“What’s amiss, Holford?” Lucien asked in concern.
“You have a . . . guest, my lord.”
“At this hour?” He frowned. “Show Niles in.”
The man paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing down in his fleshy throat. “I’m afraid it isn’t Lord Niles.”
Lucien wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or frown at his butler’s reluctance. “Could you be more specific, perhaps?”
Holford nodded, his eyes saucer-wide. Chills spread across Lucien’s skin.
“My lord, the former Lady Clayborne is here to see you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ravenna here? That wasn’t possible. She lived in Italy with his former friend, Lord Wayland.
A moment later, she appeared beside Holford, as if to prove the impossible real. The quirk of her jet brow matched her mocking, ruby-lipped smile. “Hello, Lucien. You look surprised to see me.”
Holford shut the study door, leaving them alone.
Lucien closed his gaping mouth, and eyed his ex-wife with rising anger. As always, Ravenna looked earthy and ethereal at once, the combination of knowing ebony eyes and angelic cream-smooth skin creating the illusion. She was dressed to perfection in a rose-colored muslin that enhanced her beauty and the carefully applied rogue on her cheeks.
She was as beautiful now as she had been at the end of their marriage, perhaps more so. Age had helped her to grow into the curves of her body and the elegant angles of her face. She looked perfectly comfortable displaying most of her soft bosom at this early hour.
Once, the mere sight of her had incited lust, a need to bed her until they were both satiated and exhausted. He felt none of that desire now.
What the hell did she want?
“Ravenna,” he greeted shortly.
Her smile turned kittenish. Lucien knew better than to trust it. “I shall have to work on your greeting. It was hardly warm, darling.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Why are you here?”
With a husky laugh, she sashayed toward him. Lucien stiffened when she brushed her hand—and her breast—against his arm. Without invitation, she seated herself on the sofa, then patted the cushion beside her, gesturing for Lucien to sit. He remained standing.
Her cupid-bow mouth drooped into a familiar pout. “Why am I here? What an awful question. I’ve missed you. The very least you could do is tell me that you’ve missed me, too.”
“I haven’t, nor have you missed me,” he ground out, fingers wrapped tightly about his cane. “Why the hell did you come here?”
Her pretty pout hardened into a petulant scowl. “You’re being very unpleasant, Lucien.”
“That’s how I regard your visit, Ravenna.”
With a gasp, she stood, the insult spurring anger that flared pink into her cheeks. “You cannot mean that. I am your wife!”
“You were my wife,” he corrected. “We’re divorced now, at your insistence, if you’ll recall.”
She waved an impatient hand. “A mere legality. Besides, I was a foolish child then.” She wrapped imploring hands around his lapels, pressing her well-curved body against his chest in a way that had once driven him insane with want. “I realize what a dreadful mistake I made, darling, and I’ve come home.”
Tightening his hard fingers around her wrists, he removed her grasp on his coat. “I am not your darling, and this is no longer your home. Our divorce is not a mere legality; it is parliamentary law.”
Batting long, black lashes, she said softly, “But I’ve confessed how dreadfully wrong I was to leave you and I am sorry—”
“Isn’t it a little late for apologies?” He tapped an impatient toe on the carpet stretched beneath his feet.
Lucien watched her jaw tighten, and suppressed a smile of satisfaction.
Ravenna cleared her throat, then pasted on an engaging, but tight smile. “I’m trying to say I love you. I know I hurt you terribly with my frightfully bad behavior, but I am different now. And ready to be the best wife ever.”
Lucien tried to rein his surprise behind a tight expression. “Somebody else’s wife perhaps, but not mine.”
He extricated himself from her embrace and paced to his desk. Seating himself behind the massive mahogany piece, he watched her race across the room to stand directly before him—just as he had suspected she would. Her hands clenched nervously in the folds of her skirt. Whatever she wanted, she wanted it badly. The corners of his mouth turned up in a chilly smile.
“The only thing you ever liked about me, Ravenna, was my money,” he said, his tone insultingly conversational. “I assume that’s what brings you here now. How much do you need?”
She actually looked offended. Lucien silently commended her theatrical ability.
“What a vulgar thing to say! I did not come all the way from Italy for money. I came for you. I want us to marry again.”
Lucien propped his cane against his desk, then crossed his arms across his chest. “That, Ravenna, is impossible.”
She sidled around the desk and touched his arm, rubbing her thumb against his tensed muscle beneath. Her voice was a low, erotic whisper. “Nothing is impossible, darling.”
Her presence annoyed him. Her insinuation incensed him. He flung himself out of his chair, stalking past her, withdrawing from her touch. “Marrying again is.” He paused, turning to face her. Whatever walls stood between him and Serena, he thanked her for making this sweet, vengeful moment possible. “I’ve remarried.”
Ravenna’s black eyes flashed with fury. “What? You love me! I won’t believe anything so preposterous.”
“I suggest you believe it. It’s the truth.”
She hesitated. Lucien could see from her pursed lips and clenched fists that she was struggling to control her unruly temper. A moment later, she lifted her face to his, allowing him full view of much of the contents in her bodice. “If being with you means sharing a relationship of a . . . secretive nature, I don’t mind. I just want you back, darling.” She dropped her voice to a low note as she reached for him. “We can still enjoy each other, can we not?”
“We’ll deal much better together if you stop feeding me lies.” His voice thrummed with fury. “Now, if you do not seek money, what do you want? I know damn well it isn’t me.”
Once again, she sat, raising her tiny, round chin angrily. “No, we’ll deal much better if you stop this boorish behavior. Why do you insist that I don’t want you?”
He laughed harshly, surprised by her audacity. “You hated me from the instant I offered for you. You left me for Wayland.” He grabbed her arm, his voice rising. “I am the despised cripple you hated to call your lord. I am the cuckolded husband you begged for a divorce. I know you, Ravenna, far too well to believe you’re here because you care for me.” With that, he released her arm, then lowered his voice to a strictly polite level. “Why aren’t you in Italy? Where is my devoted friend Wayland?”
With all the dramatics of a stage actress, Ravenna buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
He held in a sigh. “Save your tears for someone who believes them.”
Sniffling, she lifted her head to regard him with wounded eyes. “How can you be so cruel?” Withdrawing a handkerchief from her glove, she wiped delicately at her eyes. “If you must know, James left me to marry a wealthy Italian countess.”
“For the money?” he asked.
“Perhaps.” Her voice was small, confused. To Lucien, she sounded genuine—for the first time in his recollection. “He wanted to leave me, and the countess made doing so easy.”
“Where’s the baby, Ravenna?”
Her dark eyes misted, haunted by soft shadows. “He was born dead, and . . . James blamed me.”
During the ensuing silence, Lucien felt a connection with his ex-wife that had never existed during their five year union. He understood her grief and guilt all too well, and offered softly, “I am sorry. It is hell, I know. It must make losing Chelsea even more difficult.”<
br />
Ravenna gasped, clasping her hands against her chest like a child herself. “You’re right. Oh, I’ve missed her so! Where’s my darling girl? Please let me see her.”
Alarm raced up his spine. “Didn’t you receive my letter?”
Her perfect-oval face lit up in a smile. “You sent me a letter?” Her voice sounded breathy. She flung herself against his chest. “I knew you cared!”
Lucien grabbed her shoulders and wrenched her away. “It was no love letter, damn it!” Taking a deep breath, Lucien continued in a soft tone. “I wrote you about Chelsea.” He heard his voice crack and struggled to keep it intact. “She . . .” He cursed, raking stiff fingers through his hair. “She died in April.”
Ravenna’s jaw plummeted, then snapped shut. “Wh-what?”
“I’m sorry you found out like this. It happened suddenly . . .”
“No!” Ravenna gasped, her face melting into disbelief. “Oh God, what happened? Did she become ill?”
Lucien crossed the floor to pour himself a brandy. The sounds of glass upon glass and trickling liquid broke the heavy silence. “A carriage hit her a few blocks from here.”
He tossed the liquor back in a single swallow, trying to drown his guilt.
“Hit her? She was walking in the street?” Ravenna demanded, her voice incredulous. “Who was with her?”
Lucien cast his guilty gaze to the carpet. “She escaped her nursemaid.”
Ravenna frowned in confusion. “How did she get out?”
Lucien dipped his head. “I cannot say for sure.”
“Where were you?”
Fingers squeezing the brandy glass, Lucien admitted, “Not here . . . and not alone.”
Ravenna’s mouth dropped open in fury before she flew across the room and slapped him. He took her assault in silence. “You bastard! This is your fault. How could you attend to your lust instead of your daughter?”
“I know the fault lies with me, Ravenna,” he uttered quietly in the face of her anger. “I am quite aware I should have properly cared for her.” He clasped her wrist in his grip. “But then, you should have been home, too. Before I left, Chelsea vowed to go out and find you.”
Glittering affront entered Ravenna’s dark eyes as she shook her head and began backing away. “You’re feeding me that vile falsehood to force your guilt on me. I won’t let you!”
“Keep your voice down. The servants will gossip enough as it is, and I do not want you waking my wife,” he said, knowing his words would infuriate her further—and perversely, he was glad.
With a gasp, she ran toward him on slippered feet, all pretense of adoration shattered permanently by her ugly snarl. She raised her palm to strike his face again.
He caught her wrist without effort, smiling at her dramatics. “Once was quite enough, thank you.”
She shook her head wildly, her glossy dark hair falling from its pins to tangle about her shoulders. “No. I could kill you and it wouldn’t be enough. I hate you!”
After a long, seething glare, Ravenna jerked her wrist from Lucien’s grasp and stormed from the room.
****
Serena stayed in her room the day following her passionate encounter on the floor with Lucien. Her husband neither came to her nor inquired after her—he only kept those damned silent guards at her door, ever-alert to the possibility of danger. His lack of attention hurt, more than she wanted to admit.
She paced, feeling trapped, behind the same door for too long. But facing Lucien would be more difficult. Mercy, how could she look at the familiar planes of his face, hard in anger, so soft in tenderness, and not remember their lovemaking? Not want him again?
She had but to close her eyes and envision every detail of his muscled chest, broad shoulders, and long, hard legs. Her remembrances also included a sharp recollection of the texture and tang of his skin, the soft rasp of his body hair . . . the strength of his manhood within her. Looking upon him across a room or table—without each of these thoughts showing—would be impossible.
She just couldn’t face him.
Her behavior was cowardly, she knew. Cyrus wouldn’t have hesitated to tell her so, were he here. Logically, she realized she could not spend the rest of her days in this ridiculous self-confinement, but she was like a caterpillar—not quite ready to emerge from her cocoon.
Caffey knocked and the guards admitted her after Serena’s call. “Here, milady. Chocolate and fresh-baked bread with strawberry preserves. Yer notes and whatnot are on the side.”
Serena looked down at the pitiful number of notes and invitation cards and frowned. Only three. When she had first arrived in London, she had been bombarded with both. Everyone had wished the duchess to attend their soiree or masque. She had been invited to waltzing parties, card parties, and weekend jaunts. More had arrived each day than she could decline in a week, much less attend.
Now, after the scandal of her hasty marriage four days ago, only three people sought her attention. Not that she enjoyed mingling with the ton, but such blatant exclusion hurt. Only a middle-class matron politely requested another donation for an orphanage. Her grandmother asked if Serena felt up to an outing at Lackington’s Bookstore in Finsbury Square tomorrow afternoon.
Most devastating, her grandmother’s note also stated she had planned a dinner party to launch the newlyweds.
Serena covered her face with her hands and cried. She couldn’t even face her husband in their own home. The possibility of surviving Lucien’s disturbing presence as well as the sharp tongues of the ton was nil.
Lucien entered her bedroom a moment later without even the most cursory of knocks a moment later. She knew it by the odd rhythm of his cane-assisted footsteps and the sudden stillness in the air. With a resolute breath, she wiped her tears away.
In a quiet, authoritative tone, he dismissed Caffey. The maid bobbed a curtsy and shut the door behind her.
“Serena?” His voice was soft, bringing forth an emotion-jumbled rush of memories: Lucien removing her stockings tenderly the night they met, sharing his sorrow over Chelsea’s death.
“Serena, why are you crying?”
His rushed whisper pierced her heart. He sounded so concerned . . . almost caring.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Unable to tell him the truth, that she hurt inside, her pride and heart both wounded and uncertain, she shook her head. “Here,” she said, thrusting her grandmother’s note at him. “It’s a dinner invitation.”
He gave it a perfunctory skim. “If you’re feeling up to it, we will go. She has influential friends who can help smooth things over.”
Stiffly, she nodded, dreading the function. “I shall send word for her to expect us.”
He stepped back, putting distance between them. Serena ached to reach out and touch him, to soothe the emotions behind his troubled expression.
“I talked to your man Vickery this morning. We’re working together now. We compared notes. We both learned that Alastair hired a pair of bad characters named Rollins and McCoy to kill Warrington.”
Serena, heart wildly beating with hope, leaned toward Lucien. She clasped his hand in joy, exclaiming, “That’s wonderful! Did you find them? What did they say? Do you think they can convince anyone of Alastair’s guilt?”
Lucien stared, brow furrowed, at their joined hands. A moment later he withdrew his. “Not anymore. Vickery informed me someone slit Rollins’ and McCoy’s throats two days ago. And supposedly—” he said, a cynical note creeping into his voice, “—no one saw or heard anything.”
Serena’s hopes died in a swift crash. “What can we do now?”
Lucien shrugged. “Without proof, we can only wait until Marsden makes his next move. Hopefully, we will catch him before he tries to harm you and the baby again.”
She nodded, her body shaking with disbelief, confusion, awareness, and despair. Cyrus was gone, his killers dead as well, and with them, their best chance of proving Alastair’s guilt.
And she’d made a mess
of their marriage.
“Lucien, a-about last night . . .”
“We have nothing to say.” His voice held all the passion of a deep winter chill. “You got what you wanted, as did I. It means nothing.”
Serena drew in a deep breath and fought the fresh tears stinging the back of her eyes. Nothing. That was all their lovemaking meant to him. He viewed her as the whore who happened to be his wife. A whore like her mother. And maybe she was.
She closed her eyes. In the end, despite her efforts otherwise, she had turned out no better. Lucien had illustrated that fact with ridiculous ease. She wanted to hate him for it. Yet the fault lay entirely with her for wanting him, for giving in to his compelling seduction. That she cared for him only seemed a more cruel irony.
She redirected the subject. “I referred to Cyrus and his plan for me to take a lover. I never meant—”
“You made your motives for falling into my bed quite clear. You’ll give birth to the evidence of that in another six months.”
She flinched. “I didn’t intend to follow through with Cyrus’s plan, I swear.”
“Ah. After one kiss, you simply could not resist?”
His question and tight smile mocked her, as if he fully expected her to answer him affirmatively to cover her guilt.
“Not exactly,” she replied instead.
“So you took a bit more persuading? You decided perhaps that giving your virginity to me, a total stranger, would be a splendid idea when I had my fingers inside your wet little sex?”
Serena felt hot color creep up her face again, but refused to be intimidated. “Yes and no. Your touch was like nothing I had ever known. I had nothing to compare it with. You overwhelmed me.”
One Wicked Night Page 24