One Wicked Night

by Shelley Bradley

  “Warranted in this situation,” she interrupted. “Are you barring your door against him?”

  “Of course not. I try to be a dutiful wife in all respects.”

  “You try? Is something wrong between you?”

  She looked away, shifting uneasily. “Grandy, this is something Cyrus and I must work out.”

  “You look unhappy. Are you quarreling?”

  Serena shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

  Grandy took her hand. “Oh child, you must tell me it’s not true.”

  “What?” Serena whispered, feeling an ominous sweep across her heart.

  Her grandmother frowned, her eyes full of displeasure. “The gossip before you two wed was that he had cast aside his mistress of many years because he was no longer...capable.”

  Cyrus had kept a mistress? Serena shouldn’t be surprised, as nearly all men of wealth did. “Capable?”

  Her grandmother nodded. “That he is impotent. And I would say Madame Maria ought to know. She bore your husband three daughters.”

  Serena’s mouth fell open in shock as a hot bolt of envy pierced her. Another woman had borne Cyrus’s girls, and she, his wife, would never conceive. How unfair!

  “Serena, is this true?”

  Numbly, she nodded. Here was a whole part of Cyrus’s life she knew nothing of. She had never heard of Madame Maria or her children. A thousand questions, along with a well of pain, rose up within her, leaving her raw and aching.

  “I knew I should have protested the marriage, but he claimed he was marrying to beget an heir. So, I assumed the rumors were false.”

  Serena barely heard.

  Grandy shook her shoulder, regaining her attention. “Does this have anything to do with your sudden trip to London?”

  “Yes.” Serena felt a new onslaught of tears and fumbled to produce a handkerchief from her sleeve. She twisted it in her hands. “Cyrus has asked me to take a lover.”

  Her grandmother quirked one silver brow in disdain. “This is how he intends to get an heir?”

  “Yes, and I cannot do it.” She paused, fists bunching. “He’s asking me to commit adultery.”

  “Oh, phoo! I could kick your Aunt Constance, rest her soul, for feeding you too much moral rubbish. All those prayer meetings affected your thinking.”

  “It is adultery, even if Cyrus condones it.”

  “Really, lamb. Don’t be so provincial. Such affairs are quite common among the ton. Look at my good friend Lady Bessborough. It’s quite known she had children by men other than her husband. She has not been ruined at all.”

  “But I cannot picture myself engaging in—in the same illicit acts that brought Mama such shame.”

  “Your situations are hardly alike. Having one discreet affair for the sake of conception hardly compares to taking as many lovers as suits your whim and flaunting them.”

  “But one lover or a hundred, the number should not signify,” Serena argued. “It is immoral.”

  “I agree with your husband; it’s also necessary. You can and you must take a lover. It will be good for you to find someone devilishly handsome and let him seduce you.”

  “But Grandy, to behave as if I’ve no morals--”

  “Let your overstarched morals retire in peace, along with your Aunt Constance. You’re too young to bury yourself with her and that old stuffed shirt you call husband. Here in Town, very few people note the doings of a married lady, as long as you’re discreet. Besides, I think it’s time you followed your heart.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gold, red and white oil lanterns burned brightly around Vauxhall Gardens, stinging Serena’s eyes beneath her silk mask. A passing couple elbowed her as they jostled past. Another man’s braying laugh prompted a staccato pounding in her head.

  She didn’t want to be at these public gardens. Large gatherings, like the ones she had attended nearly every evening for a week, all seemed so lavish and pointless. Vicious gossip proved their attendees awaited the next scandal with the same anticipation a mongrel stalks its prey. That, coupled with her mother’s scandalous reputation, had motivated Serena to accept Cyrus’s suit three years ago, just days after her come-out. Marrying quietly had appealed much more than this social ordeal.

  But tonight, she had promised Cyrus she would “socialize” with the widowed daughter of a friend. So she turned her concentration to the impending fireworks and ignored her uneasiness, as well as the threat of rain.

  A throng of people swirled through the gardens. From the lowliest tradesman to the most respected member of the ton, she noted all were dressed for the gala masquerade.

  “What do you think of him?” her companion Melanie asked above the strains of a violin, gesturing across the Grove.

  Serena looked at the very dull Lord Highbridge, their escort, to see if he had heard Melanie’s question. He appeared intent on the orchestra, so she shifted her gaze to the young blond man in question. He looked fashionably bored, as did all the others. She turned to her friend with an indifferent shrug.

  “Not that one either? I thought he was quite handsome.”

  “You think each one is handsome,” Serena pointed out.

  Melanie shrugged. “I fear I’ve been by myself too long.”

  “Are you husband hunting?”

  “Perhaps.” She cast Serena a sideways glance. “Or perhaps something less permanent.”

  “A lover?” Serena asked, brow raised in surprise.

  With a cryptic lift of her shoulder, Melanie turned away, leaving Serena to wonder if everyone she knew had lost their sensibilities. Or was she, as Grandy had suggested, living to avoid Mama’s mistakes by clinging to Aunt Constance’s values?

  The orchestra stopped playing. With the announcement that Madame Saqui, the French rope dancer, was about to begin her performance, the mass of people around Serena rushed for the fireworks platform. They bumped and shoved, until she found herself crushed against the wall of the Roman amphitheater.

  People in the boxes nearby called out bawdy encouragements as a stocky woman dressed in spangles and feathers materialized on the rope. Around her, blue flames burned, giving her a ghostly appearance.

  Serena watched, spellbound, as the woman twirled on the suspended rope. Holding her breath, Serena prayed silently for the fearless, leaping woman. The dancer hopped and turned, never losing her balance, never looking down.

  Transfixed, Serena never sensed danger until a steel-gripped hand clamped around her wrist and pulled viciously. Pain twisted through her fingertips as she felt a vice-like hand wrap about her elbow and drag her into the bushes.

  She screamed. The crowd’s gasps of astonishment at the rope dancer’s performance overshadowed her cry. Though she bucked and writhed in an attempt to escape, her unseen attacker pushed her to the ground. Her backside met the hard dirt and spindly branches. The abused flesh throbbed in protest. Fear poured over her in an icy stream.

  She looked up at her attacker, staring at the dark, masked figure. Light behind him cast the shadow of his menacing stance over her.

  She screamed again.

  “Shut up,” his harsh voice ordered.

  To lend backing to his command, he produced a knife from a well-worn black boot. Serena followed the blade’s progress from his feet upward, as it sliced toward her. Her assailant thrust the weapon above her left breast, resting its tip against her bare skin. Shock and confusion cut through Serena, terrifying her with a cold stab of dread.

  “Please,” she begged. “Do not hurt me.”

  With a grunt, her attacker shoved her to her back and straddled her. Cast in near darkness by the shrubbery, Serena discerned little except that he was large, masked, and dangerous. Her virginal, childless life flashed through her mind’s eye.

  She pummeled her fists against his chest, twisting for escape. As he increased the pressure of the blade against her skin, her heart beat against her ribs in a frantic rhythm.

  The man inched the tip of the knife lower, until it s
unk beneath the fabric of her bodice. He cut a small hole in her dress in silent threat. Serena prayed as she never had, even as fear covered her with a sheen of cold sweat.

  Outside the bushes, away from her plant-walled horror, the audience gasped then clapped wildly, signaling the end of the rope dancer’s performance. Serena screamed again for help.

  With his free hand, her assailant clapped his clammy hand over her mouth. “Shut up, or I will kill you.”

  He pricked her again with his blade in warning, closer to her throat. A drop of hot blood rolled across her skin. Her heart chugged madly. When he lifted his tense hand from her mouth, Serena wanted to scream again, but terror closed her throat.

  With a grunt, the man opened her reticule and pocketed her money. He ripped the pearls from her ears and throat before he fit his blade beneath her left glove and sliced upward, leaving a thin, red cut marring the center of her palm.

  Again, Serena struggled, kicking, pushing against the man. He shoved her back to the ground.

  “Stop it!” he demanded, whipping the blade up to her neck.

  Nodding stiffly, Serena watched his fingers close about her wedding ring. Ignoring her cry of distress, he yanked the band past her knuckle, and pocketed the jewelry into a dark waistcoat.

  The leaves around them rustled with intrusion and her assailant jerked his gaze up to the sound. Serena held her breath as another man crashed into the clearing. Her attacker rose and whirled to meet the threat of the larger man.

  “Did someone scream?” the newcomer mumbled.

  The thief raised his knife above his shoulder, the point of the blade aimed menacingly at the second man’s chest.

  Cursing, the stranger lunged for her armed assailant.

  Serena reacted, pushing at the thief’s legs with every ounce of her strength. He tripped, sprawling to his knees at her rescuer’s feet. The knife dropped to the ground.

  The thug scrambled upright and jabbed the second man in the ribs with a vicious elbow, then darted away through the shrubbery. With a grunt, her rescuer fell, clutching his side.

  At her assailant’s abrupt departure, Serena drew in a deep, jagged breath as relief crashed through her. Incredibly, her ordeal had ended as abruptly as it had begun, thanks to the stranger.

  He turned to face her and clasped large, solid hands about her shoulders, eyeing the trail of blood across her collarbone. “How badly did he hurt you?”

  Serena’s hand automatically lifted to the small cut where her attacker might have ripped out her heart had the whim suited him. The gravity of the attack and the magnitude of what might have happened slammed into her.

  No words came forth. Serena opened her mouth as she knelt near the stranger. He eased his arms around her. Breath hitching in her chest as she held back tears, she accepted his solace. Security enveloped her at the feel of his strong arms about her. She pressed her face against his hard chest and let loose a broken sob of relief and latent fright.

  “Shhh,” her rescuer soothed, hands gliding lightly down her back. “You’re safe now.”

  Serena lifted her head, lifted it a long way, before her grateful eyes found his face. Black velvet masked the upper half of his face, accentuating a strong, square jaw and black, collar-length hair. He, too, looked dangerous, dressed like a highwayman for the masquerade. The imposing width of his shoulders lay barely concealed beneath a dark cape and blocked out all light save that from the full moon. His eyes glittered with danger, their color indiscernible in the near-dark as he probed her face intently. She didn’t understand why his stare made her shivery and hot.

  Yes, this man was definitely dangerous, in a different sort of manner than the first. She leaned away.

  “Come now. I’ve no wish to hurt you,” he murmured.

  He lifted his fingers from her back, touching his way up her bare shoulder. A warm flush suffused her skin at his touch.

  “Tell me what happened.” He helped her to her feet with a steadying arm, until he staggered a moment himself.

  Finding her courage and her voice, Serena answered, “I was watching the dancer and he--he pulled me into the bushes. He took my money and jewelry.”

  “Did you see him well enough to describe him?”

  Serena’s brow furrowed as she tried to recall. “He seemed taller than average. Ah...” She sighed. “Of average build.”

  “Did you see the color of his hair or eyes? Notice what he wore?” His voice became crisper with each word.

  She shook her head. “He wore a hat. Other than a black waistcoat and breeches, I could see nothing.”

  “Did you perhaps notice anything odd about him?” he pressed. “Anything about his voice or speech.”

  Serena looked sightlessly into the night, scanning her memory. Something there tugged and pulled, but she could pinpoint nothing specific. “I’m not certain.” She sighed in frustration. “It...I was too frightened.”

  “Think on it,” he suggested. “Perhaps it will come to you.”

  Her rescuer put a gentle hand beneath her elbow and eased her against his side. Again, she became aware of his height as he towered above her, of his breadth beside her. He could easily protect or harm her, as his mood allowed.

  He pushed the shrubbery aside, and they exited. No one around them noticed except a young man in worn workmen’s clothing. A sly smile crept across the boy’s pale face. Clearly, he thought they had engaged in something illicit. Had the stranger seen the young man’s expression, read his thoughts? Serena risked a sideways glance at her rescuer.

  He looked down. Met her stare. Catching her first glimpse of him in full light, Serena was ill-prepared for such utter male magnificence. Her breath caught in her throat.

  Green. His eyes were green—deep as an ancient forest, as expressive as poetry, as seductive as sin—set deep in a face of hard, classic angles. Serena felt frozen, unable to look away.

  His eyes crinkled up at the corners with a smile. “That chap has some interesting ideas about us, it seems.”

  Blood heated her cheeks—and oddly, her belly. She cleared her throat. “Indeed.”

  “Let’s see if we can find a constable and put an end to this frightful business, shall we?” he suggested.

  Serena shook her head, wanting nothing more than the familiar surroundings of home. “`Twould hardly come to any good now. The thief has more than likely fled.”

  He nodded. “There is that chance, I fear.”

  Serena gazed down at her shaking hands, at the blood running in rivulets down the fingers of her left one.

  Her rescuer peeled away the remnants of her tattered glove and produced a snowy handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. He pressed the cloth, along with his palm, against hers.

  “Are you here with someone?” At her slow nod, his gaze asked what his lips did not: Who?

  “I came with friends,” she answered. Odd, the way her pulse hammered in her chest the longer she looked at him. Nervously, she smiled. “I shall have to find them.”

  “I’ll help. Clearly, you’re not safe alone.”

  Was she safe with him? Moments ago, she had thought so, but something about him, his powerful, thoroughly male presence, made her unsure. With his hand enveloping hers, security had given way beneath the depth of his green stare to an inexplicable disquiet.

  She freed her hand from his grasp and gazed through the crowd, toward the platform where Madame Saqui had taken her last leap. She gazed about frantically for Melanie and Lord Highbridge. They were nowhere in sight.

  “Melanie,” she called futilely among the crowd. “Melanie!”

  Her rescuer whispered beside her, “It’s not likely you’ll find her among fifteen thousand people, especially if your Melanie is kissing a beau beneath this full moon.”

  “Kissing?” The startling word struck a warm chord within her.

  The corners of her rescuer’s full mouth turned up in a slow, smile, showing a flash of white teeth. “You know? Lips pressed against soft lips, exchanging breaths
in a sigh. It’s a pleasant pastime.” He leaned closer. “Do you not agree?”

  His tone hinted that he was no longer referring to Melanie. Instead, his voice intimated something more personal. With sudden, shocking clarity, she pictured her rescuer bending to her slowly to cup her cheek in his palm. She imagined his intense stare fixed on her as he drew closer...before brushing her lips tenderly with his own.

  She shook her head to clear the improper image. What was wrong with her, indeed with everyone, tonight? She should not be talking to this stranger. True, he had saved her, but what did she really know of him? They had not been properly introduced.

  “My thoughts do not dwell on kissing.” The crisp comeback she intended sounded more like a whisper. “Thank you for your assistance. Now, excuse me. I must find my friend.”

  Before she could turn away, he responded with a devilish grin that charged her stomach with heat. “Hmm. Why have you not thought of kissing? Has no man inspired you?”

  Until he had crashed through the bushes and flashed those eyes of green fire, no. Such inspiration could only lead to immorality. Yet she felt swept up in his stare.

  “No.” Uncomfortable with such a realization, she strode toward the Prince’s Pavilion in search of Melanie and quick escape. The stranger reached inside her domino and gripped her arm. A shiver snaked up her spine at his touch. A flurry of tingles shot up her arm at the warmth of his fingers.

  “I daresay I could only hope to inspire you, lovely lady, half as much as you’ve inspired me.”

  His words filled her body with a foreign heat her mind recognized as dangerous. She needed to escape, but turning her back on him seemed impossible.

  “I’ve no wish to be inspired,” she said, even as she wondered if this was how her mother had fallen prey to sin. “Thank you again for saving me, sir. I greatly appreciate it, but I must be on my way. Good evening.”