. “Would you like milk, my lord?” When he nodded, she continued, “Sugar?” He shook his head. “Very well.” She made the tea and handed it to him.
Miss Benton had the right of it, then. Viscount Abingdon was painfully shy and likely deeply suspicious to boot. Well, it served him right. If he insisted on gallivanting across England ruining defenseless maidens, he should jolly well suspect that around any corner might lurk a relative seeking revenge.
He was certainly shy and possibly suspicious in her company. How, then, was she to exact her revenge? How could she get close enough to ruin him? She must make him trust her, enough that he would let down his guard, let her through the protection that his shy and suspicious nature naturally afforded him.
An idea struck.
Shy or not, the man was a rake. Adelaide’s fate had proven that. Therefore, he must get close to the women he seduced. She could use that against him.
As unsettling as it was to her nature, it could work.
Yes. She must make him love her.
Chapter Five
While Wessex prattled on to Baroness Shaw and Miss Bursnell, Nathaniel tried to collect himself. He was shaken to his core, but how it had come about, he could hardly say.
Miss Bursnell had simply asked how he took his tea. He had been prepared to answer. He was awkward and shy in company, to be sure, but even he could discuss tea like a proper English gentleman. But then he had looked up at those coal-dark eyes of hers and was assaulted with a sudden, irrefutable knowledge.
Twice as Wicked Page 2