Scandalous by Night

by Barbara Pierce

  Still, the image of his uncompromising handsome face was burned into her memory. One glance had banished the boy, and replaced him with the towering man who had a face that radiated both virility and power. She had felt the weight of his amber-green gaze as he scrutinized her face. Satisfaction had flared in his eyes. Her instinctive fear had pleased him. His black hair was longer than she remembered. The glossy black length was bound in a short queue. With his lips firmly pressed together, he reminded her of a hardened warrior.

  As she withdrew her hand, she offered him a hesitant smile. “Lord Everod, I suppose it was inevitable that we would meet again.”

  Injured and filled with rage, the sixteen-year-old Everod had delivered the vow that they would meet again like a threat. Maura had believed him then. Even if she had not, the intimidating man standing before her now was fully capable of carrying out the revenge that had been denied him twelve years earlier.

  “Miss Keighly,” his low voice rumbled like thunder in her ears. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  Liar. There was no reason for her to believe that he had planned this encounter. However, Everod had seized the opportunity to gain the upper hand. She felt unsettled and vulnerable, and the blackguard knew it.

  “I was not frightened,” she said, her heart pounding in her chest. He grinned, and Maura was not fooled for a moment that amusement prompted his friendly response. “Flustered,” she hastily amended. It was madness to confess to a man like Everod that the first response he had stirred in her was fear. “You merely flustered me. I was lost in thought, and did not anticipate—”

  “Either friend or foe?” he politely supplied, when words failed her muddled brain.

  The young girl who recalled the angry young lord who had craved revenge wanted to edge away from him, and cry out to the patrons of the establishment for their protection. There was something in his expression that stalled her retreat. Everod expected her to run. No, he hoped that she would run! Still hugging the forgotten book, Maura held the viscount’s unwavering gaze and slowly dipped into a respectful curtsy to acknowledge his noble status.

  “Lord Everod, your presence is unexpected, but not unwelcome,” she softly lied. “Forgive me for not recognizing you immediately. It has been many years since we last met.” Maura mentally cringed at her inane remark. So much for her pathetic attempt at polite conversation. There was no need to remind the viscount that at their last meeting, his father had ordered his seriously injured son from Worrington Hall.

  “Twelve to be precise,” he said succinctly. Everod braced his palm against the bookcase behind her as if to discourage any thoughts of flight. “I recognized you immediately.”

  There was a fluttering sensation in her abdomen as she digested the certainty in his inflection. Since she had been a mere ten at the time, it seemed a trifle disturbing that he could pick her out of a crowd so readily. Perhaps it was his confidence that ruffled her feminine pride. She would like to believe that he no longer saw the face of a child when he gazed at her.

  No, that was not quite the truth.

  She did not want Lord Everod to see the young girl who had betrayed him all those years ago.

  “While flattering, my lord, I find it difficult to believe,” she said in a brisk tone as she turned slightly and slid the book she had been reading before Everod’s interruption into the narrow space on the shelf.

  In spite of her words, Maura quietly conceded it had only taken a moment for her to identify the tall handsome stranger who had startled her. Time and distance had blurred his features, except for his eyes.

  Unique and haunting, his eyes were light amber with outer and inner rings of dark green. Twelve years ago, she had seen them with an inner fire of injustice and hatred. This afternoon they glowed with a cold cynical amusement. Her face and throat burned under his intense scrutiny.

  “Are you calling me a liar, Miss Keighly?”

  Everod had tossed the accusation out as bluntly as another man might have issued a challenge. The question felt like a blow to her cheek, because once her silence had called him a liar.

  He had evidently not forgiven her or forgotten.

  Maura’s gaze unwillingly sought out the scar she glimpsed on the right underside of his jaw when he cocked his head. The fancy knot of his cravat covered most of his throat; however, she knew what the starched linen concealed. A long wicked scar of dishonor. It began on the left side of his neck and curved around until it disappeared on the right underside of his jawbone. With the exception of his mistresses, Maura doubted many had seen his scar, and few still were brave enough to question its origin.

  “Come, Miss Keighly, I shall not be offended by the truth,” he taunted softly. “Am I a liar?”

  The viscount was clever with words. He spoke of past and present in the same breath. It was enough to muddle her brain. “No, my lord. I would never call you a liar.” She gave him an inscrutable look. “Regardless, my opinion is of no importance.”

  “Do not belittle yourself.” He moved in closer and his proximity forced her to lower her gaze. “Your fine opinion carries weight with my sire, my family.”

  Maura touched her stomach, half expecting to find his blade buried to the hilt. She had to admire his skill. His double-edged words were razor sharp and his delivery almost effortless. “You misunderstood me, Lord Everod. I was referring to the here and now. I knew you when you were barely a man.”

  “Now you insult me!” he said, laughing at her explanation.

  “And you are being intentionally obtuse. I doubt you would have heeded any advice from your fifteen-year-old self,” she said, her frustration increasing as he twisted her words to his liking. “You are seven and twenty. I confess, I do not know the gentleman you have become.”

  She took a bold step forward, intending to walk by him. With luck, she might even make it out the door unmolested. Everod’s hand shot out and clamped onto her elbow. Maura did not test the strength of his hold. She was certain he would not release her until he was finished with her.

  Everod stared down at his gloved hand on her arm. “Have you not forgotten something?”

  “What do you want? An apology?” she asked, unable to quell the defensiveness and rising panic in her voice. Twelve years had not eased her shame. It burned and bubbled like acid in her belly. “You have it. A day has not passed when I have not—”

  “Spare me, your heartfelt sentiment,” he said brusquely. “If a simple apology would have satisfied me, I would have already claimed it.”

  Maura trembled. What did Everod want from her?

  Revenge? She silently acknowledged that she deserved his disdain. If she had not summoned Worrington after finding Everod with her aunt, the earl might have never learned of their betrayal. Her impetuous actions had cost Everod to forfeit almost everything, including his life. Regret did not even begin to describe her feelings.

  On the other hand, Everod was not willing to forgive anyone.

  Maura needed to get away from him.

  Standing so close to him that she could smell the enticing scent of soap and man was confusing her. The child in her wanted to run away, and find her aunt. The woman in her wanted to remain, and challenge him in an attempt to learn more about the man Everod had become. “Then I would not presume to bore you with my apology. What do you want?”

  He grinned irreverently at her frosty tone. “Radcliffe’s In a Sicilian Romance. You were thoroughly enthralled with the tale until I intruded. Were you intending to purchase both volumes?”

  Maura had forgotten all about the books. Ann Radcliffe’s gothic tale would have to wait till another day. She had no intention of lingering a second longer than she had to with Everod watching her. “No. I was just admiring the workmanship.”

  Everod looked unconvinced. “If you do not have the funds, I could purchase them—”

  Something akin to horror crept into her expression. “No! I mean, no, thank you, my lord. That will be unnecessary.” Maura stared pointe
dly at his hand on her arm. She took a deep fortifying breath when he released her. “I have tarried here too long. I—the carriage awaits me.” She thought it best not to mention her aunt to the viscount.

  “Very well. I will not keep you.” He surprised her by capturing her hand and bowing gallantly. Maura felt the warmth of his lips through her kid gloves as he pressed a kiss onto her knuckles.

  Recalling her own manners, she dipped into an abbreviated curtsy. “Good day, my lord.” She hesitated. “If you like, I will send your father your warm regards,” she offered with feigned nonchalance, as it suddenly occurred to her that Everod might have approached her in an attempt to heal the breach between him and his father.

  Any hope she might have harbored in her heart was ruthlessly crushed. The warmth she had glimpsed in his handsome face vanished. “I do not recall offering them, Miss Keighly.”

  The Lidsaw males were a stubborn, unforgiving lot. Maura nodded. “Then I would be foolish to pretend otherwise.”

  She started for the door.

  “Miss Keighly?”

  Maura halted and tilted her head questioningly at the viscount. “Was there something else, my lord?”

  With a casual stride he caught up to her. “Yes, I believe there is. I want you to ponder something on your drive home with that bitch you call your aunt beside you.”

  “Yes?”

  “You claimed not to know the gentleman I have become at seven and twenty.” He towered over her, using his height and closeness to his advantage. “I have decided to resolve your quandary.”

  Maura did not like the gleeful manner in which the viscount’s eyes glimmered as he stared down at her puzzled expression. “I do not quite understand, Lord Everod.”

  He brushed his thumb over the fine bones of her hand. Until now, she had not realized that he had not relinquished her hand. “You are in my territory, Miss Keighly. My rules,” Everod said, his somber proclamation prickling the invisible hairs on the back of her neck. “By season’s end, you will not be able to make the same innocent claim.”

  “One of the servants told me that you requested a tray,” Georgette said, glancing back at her while her aunt’s personal maid fastened the back of her dress. “Are you ill, child?”

  Maura had said very little to Georgette since she had dashed to the Worringtons’ carriage as if the devil had been at her heels.

  Literally.

  She supposed there was some truth to her fanciful imagery. Lord Everod could never be mistaken for a saint.

  “Forgive me, Aunt, but I must cry off from joining you and Uncle this evening. I confess, I have been feeling unwell. If you do not mind, I would like to retire early this evening.”

  Georgette turned around. Crossing her arms, she gave Maura an aggrieved look. “This is a dreadful time for you to be ill. Rowan was hoping to spend part of his evening with us.”

  “Of course, you will extend my apologies to him as well,” Maura demurely replied.

  She had not told her aunt about her encounter with Everod.

  When Maura had left the bookseller’s, she had had every intention of warning Georgette that the viscount had sought her out. There was old business between the three of them, and Everod did not impress her as the forgiving sort. Nor was Georgette to be underestimated. Maura had learned after Everod’s banishment that her beloved aunt had not been entirely truthful in regard to her tryst with her stepson. Twelve years ago Maura’s loyalties had been torn. Her brief meeting with the viscount proved that time had not improved her thorny predicament.

  “Are you feverish?” With a slight frown creasing her brow, Georgette took a step toward her niece. She brought a finely embroidered handkerchief up to her nose to avoid coming down with the ailment, too.

  “No, Aunt. Just a minor stomach complaint.” Maura closed her eyes as her aunt’s cool fingers pressed against her cheek.

  “I disagree. You do feel feverish.” Georgette backed away from Maura. “Oh, dear. You must take to your bed immediately. I will have Cook send up one of my special teas that will help ease your discomfort. Worrington will be so disappointed that you won’t be joining us this evening.”

  Dismissing her niece, Georgette returned her attention to the cosmetics on her dressing table. She had to prepare herself for the evening out. Although Maura knew her aunt loved her, Georgette’s interest in anything other than herself was rather limited.

  “Good evening, Aunt. You will send Uncle and Rowan my regrets?”

  “Yes … yes,” Georgette said absently.

  Maura quietly slipped out of her aunt’s bedchamber, allowing another opportunity to warn her aunt about her stepson to fade away.

  She had little doubt that Lord Everod would soon reveal himself to Lord and Lady Worrington. If they intended to declare war on each other, Maura was not going to place herself between them.

  Or be anyone’s pawn.

  Ever again.

  Chapter Four

  “By God, I should kill you for your insult!” Everod roared. He sucked air through his clenched teeth as a painful cramp rippled through his abdomen.

  Untroubled by the viscount’s rage, his cherub-faced attacker grinned impenitently down at him. The boy was not even two years old, and he had bested a man who had recently celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday. It was utterly humiliating.

  Everod’s seething gaze settled on the child’s sire, who strolled over to rescue his son. “Brawley, if you value this fiendish imp, you will remove him from my sight!” he snapped, the white of his teeth flashing in warning.

  Maccus Brawley plucked his son out of Everod’s hands, and neatly passed the gleeful child over to his wife, Lady Fayre. Everod’s eyes narrowed when he noted that the lady attempted to muffle her laughter under the guise of hugging the boy.

  Fighting back his own laughter, Brawley rubbed his jaw. “My apologies, Everod. And my sympathies. Stomping on a gent’s cods is a new game for young Derek. One we cannot seem to discourage.”

  “Well, what do you expect with Carlisle blood running in the boy’s veins? Born fighters, the lot of them,” Curling his hand into a fist, Everod resisted the need to cup his abused groin in front of the two ladies present, the young Duchess of Solitea and her sister-in-law, Lady Fayre. Instead, he pressed his fisted hand into his left thigh and tried not to gag.

  Fayne Carlisle, Duke of Solitea, felt no compunction about laughing at his friend’s discomfort. Everod shot a quelling glance in his direction.

  “You are cruel to laugh at poor Everod.” Fayne’s duchess came to his defense. “Derek managed to kick the butler and two footmen this morning. Hedge has not spoken a civil word to anyone since the unfortunate incident.”

  “Why do you think I insisted that our man Everod be the one to hold the frisky rascal,” Solitea said, completely unrepentant. “With luck, the boy will outgrow his game before it is my turn to amuse him.”

  Everod made a rude noise. “Solitea, your generosity knows no bounds. Any hopes that I might father an heir one day was likely quashed with one impressive kick.”

  Lady Fayre made a sympathetic sound. “Does it hurt overly much, Everod?”

  Everod responded to her asinine query with a growl. Brawley and Solitea laughed, but he noted the silent commiserating exchange between the two men regarding his injury.

  His brief exchange with Maura Keighly had prompted him to accept Solitea’s offer to spend a quiet evening with the Carlisle family. It only took an hour for Everod to regret his decision. Now happily married to his duchess, his friend had recommended an evening of restraint to counter the whirlwind of reckless living the social season in London always incited.

  It was a damn shame to listen to one of London’s most licentious rakes lecture him on restraint. Years earlier, he, Solitea, then known simply as Carlisle, Ramscar, and Cadd had eschewed the shackles of responsibility and roamed London with the sole purpose of creating their own amusements. The ton had dubbed the four les sauvages nobles, or the noble savage
s.

  It was a nickname that suited them perfectly, or had until two of his friends had lost their heads and married. Solitea had been the first of their group to succumb to Cupid’s arrow. Not even the suspicion that his lady might have been his own father’s mistress had deterred his friend from surrendering to the coy wiles of Lady Kilby Fitchwolf.

  A year later, their friend Fowler Knowden, Earl of Ramscar, fell hard for a little curvaceous blonde by the name of Miss Patience Farnaly. Everod might have laughed aloud at his once sensible friend’s leg-shackled predicament if the situation had not been so heartbreaking.

  Everod meant no disrespect to his friends’ wives. He felt nothing but a growing admiration and affection for both women. However, the days when the ton had anticipated the excitement and mischief of les sauvages nobles were fading into banality. Perhaps Solitea and Ramscar did not mourn the loss of their freedom. Even Maccus Brawley, who had married Solitea’s younger sister, Lady Fayre, seemed content in his marriage. So that left he and Cadd to carry on the tradition without their friends.

  Of course, these days Cadd could no longer be counted on. He had been behaving damned odd, even for him!

  “Well, since Derek has ruined your sense of humor,” Lady Fayre said, her green eyes sparkling with suppressed humor, “I shall take him upstairs to his nurse.”

  Kilby, Solitea’s demure, dark-haired duchess, abruptly rose at her sister-in-law’s announcement. As a sign of respect, all three gentlemen stood. “I will join you, Fayre. Our absence will give the men some time to cheer Everod out of his sulks.”

  “I am not sulking,” Everod muttered.

  The duchess opened her arms to Derek in silent invitation. The boy eagerly reached for his aunt, and wrapped his arms around her neck.

  Something about the affectionate exchange prompted Everod to ask, “So, little duchess, when are you getting down to the business of giving Solitea here his own cods-stomping heir?”