Earl of Every Sin

by Scott, Scarlett

  “You seem to be enjoying your return to society, my lady,” he observed, not without a tinge of bitterness.

  He wanted her to be accepted, of course he did. For he did not wish to cast his heir into the same abysmal position in which he had found himself—reviled for who his mother was and the way he looked.

  “I am treading with care,” she said, surprising him. “These are the very same people who turned their backs on me and called me ruined. Nothing has changed except your sister’s very generous sponsorship and my future place as the Countess of Rayne.”

  They took up their positions on the dance floor.

  “I find it difficult to believe becoming my countess would be a boon to anyone,” he remarked. “The beau monde has scorned me all my life, and I, in turn, have despised them all with the burning hatred of a thousand suns.”

  The dance began in truth, and she was in his arms, their hands joined. Though it had been years since he had last danced, his body recalled with ease. Steps and twirls. Lady Catriona moving with him, one with his body felt…natural. Right. He was forced to realize the coldness which had been his constant companion since Maria’s death had been warmed, just a small bit, by the woman he was about to wed.

  He did not like it.

  “Why not five thousand?” asked Lady Catriona as they made their way around the parquet floor, whirling in tandem with their fellow dancers.

  “Five thousand?” he repeated, searching her upturned face for the answer he sought. Perhaps the twirling about was rendering her dizzy. He could not make sense of her query.

  “Suns,” she elaborated, giving him a teasing smile that made more warmth trickle into his cold heart. “Why only one thousand? Why not more?”

  She was teasing him. He could not recall the last time anyone had spoken to him with levity. The last time anyone had dared.

  Against his will, a laugh burst from him.

  Perdición, laughter.

  Mayhap the waltz was making him lightheaded.

  “Perhaps five is a more apt number,” he said.

  “Why?” she queried next, her eyes almost violet tonight, glittering beneath the burning candles and against the demure lilac of her evening gown.

  Though her décolletage was modest, the hint of creamy swells rising beneath the draped satin of her bodice was a temptation he had not missed. She was lovely, white beads studding her gown à la militaire, Vandyke lace adorning her hem. A sprig of white flowers accented her lustrous brown locks, which had been swept into a pile of curls on her crown, with a few tendrils framing her face.

  “My lord,” she prompted, undaunted by his silence. “You did not answer my question. Why do you despise society so much?”

  “They did not accept my mother,” he bit out, “and nor did they accept me.”

  His mother had been the Earl of Rayne’s third wife, and he had met her in Spain, where she had become his mistress whilst he was still married to his second wife. After the second Lady Rayne’s death, Alessandro’s father had wed his mother. Though he had been born on the right side of the blanket, it had never mattered to society.

  “Why did they not accept her?” Lady Catriona wanted to know.

  Her voice was soft, and it would not carry to their fellow dancers, but this was hardly a dialogue he wished to have with her now. Or ever, for that matter.

  “Why do you think, my lady?” he asked curtly instead. “You need only look at me for your answer.”

  “Oh, Rayne,” she said, her gaze searching his. “I am sorry.”

  He did not want her pity. He wanted…

  Cristo, he knew not what he wanted. He had meant to dance with her, to seize upon an excuse to touch her, to show the lords and ladies of the ballroom crush she was his. But now they were waltzing, and it was somehow far more intimate than he could have imagined. The last woman he had held in his arms thus had been Maria. Her brown eyes had been glistening, her head tipped back. She had been beautiful, as always.

  For their honeymoon, they had traveled to Germany. And she had been happy, so happy. The recollection returned to him. Had it truly been years? Yes, it had, and he had been so young and foolish, incapable of understanding how fortunate he had been to have been given a small glimpse of paradise. Alessandro had thought his happiness would last forever, but instead, it had been devastatingly short. He had spent more years alive since her death than he had with her.

  How could time have been so cruel, passing by so quickly without her?

  Disgust sliced through him, mingling with despair. He had been so enamored with the notion of staking his claim upon Lady Catriona, he had failed to realize how greatly dancing with her would affect him. Perhaps he had been wrong about himself. He was a shell, but sometimes, even a shell could still feel.

  “My lord,” Lady Catriona pressed, her expression anxious as he mindlessly led them in another series of steps. “What is wrong? You look troubled.”

  Troubled did not begin to describe him.

  He forced a smile to his lips. This cursed waltz could not end soon enough. “I am well, Lady Catriona.”

  Her lips compressed. “If you do not wish to tell me, I understand. I do hope, after our marriage, you may confide in me, my lord.”

  “There is nothing to confide,” he bit out.

  What would she have him tell her? How much he missed his wife and son? What it had felt like to hold his lifeless infant in his arms? To watch the woman who owned his heart die before him while he was helpless to do anything to save her?

  Or would she like to know how he had been spending the time since his wife and son’s death, throwing himself headlong into war? He was not even a soldier. Never had been. He was merely a man who believed in defending his home, in taking a stand for what was right.

  But blood was on his hands. Staining his soul. His men had committed atrocities under his watch.

  “I am sorry,” Lady Catriona whispered to him.

  Their ill-fated dance was coming to an end. Inside, Alessandro was beginning to unravel like a ball of string which had been poorly wound. “You need not feel sorry for me, my lady,” he told her coolly. “If anyone is in need of compassion and sympathy, it is you, for I am to be your husband.”

  Her gaze was stoic, unwavering. “Until you leave.”

  “Until then,” he agreed, wishing he knew why the words felt so damned hollow as he spoke them. They ought to have filled him with a sense of reassurance. The knowledge he would soon be back where he belonged.

  Her smile was sad. “You could always choose to stay, Rayne.”

  Bitterness sifted through him. She did not understand. But he did not expect her to. No one ever had.

  “Neither one of us would want that, Lady Catriona,” he said, his tone harsh. “Trust me on this matter. I am no good for anyone, yourself included.”

  He could not bear to live in England. The longer he lingered, the more desperate he became to break free. Undoubtedly, it was part of the reason he was so eager to wed and bed her. The sooner he did both, the sooner he could find the relief of emptying his ballocks and returning to the land he loved. Returning to the war he was determined to win.

  “You are hurting,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes.”

  More than she could ever comprehend.

  “Do not pretend to know my anguish.” He gritted his teeth. “If you think your life was difficult, being exiled to Scotland by Montrose, you know nothing of life, my lady. I have spent the last few years living in a hell from which I cannot escape.”

  Her brow furrowed as they concluded a final turn. “In Spain? I do not understand. Why would you return there if it is a place which has caused you great misery?”

  “Because it is my home,” he answered. “Sometimes, my lady, we cannot undo the ties which bind us. I am inextricably bound to Spain.”

  “Is there someone else in Spain?” she pressed, determined to have her answers when they were not the answers she would want.

  When they wer
e not the answers he was prepared to give. But there was freedom in honesty, if not a cure.

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  “A woman you love?”

  He did not miss the stricken expression which had come over her lovely face. Nor did he allow it to keep him from telling her the truth. “Sí.”

  Of course, he loved Maria. He always would. Death did not extinguish love, for love was not a flame, quick to sputter out and dissipate. Rather, love was a hot coal, always ready to form a spark.

  Lady Catriona missed a step.

  With an arm snugly clasped about her waist, he held her steady, guiding her through the final strains of the waltz. He could have lied to her, of course. And perhaps he should have. He could have fed her any number of false stories. Pretty stories. Or he could have said nothing at all.

  “This woman,” Lady Catriona said haltingly, drawing his attention to the fullness of her lips once more. “Why do you not marry her if you are desirous of an heir and in love with her? Why marry me, Lord Rayne?”

  The music ended. They bowed and curtsied to each other, and he offered her his arm. Strictly polite.

  “I already did marry her, Lady Catriona,” he revealed before he could think better of the admission.

  He had not meant to make the disclosure. But once spoken, the words could not be retracted.

  “I am afraid I do not understand, my lord.” Lady Catriona was matching his lengthy strides despite their difference in height.

  He ought to take pity on her. Slow his gait.

  He did not. And nor did he blunt the starkness of his next words. She was going to marry him, after all. It was best she knew what manner of monster would soon be hers.

  “I married her, Lady Catriona,” he elaborated. “And she is dead.”

  Before he said anything else, he took his leave of her, abandoning her in the midst of the ball. From the periphery of his gaze, he saw Leonora moving toward him, but this, too, he ignored. He stalked from the ballroom, desperate for escape.

  He did not stop until he reached his carriage.

  “To The Duke’s Bastard,” he ordered his coachman.

  He required whisky.

  And oblivion.

  Chapter Five

  Catriona was attending her second ball in as many evenings. But unlike the previous night, her heart was heavy, weighed down by the revelation the Earl of Rayne had made to her the night before, prior to making an abrupt departure.

  She had not seen or heard from him since.

  Catriona watched the crush of dancers from her vantage point beside a potted palm. She had pled a headache for the last dance, seeking a refreshment and a respite instead. How had she forgotten how wearying the social whirl could be? She had not forced this many false smiles to her lips or dipped into as many curtsies in the last year as she had in the past two days.

  Being back amidst the ranks of men and women who had considered her a social pariah before her engagement was discomfiting. Not one of her friends had sent her letters whilst she was in Scotland, save Hattie, which had forced Catriona into the uncomfortable realization that most of her friends had not, in fact, been friends at all.

  Hattie was dancing with the Marquess of Lindsey, who looked undeniably smitten whenever his gaze settled upon her friend. Catriona felt a twinge of something uncomfortably akin to jealousy, knowing the man she was marrying in four days’ time would never look at her with such frank adoration.

  Because he loved another woman.

  His first wife.

  The knowledge Rayne had been married before still shocked her. He had never previously made mention of such an important fact, though she supposed he would not have. The earl had made it quite clear what he expected of her, and their marriage would not involve tender sentiments or romance. He intended to share as little of himself with her as possible before returning to Spain.

  Either way, her waltz with Rayne had left her shaken. Following his abrupt departure, she had been left to agonize over the stark pain she had seen in his expression before he had stalked away from her. He must have loved his wife deeply. Catriona was filled with questions.

  When had he been married? When had his wife died? Why? How? She could only suppose he had not had any children, for he had not mentioned them to her. And he was quite explicit in his need for an heir. All through the remainder of the ball, and then through the night as she had been unable to fall asleep, questions had continued to assail her.

  With the morning light, they had not stopped. They were teeming inside her now, along with a riot of emotions she did not dare make sense of. On a sigh, Catriona looked about the ballroom for her mother, who was deeply engaged in a discussion with her bosom bow, Lady Creeley. Although Monty had escorted them to the ball, he was nowhere to be seen. Catriona had a suspicion he had already fled in favor of his club as he was wont to do, leaving the carriage behind and hiring a hack to take him to one of his favorite dens of iniquity.

  On account of all the guests and the candles, not to mention the general warmth of the air this evening, the ballroom was stifling. She fanned herself, but it did precious little to cool her. Two sets of doors led to the balcony, and Catriona could not resist the temptation to seek escape there.

  Just a moment of restorative air to clear her thoughts and chase the moroseness from her, she thought as she made her way there. With the guests distracted from all the festivities within, she found the balcony blessedly empty. She settled her hands upon the stone balustrade and tipped her head back to look at the sky. A few stars twinkled down at her, nestled amongst the velvety darkness of the night.

  She took a deep breath, telling herself it hardly mattered if the Earl of Rayne had been married before. That it was of no import whatsoever that he had loved his wife. That his lack of appearance this evening was meaningless and entirely unrelated to the confusing waltz they had shared at the Marquess and Marchioness of Searle’s ball.

  “Lady Catriona.”

  The low voice at her back—familiar and unwanted—stiffened her spine. She spun about to face the Marquess of Shrewsbury. Dear heavens, she had somehow failed to realize he was in attendance this evening. Had she known he would be present, she would never have come. She had not seen him since the awful night he had ruined her with a kiss and a wager.

  Even in the moonlight, he was still as handsome as she remembered. Tall, lean, and elegant. But seeing him now, she felt none of the yearning she had once felt. None of the silly fluttering in her belly that had led her to allow him to lure her into a chamber and kiss her.

  Instead, she felt only anger.

  “I have nothing to say to you, my lord,” she told him coldly. “If you will excuse me, I must return to the ball before I am missed and before you lead me into another scandal.”

  He stepped in front of her, blocking her, though he made no effort to touch her. “Wait, my lady. Please. I would ask for a minute of your time. Nothing more.”

  “You do not deserve a moment of my time.” The resentment she still harbored over the callous way he had treated her boiled, making her hands tremble. “You have already done enough damage to my reputation. I will not allow you the opportunity to do more.”

  “I want to apologize, Lady Catriona,” he startled her by saying.

  It was not what she had expected, and she told herself that was the reason she lingered rather than fleeing when she should have.

  She considered him. “You are far too late in offering your contrition, Lord Shrewsbury, if indeed you have any.”

  Which she doubted.

  This was the man who courted her and wooed her, who sent her posies and took her driving, who danced with her and sought her out at every society function before arranging for a group of others to witness him kissing her. He had known she would be ruined. And he had not cared.

  She could still recall the expression on his face after they were caught.

  Triumph.

  It had only been the next morning that she had disco
vered the extent of his betrayal after Monty had informed her of the wager. The bet had not been common knowledge until Shrewsbury had claimed his winnings.

  And Catriona had been sent to Scotland. Monty had given her a choice: wed Shrewsbury or be banished. She had chosen banishment.

  “I tried to call on you a number of times,” the marquess persisted. “I wanted to explain.”

  “There is no explanation you have which will ameliorate your actions,” she told him, and she had never meant words more. “Your actions spoke well enough for you.”

  “I accepted the wager before I knew you,” he said, stepping closer to her.

  Once, she would have relished his nearness. She would have longed for the slant of his lips over hers. No longer.

  “I do not care to hear your reasons,” she snapped, aware the longer she lingered here with him, the greater their chances of being caught once more.

  And she had only begun to reclaim her life. She could ill afford another scandal. Not even becoming the Countess of Rayne would help her if she was once more ruined by the Marquess of Shrewsbury, to say nothing of what her betrothed would do. Or Monty.

  “I offered for you,” Shrewsbury continued, ignoring her protestations. “I would have been happy to make you my marchioness. Montrose refused my suit, and he would not allow me to see you. I…I never meant for you to be hurt, Lady Catriona. I beg you to believe me.”

  She did not know what to believe.

  “I refused your suit myself,” she told him. “I would sooner be ruined than to become the wife of a man who would so callously betray me. You arranged for witnesses. You intended for me to be ruined.”

  “After the bet had begun, I realized I wanted you as my wife.” He paused, reaching out and taking her hands in his. “I still do, Lady Catriona. I know you are betrothed to Rayne now, but it is not too late for us. You can cry off and marry me instead.”

  She could not have been more shocked if he had leapt from the balcony before her.