She was Lady Eliza Grayson, for pity’s sake!
If her parents ever learned of tonight’s misdeed, she would only further upset them when they were burdened enough already by grief. She deeply understood the heavy yoke of losing one such as Lottie. Indeed, she hadn’t felt whole these two years past.
Their small family had lost enough.
Lord Grayson still blamed himself for the death of his daughter. Melancholy tinged his personality now, where before he’d been jovial and always full of fun and laughter. A powerful man among his peers, her father was honorable and well considered. He was respected throughout England, yet Charlotte’s needless death destroyed him moment by moment.
Eliza’s mother, Millicent, took the flight of fancy approach to the entire matter. Life must go on, she was wont to say. The woman who’d raised two daughters and lived her life through their achievements was desperate to grasp at anything to bring back happiness into her home. Her entire attentions were focused on Eliza and a match. A good one. There would be a marriage, babes, and a happily ever after.
She was a woman who believed in fairy tales.
Yet, anyone who lived at Brightstone Estates in Devonshire knew the woman grieved. In private. Behind locked doors. Later, she would emerge, eyes red-rimmed and a forced cheery smile on her lovely face. She had lost her beloved Charlotte to a scoundrel’s worthless abuse, but she would not see Eliza’s future destroyed as well. She lived for a return of normalcy that might never come.
It was during the years after Lottie’s death that Eliza first came to realize and appreciate the subtle strength of her mother.
For the sake of her parents, she had shown some enthusiasm for attending this country weekend, and when they agreed to attend with her—as a family—she began to plot.
The Howard affair in Devonshire was a crush of Londoners who longed for nothing more than an escape from the city heat. It was also her first foray in public since the death of her sister. Edward had not been invited, though his estate bordered the Howard’s ancestral home. ’Tis true, he wasn’t popular among the gentry, and whispers of Charlotte’s strange death had tainted him as unsavory.
Over the years and with the shock of Lottie’s death, his name had gone into shadows. Whispers of his past dealings with women filtered into polite society, leaving many to speculate about the cause of poor Charlotte’s death.
Eliza still remembered that night.
Lying in her bed, she’d been visited by nightmares. A presence sent chills over her skin. Feeling somehow she was no longer alone, she bolted up in bed. Breath left her lungs only to be replaced by an insufferable ache. Sadness such as she’d never known climbed over her back and into her soul. She’d known before the messenger arrived that her sister was gone.
Sweet Charlotte, who’d only wanted babes, a lovely home, and a good man to care for her was gone and Eliza knew in that moment that her life was forever altered.
During the years since Lottie’s death, Eliza had learned, though, that mourning was not something one put a time limit upon. If she’d had her way, she would still be at home in the country and wailing to the winds about her loss. Charlotte’s passing had left an unbearable aching hole in her heart that wouldn’t be filled in a day or a million days. Charlotte was her sweet companion, her darling friend... her twin.
The fireplace, charred from cheery fires past, now sat cold and stark against the wall. Eliza stared at it and brooded. Charlotte was sweet and good, full of hope and exuberance for a future that she’d never live to claim. Eliza had always been the harder, more realistic of the two, yet she’d needed Lottie’s optimism like she needed air. Where Eliza saw storms brewing on the horizon, Charlotte saw life giving rain and the promise of rainbows. Her sister was a nearly perfect being, taken early because a monster had chosen to destroy her goodness.
Tearing her gaze from the charred remains of yesterday’s blaze, Eliza shook her head and returned to the present.
Merciful heavens, she was becoming maudlin.
Must be the aftereffects of crippling her sister’s murderer.
Drawing a shaky breath, she stood and let her maid pull the dark rose silk over her head and turn her for fastening. “I never said thank you, Pandora.”
Deftly fastening the tiny hooks, Pandora laughed. “No thanks needed, m’lady. I only wish you’d killed the bastard who tormented our poor Charlotte. He deserved worse than he got.”
Eliza managed a laugh. “Bloodthirsty wench, aren’t you?”
“Aye. Must be the Irish bloodlust for revenge you have been going on about.”
Eliza felt the maid’s fingers tense against her back and when she spoke again, her voice shook. “I know it’s not my place but...”
“What?”
“He deserved it and worse for killing your sister.” She paused then moved until they faced each other. Her maid’s expression was solemn. “There are others, you know.”
Eliza sighed. “Yes, I know. But can I avenge them all? I would if it were possible.” She reached her Pandora’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Perhaps I have spent too many hours reading Wollstonecraft for I believe, as she does, that women are not chattel but human beings, with feelings. Injustice abounds and I am only one person. Tonight I tried to gain some modicum of justice but I was ineffectual. Edward deserves to die, but I was too weak to actually kill him. Why couldn’t I kill him like he deserved?”
Pandora nodded briskly and yanked the slim shoulders of the dress over her mistress’ arms. “Cause you’re a lady. A lady doesn’t do murder, but she can make the poor sod miserable. And she can protect, too. Like a mother protecting her child, we must all look out for the innocent. Like m’lady Charlotte.” Her eyes turned sly as she led Eliza to the dressing table where she began to dress her hair.
Eliza watched Pandora in the mirror and, when appropriate, handed her a pearl-topped pin. “What are you suggesting?”
“Do you feel vindicated since you shot m’lord bastard’s knee to bits? Do you feel this takes your grief from you?”
“No,” she admitted. “Just the opposite. I was ineffectual. I couldn’t kill him.”
Pandora grinned, her hands immersed in a cloud of dark red curls. “Just as I thought, m’lady. You couldn’t kill him because, after all, you are a lady. You do have some manners. Instead, you did one turn better and, though it was a mis-fire, you managed to cripple him. It’s marvelous. Really. He won’t be pushing anyone anytime soon now, will he? And it’s all owed to you. You saved another woman. You did.”
Eliza stared at her reflection with eyes gone hard with hate. Charlotte’s eyes would never look that way. But Charlotte was gone, and Eliza had nothing left but that base emotion and the need for revenge. Men who hurt women were less than nothing. Women were physically weaker and worth little in the eyes of the law. They were fair game. The injustice was monstrous and Eliza planned to do something about it.
A slow smile spread across her face.
No. She wasn’t sweet and good. Unlike poor Lottie, Eliza was a hellion on a mission of revenge. Her sister’s goodness wouldn’t be left in the graveyard of defeat. It would mean something. From this day forward the bandit in black would see to it.
Chapter Two
London, 1820
She was a swan in the midst of a flock of wrens.
From across the room, he watched her, unable to look away as she smiled and engaged in the mandatory chatter common at these large affairs among the Ton. She was taller than most ladies in attendance, almost regal in appearance, her dark auburn hair capturing the lights of the myriad chandeliers in the ballroom.
Fair.
She was fair.
Nicholas Delaford, the seventh Duke Weston, leaned with graceful boredom against an ivory-colored marble column at the edge of the room and wondered how her lighter flesh would look pressed against his own dark Tones. He narrowed his eyes in speculation astounded by her effect on him. The first stirrings of attraction caught him up. Accustome
d to sybaritic pleasures and never denied in his thirty-four years, he was flagrant in his regard for the delectable miss who wore her haughty allure like an irresistible challenge.
Few things intrigued the Duke. Wealth, power, and a dark, well-favored appearance inherited from his long-dead father held the promise that forbidden desires were his to take. A challenge was something to be savored and enjoyed, much like the risks he often took at London’s gaming tables.
Duke Weston never wanted for female companionship and he’d indulged, admittedly to excess, since his return to England’s shores. Last night’s sinful pleasure had occupied him till dawn when he’d finally crawled from between the thighs of his lovely companion, kissed her swollen lips, and taken himself home to bed.
He’d been too long away from England, having lived these past ten years in China. They’d been profitable years, but solitary, given that he was bent on amassing even greater fortune to add to the family coffers. Though some part of him was pleased to be home, he missed the exotic pleasures, the scents of China... the erotic, the hedonistic. He’d had to please no one but himself, and it was a lush, unforgettable experience to saturate himself in forbidden pleasure. He wondered now, in this pristine ballroom, if he would ever again accept less.
Now he realized he had almost forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by lovely, but mindless, young women, who had nothing more to occupy their minds than what gown to wear. Forgotten, too, was the civilized chatter that was normal for events like this during the height of the season. Frivolity and carefree evenings among the ton made him restless and inwardly edgy, but he bore them with the ease of his class. He was a man of action, ruthless in business and in his personal relationships, though they were limited to a select few.
Out of necessity, Nicholas once again lived among the so-called civilized and searched, unbeknownst to his friends, for a suitable wife. It was mandatory, though he chafed at the thought of matrimony. Damn his father and the cursed stipulation in his will. Married by midnight of his thirty-fifth birthday or the title and massive fortune reverted to a distant cousin.
Even from the grave his father manipulated him.
Seething, stretching against invisible constraints, he glanced at one of his companions and realized he’d missed something.
“Forgive me, Bentley,” he murmured. “My mind wandered.”
His companion grinned. “From the way you were staring at the lovely Lady Eliza ’tis no wonder. The sort to capture a man’s imagination, is she not?”
Nicholas’s smile was slow; his world narrowed upon her. “A beauty to be sure. I suspect she has an untamed wildness about her despite the cool reserve,” he replied almost to himself. “A flower. More tropical than domestic perhaps. One wonders about her scent.”
Bentley choked on his drink.
“Forgive me.” Though he seldom apologized for his words, he took Bentley’s proper English sensibilities into account and made an exception. Bentley, no more than one and twenty, was inclined toward the romantic and, no doubt, found him shocking. He nodded slightly in recognition of his faux pas. “The Orient has made me blunt. She is, of course, a lady and not a member of the demimonde.”
His eyes wandered again toward the object of their conversation. An elderly gent, corpulent with wiry gray hair, took her hand and escorted her onto the dance floor. Not once since she’d gained Nicholas’s notice had she danced with anyone under the age of forty, unless one counted a few stammering youths fresh from university.
Curious female, to be sure.
He’d noticed her from the moment he’d come through the doors and handed his card to a waiting doorman. Frankly, he doubted any man present could fail to notice the sumptuous beauty who stood with remote grace on the perimeter of the dance floor.
“What is her age?” he asked quietly, giving away nothing more of his prurient thoughts.
“Hmm. Nineteen or twenty, perhaps twenty-one. I’m not quite sure.”
“And still unmarried? Strange, considering her great beauty.” If he must marry, why not a woman who made him burn? Insipid females turned his stomach and there seemed nothing faint-hearted about the lovely Eliza. He wanted a mistress in the bedroom and a Madonna with his children. In short, he wanted it all and planned to have it.
Bentley plucked two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and deftly handed one over. “But fortunate for us, hmm? She truly is a dashing young woman, if women can be called dashing. An heiress as well. Beauty and good fortune—the proper blend I would say.”
“Poor girl’s been in mourning for the past two years,” Mr. Howard Potter said from his position near Nicholas’s other elbow. He was a slightly built man, a third son and as such, could never dream of attracting a woman like Lady Eliza.
A pity, Nicholas thought since the man was a true gentleman. Unlike himself, Potter was content to watch her from afar, and Nicholas easily noted the wistful, half-in-love expression on the younger man’s face. To Nicholas’s way of thinking, love was for young misses and poets, not for intelligent and practical men.
“Two years,” Potter said with a shake of his head. “An ungodly length of time for one so young, but her sister’s death nearly killed the girl from the tales I’ve heard.”
“Quite true,” Bentley replied. “Charlotte, Lady Stanhope, was her identical twin. She took a fall from a long staircase and broke her neck. Lord Grayson, father of the twins, still hasn’t recovered from the incident and some say he blames himself.”
“Surely not.” Potter’s face was a mask of outrage. “He is the finest and best of men. How could anyone in the Ton know what a despicable bounder Lord Stanhope would show himself to be?”
Nicholas straightened and discarded his empty glass at the base of a potted palm. His interest piqued, reminding him he’d been gone too long from society. Normally, gossip did not interest him, yet, gazing at the sight of the young woman whirling on the dance floor, he was intrigued.
“Perhaps I’ve forgotten Stanhope since my years in China,” he said to his companions.
“He didn’t run in our circles,” Bentley stated with a semblance of a sneer on his normally friendly face. “It wasn’t until after his marriage to Charlotte that tales began to circulate about the rogue. Succinctly put, the man is reputed to involve himself in disreputable acts, gaming, tawdry women, and licentious behavior. Though it wasn’t well known, there was talk to suggest he married poor Charlotte only for her extensive dowry. The sod quickly tossed the money to the winds leaving him, once again, near destitute and his poor wife suffered horribly as a result. After her death, tales of abuse surfaced.”
Nicholas stilled. “Are we speaking of murder, gentlemen?”
Both men nodded, though it was another who broke the silence. “It was never proved, though most speculate he was the cause of the, um, accident. He is barely tolerated in society.” Stephen Fitzgerald, Lord Darlington, lean and handsome in black evening clothes, bowed slightly. “Sorry for the intrusion. Might I join you for a drink?”
Nicholas acknowledged him with a nod, though despite their being classmates at Eton and later Oxford, he didn’t care for the man. As boys they had been the best of friends, but time had made Stephen cynical and hard.
Over the years, many had thought them brothers, so close in appearance were they. Black hair, angular features, and tall, broad-shouldered bodies made them vastly similar. Only the eyes differed. Nicholas’s were a pale gray where Stephen’s were black as the pit of Hades.
Naturally, along with the striking resemblance came competition between the two that often bordered on vicious.
Nicholas had never been able to like the man though he’d once loved the boy.
“Would have thought you to be in mourning still, Weston,” Lord Darlington said, tugging at the wrist of a white evening glove. “Given that your father passed only a few short months ago.”
Unused to explaining his actions, there was a definite edge to his voice when he answered. “It is wel
l known that I bore no great affection for my father. Though I am sorry for his passing, it would be hypocritical to endure an extended period of mourning.”
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
“Concerning?”
“Why your good fortune in the Orient, of course. You were gone from England so long I began to wonder if you’d gone native,” Darlington said with a smirk. “Perhaps your appearance is a remnant of those years. A bit savage, wouldn’t you say?”
Nicholas chose to ignore the comment on his unfashionable hair, which he wore long and gathered at the nape with a black velvet ribbon. A person of manners would not dare comment on such a thing, yet Lord Darlington cared nothing for the dictates of polite society. It was a view they shared.
Shrewdly, Darlington narrowed his eyes, noting the direction of Nicholas’s gaze. “Lovely bit, is she not? Skin like alabaster and just as cold, I imagine. Reserve suits her elegant looks. Tell me, have you tried your luck with her?”
“I’ve only just arrived.”
“She looks a brilliant peacock amongst pea hens in that sapphire gown. Worth, I believe. Only the best for the delightful Lady Eliza and how daring of her to try the new style. Much nicer, I think, actually viewing the slenderness of a woman’s waist.”
Though it was thoroughly de trop to discuss a woman with such familiarity in a venue such as this, Nicholas realized the man was correct. While the other ladies present wore the empire style popular for the past few years, Lady Eliza Grayson wore a dangerously low-cut silk affair that clung like second skin over the slender lines of her body. A tall, long-stemmed rose amid daisies. Two tiny scraps of silk lined with shiny diamond-like stones crossed the seductive line of her shoulders, and bits of the shiny stuff were scattered like a baby’s tears over the skirt of the gown, making it shimmer under the lights.
Silk and Scandal Page 2