One Wicked Night

by Shelley Bradley

  “Not me,” Lucien returned. “I’m much too familiar with matrimonial bliss.”

  Niles sighed in exasperation. “Not all women are like Ravenna.”

  Lucien turned his gaze from London’s pedestrians to face his friend. “No, only three quarters of the ton cuckold their husbands. The other quarter is either too old or with child.”

  “Do you think your mystery woman would join that first three quarters?”

  Lucien shrugged, but acknowledged he did not want to believe that she fit into that devious category. Certainly, she was different. At the worst time in his life, she had appeared, sharing herself with beautiful abandon and soothing his raw grief with her touch. Maybe that explained why he couldn’t stop searching; he had faith in the healing touch of her honey skin, in her. Then again, perhaps it was guilt for having ruined her. He didn’t know.

  “We’ve been to every rout, soiree, tea, and waltzing party since she disappeared, and we haven’t caught the slightest glimpse of her. I’m getting damned tired of all that polite company,” Niles mumbled. “I miss a good evening at my club.”

  “Then go. The gents at White’s surely miss fleecing your pockets.”

  “That’s hardly funny.” Niles shifted his stubborn gaze out the carriage window.

  “Did I laugh?” Lucien inquired, suppressing a grin.

  The carriage rolled down Ludgate Hill and halted at Number 32, Rundell and Bridge’s jewelers. As they entered the shop, Lucien found himself impatient to find Niles’s trinket and be on with their search for his beautiful angel.

  “Where is this snuff box you’re so enamored of?” he asked.

  Niles pointed, and over the next fifteen minutes, the shopkeeper showed them a variety of snuff boxes, each more elaborate and expensive than the last.

  Finally, Niles threw his hands up. “I can’t decide. Help me, will you, old man?”

  Lucien studied each, finding them all too ornate for his taste. But then Niles was much more flamboyant, as evidenced this morning by his scarlet and gold waistcoat of Chinese silk.

  “Dear God. She’s beautiful,” Niles gasped, his whisper awe-filled.

  Accustomed to Niles’s penchant for finding the lovelies in any room, Lucien’s gaze wound slowly around the shop before coming to rest on a lone figure.

  His heart jumped, lurching against his ribs, then began chugging a double-time rhythm.

  The afternoon sun slanted through the door behind her, making it impossible to see her face. But nature’s light illuminated her white-gold hair with the brilliance of a hundred candles. He watched the way she moved, the manner in which she walked, the tilt of her head, the almost otherworldly halo around her. He’d found her. Finally. That certainty washed over him, along with a surge of desire that slammed into his gut, robbing him of breath.

  She paused, turning to say something to a flame-haired woman trailing behind her. The words were unintelligible, but her voice, a little huskier than most women’s, played the kindling to an already ignited flame.

  “Who is she?” Niles whispered, his voice reverent.

  “Mine.” Lucien stalked toward her, not certain if he planned to merely speak to her as he should, or do as he wanted and brand her with a fierce, possessive kiss before God and the shopkeeper of Rundell and Bridge.

  At his approach, she turned. The smile on her face died, replaced by instant panic in her smoky eyes as she retreated a step. Clearly, she hadn’t expected to set eyes—or anything else—on him again.

  “I see you remember me,” he growled.

  She opened her mouth, only to close it in uncertainty. Biting her lip, she looked about, as if wishing for help.

  “Excuse me, my lord.” She tried to step around him.

  He stepped in her path. “‘My lord,’ is it? I thought surely we had graduated to something more . . .intimate.”

  Lucien watched the becoming rose of her blush creep up her cheeks, but she said nothing. Somehow that infuriated him more. “Surely you have some spark of recall for the man who took your maidenhood. Or did your memory desert you when you left my bedroom?”

  She swallowed hard, her face a tense mask. “Leave us, Caffey.”

  “Are ye sure, milady?” the Irish girl asked.

  His mystery woman gave a shaky nod, then hesitantly lifted her eyes to his. “People are staring.”

  “Bloody well let them. You owe me an explanation.”

  She wrung her hands nervously. “I owe you nothing, my lord. Can you tell me you did not receive what you expected from the encounter?”

  “Oh, yes,” he whispered. “I received everything I expected, and more. Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me you were innocent?”

  “Stop swearing at me,” she hissed. “What makes you think I was?”

  “Well, my lady,” he mocked, “I felt it. I saw the blood. Who are you?”

  She blanched white at the question. “No one important. Now, I must leave.”

  Realizing he’d charged at her like an enraged bull, he softened. After all, she was little more than a girl in her dealings with men. “Why, sweetheart? Why did you not tell me? Why didn’t you push me away or say no? God, if I had known . . .”

  “Exactly. Now, excuse me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  When she tried to step around him without responding, he grabbed her arm.

  “Everyone is watching,” she said in panic.

  “I want answers,” he grated out, then drew in a deep breath. “I’ve ruined you and I’m sorry for the manner in which it happened. An innocent should have a wedding night and a gentle husband—”

  “It’s of no consequence.”

  He watched her hands tremble. Her gaze met anything but his, and his eyes narrowed with confused suspicion. “Of course it is, and I’m aware of my responsibility. Tell me who your guardian is so I can settle with him. We can be married within the week by special license.”

  She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. Pure alarm entered her eyes, both confusing and infuriating Lucien. He noticed tears gathering in her eyes. What kind of unmarried girl who was no longer innocent did not seek a marriage?

  “Trapping you into matrimony was not my intent. You need not worry about settlements. Marriage will not be required,” she assured, her husky voice shaking.

  Had she lost all sanity? Or was it possible she did not understand the possible consequences? “You may be carrying my child even now. Have you considered that?”

  Her face turned whiter still. She jerked away. “Please leave me be.”

  Again, Lucien tried to clasp her arm and hold her by his side. This time, she moved too quickly. He watched her exit the jeweler’s and inhaled the sultry scent of gardenias in her wake.

  “What did she say, old man? She looked frightened beyond bearing.”

  He cursed, a sound both soft and bitter. “She was, even as she said that marrying her was not necessary.”

  “Not necessary?” Niles said, astounded.

  “Exactly my thoughts. Go ask the shopkeeper if he knows who she is. I’m going to follow her.”

  Each man raced to his chore. Niles frowned when the shopkeeper informed him that particular lady had never been to Rundell and Bridge. Lucien swore when he discovered no carriage parked in front of the shop but his own and his mystery woman nowhere in sight.

  ****

  Her hands trembled, and Serena hoped the rocking of the coach disguised it, at least a little. Well aware of Caffey’s probing eyes, Serena clasped her fingers together tightly in her lap and looked straight ahead.

  “He’s a handsome devil, milady.”

  Nothing could be truer. Those green eyes glittered even more beautifully in daylight. But the intimate knowledge his stare held, her remembrance of his wide shoulders looming above her during their lovemaking, singed her with forbidden heat. His scent, something very musky, very manly, stayed with her, causing a trembling deep in her stomach.

  She had tried to forget the masculine an
gles of his chiseled face, but one look this afternoon had brought it all back, complete with the memory of his wide mouth spreading heated kisses over her.

  “I would prefer not to discuss it.” She hoped her voice sounded authoritative.

  “Me mum always said keepin’ secrets inside was bad, that they’d get bigger and bigger until they ate ye up, heart and all.”

  That perfectly described how she had been feeling these last three weeks, Serena thought. She had approached Cyrus several times, certain that prayer had given her the strength to confess her sin. Each time, she would look at his kind face and see the concern in his eyes. She would turn away, guilt unspoken. And it was eating her alive.

  “What did he want, milady?”

  “Something impossible.”

  ****

  Through bleary, whisky-blurred eyes, Alastair Boyce surveyed the gaming hell’s roulette wheel. Actually, he saw three of them, but was fairly certain he knew which one truly existed, displaying the ball resting in the pocket of the black ten instead of the red twenty-one.

  He’d had lousy luck, a long streak of it, and he had lost the money from the sale of “Aunt” Serena’s jewelry he’d pilfered at Vauxhall. He would have stolen a quick tumble and ended her cursed life, too, had that damned stranger not saved her.

  “Care to try again?” the dealer asked.

  “No. Get me a woman.”

  The dealer motioned to a gaudily clad blond woman against the wall. Looking haggard and unenthusiastic, she came forward.

  “You want somethin’, guv?”

  She looked enough like Uncle Cyrus’s self-righteous wife Serena, the beautiful bitch. But her indifferent voice would never do. He wanted to hear her scream as Serena had at Vauxhall; he wanted to see the fear he incited in her eyes once again. He grabbed her arm, squeezing until he had the satisfaction of witnessing pain cross her face.

  She tried to twist away discreetly. Alastair smiled coldly as he exerted more pressure.

  “Yes, I want somethin’. I want your skirt raised around your neck so I can fuck you hard.” He pulled her toward the stairs.

  “My lord?” a voice behind him queried.

  Was the voice talking to him? Alastair wasn’t sure. Slowly, so he wouldn’t lose his balance, he turned toward the sound. He tried to focus the three images of the club manager into one.

  “You lost quite a bit of blunt tonight.”

  “I did? Oh, yes. Your point?” Alastair slurred.

  “And you’re overdue on your other losses. It’s time we made arrangements.”

  “See my secretary. Milton’s his name.”

  Even through his stupor, Alastair saw the ruthless edge carve its way across the man’s face. “When you lose money, I deal with you.”

  “Bloody leech,” Alastair mumbled.

  “You owe this establishment three thousand pounds. I expect you’ll pay it by Friday next.”

  “I’ll see to it. Now get out of my way. You’re interferin’ with my pleasure,” he slurred.

  Alastair only made it halfway up the stairs before he tired of waiting. Impatiently, he pushed the whore down and hiked up her skirt. The moment he entered the woman, he closed his eyes. Serena. Yes . . . But her bored expression would never do. He beat it from her face with his fist. As she gasped in pain, Alastair plunged into her body ruthlessly, then climaxed in pleasure.

  He focused the woman below him into one image. Damn it, she wasn’t Serena. Not at all. He smacked her again, then stood and jerked up his breeches with a curse.

  If he had truly bedded Uncle Cyrus’s holier-than-thou wife, she would have begged and screamed and cried for mercy, as she had when he’d held the knife to her throat. The thought made him hard again. But the haggard whore would no longer suffice. Her hair wasn’t that brilliant pale color. Her skin betrayed her advancing age. Her manner was too forward. He shoved her away.

  He sat on the stairs, his clothes smelling like whiskey, and thought. Three thousand pounds. Where would he come up with it? His property was already mortgaged. He owed his friends too much money to ask for more. No one was allowing him to borrow on his expectations of inheriting the dukedom any longer, now that dear Uncle Cyrus had taken a young wife. And Uncle Cyrus had made it clear no more money would be forthcoming until his death.

  Ah, death; now there was an idea. He was heir to a vast dukedom. Uncle Cyrus had held it far too long. Certainly, Alastair deserved a turn at all that money lying around in bank accounts, gathering dust. Of course he had no need for Uncle Cyrus’s businesses or his seat in the Lords. Just the money.

  And Uncle Cyrus’s widow would need hours of comforting—with her legs spread. He rose and exited the gaming hell, whistling a chipper tune.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lucien walked among the throng of people attending the Raddingtons’ rout and surveyed the ever-thickening crowd, but found no sign of his mystery lady.

  Niles turned to him with a sigh. “I do not see her.”

  Lucien scanned the room, his eyes still seeking a luxurious head of white-gold hair. “Neither do I. Keep looking. She will certainly show her face in public again someday.”

  “Perhaps,” Niles hedged. “But clearly she’s done very little of that in the past.”

  The woman, his woman, weighed heavily upon Lucien’s mind as the days passed, and tonight in particular. Was she well? Did she ever think of him, too?

  “Hello, Lord Daneridge. Did my brother drag you here to help him endure my soirée?” a feminine voice asked from behind, turning both men in her direction.

  Wearing a faint smile, Lucien glanced at Niles before gazing back to his friend’s sister. “Actually, no. I enjoy your parties, Lady Raddington. I consider it a privilege to be on your guest list.”

  “La, how you flatter. Is that a nasty habit you acquired from Devon?”

  “Not me, little sister,” Niles interjected. “I’m all manners, don’t you know?”

  “Yes, I know all too well.” Anne laughed, then drifted off to greet another guest.

  Niles took a sip of champagne. “So what will you say if you find this woman again?”

  Lucien shrugged, not certain himself. Would he scream, implore her to see reason, or simply succumb to his urge to kiss her?

  The smell of gardenias lingered in the air. Every time he breathed that pungent scent, he half expected her to precede it. He could almost feel her here. Something in the air made his spine tingle. He scanned the room for her again.

  And saw her.

  Dressed in a low-cut creation of the most tantalizing shade of sapphire, she shimmered around the dance floor in the arms of an elderly, portly gentleman. Her cloud of white-gold hair was piled exotically on her head, a trail of curls caressing her neck. Her flawless honey skin held a hint of becoming rose tonight, he noted, studying her delicate profile. As before, raw desire slammed into him, stealing his breath, leaving him shaking and hungry.

  “There! Do you see her, Clayborne?” Niles asked beside him.

  Eyes never leaving her, Lucien nodded.

  “Who is the old gent with her? Looks like the Duke of Warrington. Her guardian, you suppose?”

  “That would be my guess. He’s old enough to be one of her father’s or grandfather’s cronies.”

  With a low whistle, Niles commented, “Powerful guardian, old man.”

  Lucien nodded, a determined tightening in his jaw. “Quite so. But I will convince His Grace I am the appropriate suitor for his charge.”

  “Will you tell him the truth?”

  Lucien paused. “Only if he forces the issue.”

  Anne, wearing a harried smile, strode by then. Niles grabbed her arm, halting her progress.

  “Dear sister, who is the lovely blond creature over there?” Niles pointed discreetly.

  “Falling in love, Devon? If so, she should definitely be off your list of eligible ladies.”

  “Why?” Lucien snapped.

  Looking confused at his tone, Anne replied, “She’
s the Duchess of Warrington.”

  Lucien felt his stomach execute a painful plunge before it crashed to the ground. A simultaneous wave of dizziness and nausea spiked through him. The blood left his face.

  Married. And a virgin? What the hell had he done? What had she let him do?

  Lucien was vaguely aware of Niles’s stunned stare, but could not return it.

  “How on earth did she . . .was she . . .?” Niles trailed off in confusion.

  “I don’t know,” was all Lucien could answer.

  “What are you two talking about?” Anne demanded to know. “Have you met the duchess, Lord Daneridge?

  Met her? Oh, yes. He was thoroughly acquainted with Her Grace, the cuckolding bitch.

  What was her game? The man had obviously never bedded his wife. Was she seeking to gain an indifferent husband’s attention with coy schemes of jealousy? Or perhaps she had never wanted to marry an older man and decided to cuckold him with younger amusement for spite. For a moment, he wished he listened to the ton’s gossip more often; it would likely answer his questions.

  Whatever the answers, she was no different from Ravenna.

  For Anne’s benefit, he fabricated a tale. “We ran into each other, quite literally, at Rundell and Bridge, Lady Raddington. I’m afraid I did not catch her name, but she did drop this.” Lucien retrieved the duchess’s handkerchief from his waistcoat.