“Rather like Scotch,” Sutherland grumbled as he knelt to fasten Iain’s clan pin to the kilt.
“Watch it,” he growled, “or I’ll slam my knee into your nose.”
Sutherland, immune to his moods and taciturn disposition, merely ignored the threat and squelched a grin.
“Well, my dear?” Iain inquired as he slipped his dirk into his woollen sock. “Do I pass muster?”
“Indeed you do. I see that the story one hears about a true Highlander is correct—you do wear nothing between the plaid and your flesh.” Halfway to being good and sotted, Iain turned away from the mirror and faced his paramour. Lifting the kilt, he showed her what she wanted to see. Grasping himself, he let the lady admire it.
“That part of you is magnificently made, Sinclair, even in this state.”
Quirking his lips, he stroked himself once, giving the lady what she wanted, so that later, she would give him what he wanted—which differed vastly from what she desired. He was bedding her only to get information about a secret club she frequented—the House of Orpheus. Orpheus was an enemy of the Brethren Guardians, and had to be destroyed. Iain was playing the part of a Casanova to gain what he and the other two guardians—the Earl of Black and the Duke of Sussex—needed.
Casanova, he mused mockingly as he let his kilt fall back into place. No, he did not feel like the legendary Italian lover, but rather like a male whore—as filthy and corrupt as an East End flash boy.
When he had concocted this plan, his friend the duke BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012
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had told him that nothing good would happen out of it, but he had laughed, mocking him for the prig that Sussex was. Iain believed his soul was already gone, believed himself impervious to any more pain. But the truth was, he was not. He was drowning in sin, and any time now, he believed he’d wake up one morning only to look in the mirror and find all the sins he had committed marring his face. It would be a horrific sight, but a true reflection of what resided in his soul.
“Have you time for another round? Sex always in-vigorates men.”
“You think me full of sap, then?” he teased, when he did not feel the least bit light and cajoling. “You are a biter, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Sutherland did laugh then, smothering the outburst quickly.
Her eyes narrowed. “I hope that isn’t derogatory, my lord. I would hate to have to instruct my dear husband to shoot you dead.”
As if Larabie, that fat, pompous bastard, could even try. “My dear, a biter is a term used to describe the most lascivious and wanton of wenches, which I am quite certain you will agree you are.”
“Oh.” She eyed him with a glittering glance that told him she was pretending not to know the true meaning of the word. How he loathed the game of playing innocent when she was so far from it. “Tell me, how does ‘biter’
play into the description of a wanton?” She wanted to be shocked, and he was in the right frame of mind to appease her. “A biter, sweet Georgiana, means that said wanton is so eager for sexual congress that she will offer herself, bottom up, to her lover. A man calls her thus when he knows she’s aching for a little slap and bite on her arse, hence the term.” BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012
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“Cunny, too?”
His lips curled in distaste, but he hoped she would see it for something far more appealing. “By all means, if you wish to have your cunny bitten, I shall be happy to oblige.”
Thankfully, Sutherland had departed before the conversation turned to this. Even he had some personal level of decency, and this crossed the boundary.
“How I adore it when you speak filth, Lord Alynwick.” He gave her a mocking bow. “I aim to please you, my lady.”
“You do. Surely you know that.” He did. Who would ever see to his own pleasure was another matter entirely.
Now alone together, Georgiana smoothed her hand down her body, her thighs spreading in invitation as her pale hand slid between them. She was as insatiable as he was. Any man looking for a mistress would find her ravishing—would likely even empty the family coffers for her. But Iain was not looking for a mistress, and her avarice made him feel empty and cold.
“Tell me your fantasies,” she whispered. “I’ve told you mine.”
“As I’ve said, I have none.”
“Please?” she purred.
“Shall I make one up to appease you, then?” She pouted, and her sharp, glittering eyes told him she knew that he had one. “Someone to spank and punish you?”
He winced. “Good God, no. I’m not one for pain with pleasure.” He’d had enough pain inflicted on him by both sides of his family, and while away at school.
“To be tied up, to give up all your control?”
“No.”
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She eyed him thoughtfully. She would never guess what the Sinful Sinclair, the Aberrant Alynwick thought of when he was alone at night in his bed, with nothing but the moon and stars to keep him company. He hardly allowed himself to think of it. Only when he was deep in his cups, and his feelings unguarded, did he allow himself to dream of his ultimate fantasy—a saint with a sinner. An angel cavorting with the devil. An innocent offering herself up to him—a sordid, sinful man who wanted to partake of her goodness, while showing her how delightful it could be to join him on the dark side of seduction. But not just any innocent. No, that would be too easy. There were numerous virgins in London. He could seduce any one of them, and live out his fantasies.
No, only one innocent—in mind and soul, in deed and thought—would do for him.
And damn her, how her guileless eyes and goodness rattled him. He’d walk through the Moroccan desert for her, would bleed himself dry for one chance to taste her lips, feel her breasts in his hands, pressing against his flesh.
But good girls did not like bad boys. Good girls gave wide berth to men who indulged in the sort of behaviour that governesses warned them about and etiquette books forbade.
Ladies like her did not allow men like him to partake of their innocence, while corrupting them with sin. And the woman of his dreams was every inch a lady by birth and character, and she called to him like gin to an East End drunk.
“You are in a strange mood tonight, Sinclair,” Georgiana observed. “Almost contemplative, I would say.”
“Really? How droll. I suppose I should be thinking of how I might spend the next few hours lying in sin and BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012
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regret before I am forced to confront my future. I might very well be dead come the morrow. A send-off worthy of the most proliferate rake should be in order.”
“It should. I offered and you declined.”
“Ah, yes. Well, a man needs to have his head—both of them—in the right place during these matters. Rest assured, after I have satisfied the terms of your husband’s duel I shall come and release all the pent-up frustration and contemplation that is building inside me. Will that suffice?”
She flopped back onto his bed with a pout, her legs sliding evocatively against each other. “I suppose,” she muttered. “But you’ll think of me when you are on that field, fighting for my honour?”
“Trust me, I shall be thinking of nothing else.” Christ, he needed another drink. He was getting bilious, nat-tering away about such tripe. All he could say was that she—and this damned duel—had better be worth it. If he didn’t discover anything about Orpheus from Lady Larabie, he might just end up putting a bullet in his own chest.
“Are you afraid to meet him?”
“Larabie?” Iain snorted. “Not in the least.”
“No, the Grim Reaper.”
“Him? Why should I? I already know the path of my destiny.”
“And have you any regrets?” she whispered, watching him with eyes that were suddenly very clear and knowing —eyes that made the hairs on his neck rise in warning.
“No, none.”
“No business left unattended? Nothing left unsaid?
No apologies to be made?”
“Not a one, I’m afraid,” he growled as he fitted his BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012
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sporran around his waist. “I never apologize. It means I was in the wrong—and I am never that, luv.”
“Such brass bollocks you possess, my lord. No atoning for your sins before you fall to the earth, never to speak again. No absolution for past transgressions.” He froze, not wanting Georgiana’s words to have any sort of impact upon him, but they did, damn it. Unknowingly, the witch made an image flash in his mind, one that left him tense and uncomfortable, his mouth curling in disdain—for himself, for his foolish, hurtful past, and a damnable pride that had caused his fall.
“Ah,” she whispered, and he saw cruel delight flare in her dark brown eyes. “Perhaps the Aberrant Alynwick is not so deviant, after all?”
“You goad me, and I shall exact punishment upon you after this infernal duel is complete.”
“I do look forward to it.”
After bowing to her, he reached for his tumbler of Scotch and headed to the door. Before leaving he turned back around. “I expect I’ll find you tonight?”
“I expect you will—and most likely someone else.” Slamming the door behind him, Iain hurried down the stairs. Tossing back the remainder of the Scotch, he passed the crystal glass to his butler, who then handed him his greatcoat. Waving off the hat and walking stick, Iain left his house and hurried down the steps to his waiting carriage. Ducking his head after barking out the direction he was going, he climbed in and settled himself against the crème-velvet squabs.
Lurching forward, the carriage began its journey, the click of the horses’ hooves echoing down the street. It was November, and Mayfair wasn’t as busy as it was during the Season. Pity that, for he could have used the BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012
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noise of life outside to keep him from reflecting on life inside the carriage.
He had thought to go to his club, have a bit of supper, a hand of cards and a few more drinks before his dawn appointment at Grantham Field. But all that had changed now. He had something he needed to do—not just out of duty, but because he felt compelled, driven, utterly consumed to see someone before the unthinkable happened tonight and he landed on the damp grass, toes cocked up, blood seeping out onto the green blades, while Lucifer’s hand rose from the ground, grasped him and tugged him down to his lair below.
Yes, Iain needed to see that person and…apologize.
But how did one effectively seek mercy and forgiveness for a crime that was more than a decade old? “I’m sorry” hardly seemed enough.
By the time he reached his destination, he had practiced a dozen pretty speeches, all better than the one before. As the footman opened the carriage door, he was firmly fixed upon the one he would use, assured that, at least, the lady would give him a moment to vent his spleen and do the honourable thing.
The Sumners’ majordomo took in the sight of him from head to toe before holding out his white-gloved hand for the invitation to the insipid musicale.
“I have a standing invitation,” Iain muttered.
“Very good, my lord,” the butler murmured. “I shall announce you.”
It was rather disturbing that the old geezer knew him by sight. It was not good in this instance to be reminded that his reputation preceded him.
Clearing his throat, the retainer announced in chilling tones, “His lordship the Marquis of Alynwick and laird to the clan Sinclair.”
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Emerging from the shadows, Iain entered the room, aware it had gone still with shock. He stood tall and proud, wearing his Highland dress as he scanned the room for his quarry. He found her, and any thoughts of apologizing flew out of his head when he saw her arm in arm with a man. They were whispering and smiling to each other beneath a portrait of a classic nude, completely unaware of others around them.
Apologize? No. Murder, most likely. With eternal life in hell a damned surety.
Feral and enraged, and sotted from his finest Scotch, Iain prowled the room, the guests parting before him like the long grass of the African savannah does when a hungry lion presses through.
He would go for the throat—the man’s first. Then he would carry off his prey and bring her to his den, where he would play with her, torment her, before finishing her off.
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CHAPTER TWO
THE SUSSEX ANGEL WAS feeling far from angelic on this, the most exciting evening she had experienced in years.
Such a strange notion, because she, Elizabeth York, elder and only sibling to the Duke of Sussex, was as giddy and mischievous as a schoolgirl attending her first ball.
Such a strange observance, for she was far from a young girl. In truth, she was only a few months shy of her thirtieth birthday, and most firmly on the shelf.
If her age hadn’t turned her into a spinster, then her infirmity most certainly had. To put it bluntly, she was as blind as a bat. But Elizabeth didn’t care—not tonight.
Tonight she had the strange sense that anything was possible. She had not felt that way in a long, long time, and the sensation was a welcome one. She had never wallowed in self-pity, but would be a fool not to admit there were times when she hid her true feelings behind a shield of strength and determination—a shield that was sometimes little more than a thin veneer.
But she would not think such things now. Tonight she would let herself imagine that she could be as beautiful and desirable as any woman present.
“Ah, let us stop here.”
And that lovely deep rumble was the reason for the impulsive giddiness currently ruling her. The Earl of Sheldon was escorting her about the room as if she were not an old maid, and disabled, too. It was worthy of a girl-BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012
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hood swoon—something the spinsterish Elizabeth would never contemplate, most especially before her peers, who, she was certain, watched her with rapacious interest as she made her way, arm in arm, around the room with the earl.
“Lovely.”
“It must be a portrait, then?”
She got the impression that they had stopped their promenade for a reason. Since she couldn’t smell any food or wine, she assumed it was not so that he could hand her a refreshment. The way he stood silently beside her, as if studying something, gave her pause, made her think that something must have caught his interest.
“Indeed. A rather interesting one.” His voice seemed strained, and she thought she knew the reason behind it. Swallowing hard, Elizabeth felt some of the giddiness leave her. They had only been introduced, and he had asked Sussex for permission to escort the duke’s sister about the room. After Lady Lucy, her friend and companion, had most effectively cata-logued the earl’s every feature, Lizzy had allowed her imagination to run rampant. Silly fool. Men like Sheldon didn’t need a blind
woman hanging on their arm.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She felt the muscles of his forearm tense under her fingertips. “I quite forgot that I am to describe the art to you. What a great clod I am.”
“It is a queer concept, I grant you,” she murmured, hating that she was right about Sheldon, “but it is the only way for me to see—through your eyes. My friends Lady Lucy and Lady Black have quite a skill with descriptions. I feel as though I can actually see when they describe something.”
She sensed his gaze studying her profile, and fought BOUND GALLEY EDITION March 23, 2012
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back a fierce blush. Women of her age did not blush, for heaven’s sake!
“Well, then, let me see if I can at least meet them in skill.”
Perhaps she was wrong about him, after all? Smiling, she nodded for him to proceed, while waiting to hear more of his delicious voice, and to feel again that tonight anything was possible.
“We are standing before a classic Greek portrait. Atlas, I think.”
“With the world perched laboriously on his shoulders?”
“Indeed. Zeus is in the background, floating about on his cloud throne, with an ominous lightning bolt in hand.”
“Oh, yes, I can see it now. Poor Atlas grimacing beneath his agonizing effort, and Zeus, the pompous God, snarling at his success.”
A soft chuckle whispered between them. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Oh, and did I tell you that this portrait is a classic nude? Atlas appears quite as he did upon birth.”
“Scandalous!” she teased, her mood improving by the second. “Although I won’t ask you for the description.
But rest assured, I would not allow Lucy and Lady Black to get off so easily without parlaying the particulars.” A whisper of breath, a pulse—a wave of something…
“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’ve shocked you,” she said.
“No… Yes…” His voice sounded strained. “Of course not.” She heard the fabric of his coat move, and imagined him raising his arm to run a nervous hand through his hair.
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