Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors

by Victoria Vane

  “Of course.”

  Once they were ensconced on a lovely Chippendale divan, Aunt Elizabeth pinned her with a bemused gaze. “Whatever did you hope to accomplish by running away from home?”

  “Technically, I didn’t run away from home. I ran away from a betrothal.” The difference seemed fairly clear to her way of thinking.

  “But darling, surely you see that would never work.”

  “Of course it would.”

  “Charles would find you.”

  “Oh, I know that.” She shot her aunt a conspiratorial smile. “Running away was only part of the plan.”

  “Only part of the plan?” A squeal. “Good glory, child. Don’t you know that running away, being unchaperoned for an entire night, is enough to ruin a girl?”

  “It is?” Well, that would have been good to know ahead of time. It appeared she had overachieved her goals.

  “It most certainly is. Thank God no one but Charles and I know you’ve gone missing.”

  Technically, someone else knew. Tildy pressed her lips together.

  Her aunt sighed and collapsed against the pillows as though the vapors had claimed her. “Tell me the rest,” she said with a flourish of her hand. “Tell me everything.”

  Well, she wasn’t telling everything…

  “I was going to come to you for help,” she said.

  Aunt Elizabeth popped open a lid and regarded her. “Well, that’s not so bad.”

  “I was certain you would be able to help me lose my virginity.”

  “What?” A full-blown shriek, one so strident it caused Dobson, who had just entered with a tray, to shriek as well. “Oh dear,” Elizabeth murmured as the visibly unnerved butler set the tray on the table and, hand shaking, attempted to pour the tea. “Oh leave it,” she snapped and, with alacrity, Dobson did. He quit the room in a rush. She turned to Tildy, her expression a mix between confusion and horror. “Tell me you did not say what I thought you said.”

  “You have a legion of lovers…”

  “I most certainly do not.”

  “Well, you’ve had several. I thought you could…lend me one.”

  Honestly, Tildy had never seen a person’s eyes go quite so wide. Her nostrils, too, were enormous. At long last, after much stuttering, she managed, “One does not lend one’s virginal niece one of one’s lovers.”

  “That seems terribly selfish to me,” Tildy said, pouring out the tea and adding sugar to hers. She took a sip, and Aunt Elizabeth did the same with something akin to desperation. “Besides, it hardly signifies. I’ve taken care of the problem myself.”

  Tea spewed.

  Aunt Elizabeth choked. She gaped at Tildy with horror in her eyes. “You did not.”

  “I most certainly did.” She leaned closer. “You should have told me how wonderful it is.”

  “Matilda Elaine Paddington!”

  “It seems very rude to keep such pleasure to yourself.”

  “Oh God! Oh Godohgodohgod! Charles is going to have apoplexy.”

  “Charles should not have betrothed me against my will.”

  Honestly, she didn’t understand her aunt’s dismay. Her actions had made perfect sense and, looking back, she would not have changed a thing.

  “Who was it?”

  Oh no. Oh no. She was not revealing that. That was her private and precious secret. “A man.”

  “Well, of course it was a man. Where did you meet him?”

  “On the road.”

  “Oh God.” Her aunt looked ready to faint again. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  “Oh, I do.”

  “Tildy, you don’t understand. Society has rules. There are conventions.”

  “I don’t give a fig for conventions.”

  “Well you should.” She’d never seen witty and gay Aunt Elizabeth so stern. She’d always been carefree. Always been a rebel against society, most especially the institution of marriage. “You are ruined. Absolutely ruined. You will never find a husband now.”

  “You don’t have a husband,” she felt the need to point out.

  “My situation is different. I am a widow.”

  “How is that different?”

  “It is very different. For one thing, I paid for my freedom. I was married to a hideous old goat for five years. Suffering his attentions every night.”

  “And that’s what you want for me?” The thought palled.

  “No. No, darling. Of course not. But don’t you see… It is because of that marriage that I live the way I do now.” She took Tildy’s hands in hers. “I know it seems unfair, and it is, but the rules for women in our world are inviolate. And you have violated them. The consequences are horrific.”

  There had not been any consequences yet, other than a deep regret that she’d left Dev’s bed without another go. “What do you mean?”

  “Where will you live? Who will take care of you?”

  “I thought I could live here.”

  Her aunt stared at her for a long long while, which made her a trifle twitchy. She finally broke and said, “Of course you can live here, but think what you will be missing.”

  “I will be missing a marriage to a man I do not love.”

  “Bah! Love. That is nonsense. But I am not talking about that. I am talking about the companionship of a man. Security. And mostly…children.”

  Tildy blinked. Children? She’d never even thought about children.

  “I know it seems unimportant now, but trust me, a woman reaches an age where she feels that lack. It’s an emptiness inside her. A dark hole that seems to swallow up her soul…”

  “If you want children, why don’t you marry again?”

  Elizabeth turned away. “My life is complicated. But my life is hardly the point. We need to figure out how to fix yours.”

  “Fix mine?”

  “You need a husband. One you choose. Doesn’t that sound lovely?”

  “But what about my virginity?” She’d gone to great lengths to lose it. Didn’t searching for a husband seem counterproductive after all that?

  “No worries. Nothing a touch of pig’s blood on the sheets cannot remedy.”

  Really? As easy as that?

  “But I don’t want to marry.”

  “Of course you do. You just don’t want to marry Charles’ choice. Am I right?”

  She stared at her aunt. She had gotten the right of it, or part of it. She did want to marry at some point. Did want children. But now the only man she could envision as her husband was the man she’d given herself to…and marriage was the last thing on his mind.

  “So take my advice. Attend the Season. Go to balls and masques and infernal musicales. Meet the gentlemen of the Ton. Vet the candidates. Choose one and marry him at once.”

  “But I don’t want any of them.”

  “How can you know? Until you meet them?”

  Because they wouldn’t be Dev.

  He was a soldier.

  Soldiers did not attend society events.

  “Promise me you will at least try.” And, when it looked as though Tildy would refuse, she added, “I insist.”

  And so it was settled.

  Tildy would attend the Season and look for a husband.

  What a dismal thought.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SHE WAS GONE.

  Something cold walked along his spine. He sat up in the bed and felt around the covers, which was ridiculous, because he could tell the instant he awoke…she was gone. The emptiness of the room was stultifying.

  Still, he got out of the bed and searched the suite, hopeful he was wrong.

  But when he found nothing, not even her clothes, he knew the truth of it.

  He should not have fallen asleep. It had been foolish of him.

  She was gone.

  It wasn’t as though he didn’t know where to find her. She’d mentioned an aunt and, no doubt, Paddington would know where she lived. The trouble was, he could never ask Paddington. The man was his enemy, for God’s sake.
Aside from which, Paddington would want to know why he wanted to know and then, of course, he’d kill Dev on the spot.

  He’d debauched his baby sister, after all.

  Hell. He’d debauched her utterly.

  He sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands.

  What had he been thinking? The thrill of revenge did nothing to counterbalance the seething regret.

  Oh, not that he’d had her. Or even that he’d ruined her so exquisitely.

  But that she was gone.

  He’d lost her.

  His door burst open and his head snapped up. Hope, tantalizing and fleeting, flickered like a weak flame in his chest. And died.

  “Good morning!” Wickham crowed as he sauntered in, without so much as a knock. Granted, it was his house, but really. Dev was bare-assed naked.

  But he did come bearing gifts. A tray of breakfast foods and—thank God—coffee. He set it down on the table and shot Dev a glance. “You look chipper,” he said, grinning through the lie.

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Nothing wrong with the bed, I trust.” Wickham tossed himself into a chair and snagged a rasher of bacon, which he proceeded to inhale.

  “The bed is fine.” Dev pulled on his breeches. “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said as he joined Wickham by the hearth and poured a cup of steaming black brew. “I thought you were staying in the country for a while.”

  “I was, but a problem arose that I need to deal with.”

  “Nothing cataclysmic, I trust.”

  “A minor annoyance. But here I am.” He sighed. “I suppose it is providential, though, for now I can be in town to squire you through your transformation.”

  “My…what?”

  “You know.” Wickham waved a dismissive hand in his general direction. “Turning you from a peasant into a lord.”

  Dev snorted. “I am hardly a peasant.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do not. I cannot imagine a title will change anything.”

  “How naïve you are. It changes everything. The world has ignored you until now. And now, you will be the focus of all eyes in the Ton.”

  “I cannot imagine why.”

  “Can you not? It’s quite a story, an obscure relative inheriting—”

  “I am hardly obscure—” Dev interjected with a sniff.

  “Because an entire house destroys itself by virtue of…well, lack of virtue.”

  His cousins had been a dissolute collection of souls.

  Wickham tipped back his head and stared at the ceiling. “What? Oliver dies drunk in a curricle—”

  “Under the curricle, I believe.”

  “And Sampson gutted by a French whore.”

  “Rumors had her as Italian.”

  “And Will? What happened to him again?”

  “A duel at dawn.”

  “Foolish of him.”

  “It was foggy.”

  “But the uncle… That was the most spectacular scandal.”

  “Can a scandal be truly spectacular?”

  “Of course it can. Especially when the man in question is caught collaborating with the enemy and decides to put a pistol in his mouth.”

  “Perhaps he was hungry.”

  “At any rate, the world is watching. You will have to be on your best behavior if you are to be taken into the fold.” His best behavior? Well, he had bollixed that up quite nastily already. “We shall go for the war hero, I think.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You need an image. A war hero will have all the Grand Dames atwitter.”

  “What makes you think I wish to twitterpate the Grand Dames?” Who gave a fig what those crusty watchdogs thought?

  Wickham shook a finger. “Pay attention, Dev. You need to listen to me. I was raised in this world and I understand it. You need to win their approval.”

  “Why?”

  Wickham sighed. “Because this is your world now. You will want to have a place in it. Now…” He stood and began to pace with his hands locked behind his back. “Your appearance is critical.”

  Del glanced down at his bare chest. “What on earth is wrong with my appearance?”

  His friend surveyed him with a curl to his nose. “For one thing, you don’t look like a lord.”

  “I don’t look like I have a rapier jammed up my ass?”

  “Do be cordial. Remember, you are now one of us. Or you will be once you meet with the magistrate. The lords of the realm are now your compatriots.”

  “The same little lords who tormented us both in Eton?”

  “Precisely. You can hate them all you want, but you can never show it.”

  Well, where was the fun in that? “I don’t think I want to be a lord after all.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a wonderful life.” He ceased pacing and threw himself in the chair once more.

  “And what do lords do all day?”

  Wickham propped his boots on the chair across from him. He leaned back and threaded his fingers behind his head. “As little as possible, as I observe.”

  “How very dull.”

  “It is nothing of the sort. There are women and parties and song.”

  “I don’t sing,” Dev growled, apparently to himself because Wickham pattered on.

  “You’ll need to attend the House of Lords, of course, but other than that…” He shrugged.

  “Women and parties and song.”

  “Quite right.” Wickham tugged down his vest. “You will need to shave, of course.”

  Dev glared at him. “Shave?”

  “Gentlemen do not sport scruff.”

  “I’m not in the least bit scruffy.”

  “One begs to differ.”

  “One can go to blazes.”

  “I can understand why you resist these constrictions—”

  “I believe reject is the word you are looking for—”

  “But if you are to take your place in society, you absolutely must follow certain conventions.”

  “Such as?”

  “A cravat, for one.”

  Dev reared back. He hated cravats.

  “Proper boots.”

  “My boots are perfectly serviceable.”

  “Silly boy. Being a lord has nothing to do with anything serviceable. Demand the best. You deserve nothing less.”

  Dev sighed. “All I want is to be left in peace.”

  “And you shall be.” Wickham grinned. “After the Season.”

  The sound Dev made was alarmingly close to a shriek. “Season? As in the Season?”

  “Naturally.” His once-friend surveyed him with a haughty stare. “You will want to choose a bride. A biddable one would be best.”

  “A bride?” He didn’t want a bride. Certainly not one of those squabs on the marriage mart. He didn’t want anyone. No one but Tildy.

  And she was not biddable in the least.

  The thought made him smile.

  “Every good lord has a biddable wife. You need heirs.”

  Dev’s heart jumped. Bloody hell. He needed heirs?

  Visions of tiny children with masses of uncontrollable curls flashed through his head.

  He needed heirs.

  He’d never needed anything before. It was an odd sensation.

  “But first things first. Your appearance. We shall go to Bond Street. I know a man.”

  “Such a sentence never ends well.”

  “He’s a genius. He will outfit you according to your station. The Season is half over so there is no time to waste if you want to make a splash.”

  “I do not.”

  “Nonsense. Of course you do. And now is the time to strike. Everyone will want a glimpse of the new Earl of Canterby.”

  Dev shuddered. He’d always hated that title and the man who claimed it. It would be a hard adjustment…though nothing to losing his beard.

  “First I must visit Bow Street, though.”

  “Bow Street? Whatever for?”

  “I nee
d to dispatch a runner.”

  “The…problem?”

  “Yes. Of course. Quite annoying, I must say, but my fiancée has gone missing.”

  The cup stalled halfway to Dev’s mouth. “Your…fiancée?”

  “Yes. She took off in the middle of the night. I’ve come to engage a Bow Street Runner to look for her.”

  “That is…terrible.”

  Wickham laughed. “I suppose. She’s a well-known hoyden, but a lovely thing.”

  “Is she?” A trickle of sweat danced down his spine.

  “I daresay I will enjoy her adventurous spirit. Once I have her trained, of course.”

  Something crawled in his gut. It felt like acid. Dev cleared his throat. “Who, ahem, who is she?”

  Wickham toyed with his cuffs. “Matilda Paddington. You know her brother, Charles.”

  Oh fuck. Dev’s heart stuttered. He hadn’t only debauched Paddington’s sister. He’d ravaged his best friend’s intended. A painful ping took up residence in his left temple. “I, ah, didn’t know you were engaged.”

  Wickham chuckled. “It’s not been announced. Charles wanted us to tell her in person. So I went to Cornwall to meet her. A mistake, that.”

  “A mistake?”

  Wickham held out his hands. “Apparently she was not interested in the betrothal. She did flee.”

  How odd, though, that Wickham did not seem more concerned. If Dev were engaged to Tildy and she disappeared on him, he’d be rampaging around the countryside until he got her back. But here he was, eating Dev’s bacon and laughing as though it were all a big joke. The thought infuriated him.

  “Do you love her?” he had to ask, though the words caught in his throat.

  “Love her?” Wickham shot him a curious glance. “Oh, you are new to society, are you not?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one marries for love. Not in our world.”

  How dismal.

  “I am worried about her, though,” he offered, as if that were enough. “Paddington is my friend.”

  “And when did that happen?” He and Wickham had been close at Eton because they were both in the sights of Paddington and his cohorts. “He has always been a monster.”

  “Oh, that.” Wickham waved a hand. “That was long ago. He’s a decent sort, now that he’s had time to mature. Even apologized for being a royal ass back then.”