"Surely not,” Potter said, outraged. “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?"
Christian 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 lovely Elizabeth 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 that it was Elizabeth he wanted, and poor Charlotte suffered horribly as a result. After her death, tales of abuse surfaced."
Christian 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?"
Christian acknowledged him with a nod, though despite their being classmates at Eton and then later Oxford, he didn't care for the man. As boys they were 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. Christian's were a startling pale gray, the color of morning fog, whereas Stephen's were black as the pit of Hades and softened only by thick, curling black lashes.
Naturally, along with the striking resemblance came competition between the two that often bordered on vicious.
Christian had never been able to like the man, though he'd once loved the boy.
"Would have thought you to be in mourning still, Christian,” Stephen 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 well 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,” Stephen said with a smirk. “Perhaps your appearance is a remnant of those years. A bit savage, wouldn't you say?"
Christian 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, Stephen narrowed his eyes, noting the direction of Christian'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 our lovely Miss Temptation, and how daring of her to try the new style. Much nicer, I think, actually viewing the slenderness of a woman's waist."
He was right, Christian thought, watching her now as she spoke with a cluster of revelers. While the other ladies present wore the empire style popular for the past few years, Lady 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.
Just then she turned her head and seemed to look right at him. The air felt knocked from his lungs as her startled, exotically tilted eyes widened a fraction then narrowed. Arrested for a moment, she lifted her utterly perfect straight nose and turned away.
He wanted her.
With a hot flash of undeniable lust, he knew it as surely as he must marry in less than two months.
Stephen wanted her, too, if the predator's look on his face was any indication. His hooded eyes lowered in a lingering caress over the length of her as she stood ignoring the frankly sexual male perusal.
The battle cry of challenge rose between the two men and sensing it perhaps, Bentley and Potter became alert to the discourse.
"Miss Temptation, hmm?” Christian eyed his prey as his blood flooded hot and heavy through his veins.
"Turns them all down with a flash from those extraordinary eyes. She will not be compromised, as all can attest. Nor can she be kidnapped and carried away, though a few brigands have attempted as much."
"Damn."
"Carries a little pistol in her reticule. Shot one would-be kidnapper in the foot with the blasted thing."
Intrigued, Christian eyed Stephen and in the blunt manner for which he was known, asked, “Do you plan to win the beautiful Elizabeth for your own?"
"Perhaps. You?"
"Maybe,” he drawled.
Lord Darlington turned his full attention on his competition. A light of challenge dawned slowly in his eyes. He grinned suddenly, allowing a glimpse of the mischievous boy he'd once been. “Shall we make a wager then? I might remind you that every method has been tried and failed. Charm and gallantry are laughable in the face of the daunting Elizabeth, but you and I have not yet approached her, have we?"
"Umm."
"I'll wager my hunting lodge and the surrounding land."
Christian knew this was no simple wager. The hunting lodge was much more than a simple shack. No. It was a manor house of rustic beauty set among emerald hills. Wild game made it a hunters’ paradise. It bordered his own ancestral home in the north so he knew it well. Stephen's desire for the woman obviously matched his own.
"Two of my ships, the Chesapeake Princess along with the Virgin Maid,” he said in return. “Both shall be yours if you win the lady's attentions."
"Intriguing. Hmm,” Stephen murmured. “A challenge and a wife. Are you looking for a wife, sir?"
"Yes. An appropriate one according to my father's will, but you knew it already, did you not?"
Stephen smiled. “Ah, yes. The famous will. Married by midnight on your thirty-fifth birthday. That day is coming soon, if memory serves."
Christian quirked a black brow. “You know very well it is. I suppose you gleaned that bit of information from your mother? How is the Lady Beatrice faring since the death of your father?"
"Quite well and in her own bit of heaven after all those years of boredom in the country. She is quite unattached now and living in London. Perhaps you'll run across her one evening. She's particularly fond of the opera."
"I detest the opera,” Christian demurred. He also detested Lady Beatrice whom it was rumored spread her thighs quite often for his own father long about the time of his own conception. Though both men, so much alike, never mentioned it, they knew it was likely they were half brothers.
As boys they'd often played together, had been thrown together in society. Beatrice never lost her disappointment that her beloved Stephen was a mere earl when he should have been a duke. She passed this poison on to her son as he grew to manhood and, Christian suspected, instigated the competitions that eventually destroyed their friendship.
Stephen laughed and continued to watch Elizabeth. Another aged gentleman took her arm and led her to the dance floor. “Surely you know
that nothing is sacred in London: no secret stays secret for long. Your cousin has already made the deal well known."
Christian said nothing while silently cursing his perpetually stupid second cousin, Park. Oh, yes, Park Mansfield was to inherit, assuming Christian wasn't man enough to land a wife before the deadline.
He'd only known his cousin several times removed as a spoiled boy who had a penchant for picking his nose. Disgusting in childhood, Park, most likely, had not changed at all. Christian wasn't worried about him in the slightest. He would have his bride, an unblemished miss who had the blessing of society. “My cousin can hang."
Stephen laughed with delight. “Go after her, man, but this time I will win.” He smiled, showing ridiculously even white teeth. “Such a beauty,” he sighed with dramatic flare. “Our nursery will be filled with spirited children."
Fighting the urge to grind his teeth, Christian nodded. “We shall see, won't we?” Christian hardly believed he'd been gulled into this confrontation. He turned his gaze to the dance floor in search of his prey.
Dark and beautifully curled hair rained down from the crown of her head to settle near mid-shoulder. The gown she wore, sapphire and sparkling, was something he wanted to remove slowly, bit by bit, just before he drew her to his bed and gave her the greatest pleasure of her life. Strong, pale thighs would clasp his hips. She would cry out his name as he planted the seeds of his dynasty.
His lapse in assuming women were more than they ought to be galled him.
Women were for pleasure and children. In that order.
"Hah!” Stephen taunted. “Let's see if the years in the Orient have taught you anything about survival. I'll have her, Christian, I swear. Knowing you've set your sights on her will make the victory even more ... umm ... pleasant."
In an attempt to thrust the unpleasant vision of Stephen with Elizabeth from his brain, Christian merely nodded coolly and looked away.
"All right,” he murmured at last. “I'll take your bet and be sure to introduce you to our son when he is born."
Lord Darlington's eyes flickered for just an instant, then he smiled wickedly. “No, you won't. Our quarry is said to be cold as a witch's tit, and it's well known that you prefer warm and willing women. She'll never be yours."
Christian simply smiled his shark's smile and began to plan.
* * * *
Elizabeth listened carefully as she always did. Gossip, as usual, was most informative. Between her efforts and those of Pandora, she felt she had a fairly accurate link into the affairs of the ton.
"I swear, no one has seen Juliana since the wedding in June,” Marianne Hawthorne said. “She was always so happy and gay, never a complaint, but then she married. Suddenly she isn't happy and gay anymore. I wonder why?” She batted her blue eyes and stared around at the ensemble. “Why?"
"Maybe she's caught up in the notion of motherhood,” one man said. “'Tis her duty, you know. She probably is so happy being a wife that she's concentrated all her efforts to the cause."
Wanting to scoff at the idea that a woman was less than complete if unwed, Elizabeth, instead, held her tongue and murmured quietly, “What if she is not?"
Elizabeth knew she was searching, but she wanted to be sure. It wasn't the first time she'd heard this kind of talk and always it brought her back to Charlotte and the agonies she had suffered. No other woman should have to suffer so.
Under duress, Elizabeth had been cast back into Society this season. Mama and Papa refused to listen to her arguments and pitiful pleadings, saying only that it was time to return to life. Elizabeth had eventually succumbed to her parents’ wishes, keeping to her own secret agenda. She hoped to exact retribution for other women who found themselves in a situation such as Charlotte's.
Since the Season's beginning, she'd made many new friends ... gossips and young women all. It troubled her to know that since Edward's comeuppance, she still thirsted for revenge.
It had all been so easy. Everything. The more she learned about abuses, the more need there was for the Raven Rogue. She'd not given the name to herself, and to her way of thinking it was a testament to the bland thinking of the ton that the name had stuck. It might have been amusing to be called the Black Widow or the Avenging Angel. Of course, no one dared admit the culprit might be female, so the Black Widow was definitely not the sobriquet of choice. The Raven Rogue, no doubt a silly name, had been granted her by an equally silly man who fancied himself clever indeed.
Liz thought back to that night with Edward and wondered if she'd see the bastard again. He'd survived. Oh yes, as a cripple, but she'd yet to see him since that fateful night. To her everlasting pleasure, the society he'd once bowed to, now shunned him. Her family's good name and the ensuing accusations after Lottie's death had done him in.
Grace Bentley tugged at her elbow, and Elizabeth looked down at the sprite, very aware of the noise around her. She liked Grace, a vivacious young woman with blonde frizzled hair and a slight overbite. She had a smile that was sunshine bright and drew people to her. Elizabeth liked her tremendously.
"Please, Lizzie, I wish to introduce my brother, Robert, Lord Bentley, and his friend, His Grace, Duke Haverton.
Distracted, she smiled at the younger woman before lifting her gaze to the gentlemen. Breath caught in her throat; blood, hot and pounding, strummed through her body. A pulse throbbed at the base of her throat. The dark man she'd noted earlier gazed down from his incredible height, and she swallowed, feeling overpowered.
It wasn't a feeling she enjoyed. Men made her wary. Fearful.
They were creatures of base instinct and violence.
More than anything Elizabeth hated being afraid and since young men provoked that emotion within her, she generally avoided them like the plague.
Especially dangerous ones, like the man standing before her like a satyr bent on plundering virgins. She'd noted his blatant stare earlier and without a degree of sensibility, she'd stared right back, feeling the heat of his gaze like red-hot fingers trailing her spine.
Captivating.
He was an utterly beautiful man. Wild and urbane all at once, he was the epitome of every swashbuckling tale she'd ever read as a girl. Sharp cheekbones were prominent beneath eyes that were pale and the color of smoke. Slashing black brows gave his dark coloring a decidedly demonic bent. But it was his mouth that was her undoing.
Bold, sensual, and generous, it looked ... dare she think it? Kissable!
Lips like his might cause even the most virtuous of ladies to drop her drawers without a qualm. Elizabeth shivered and prayed no one noticed.
For the first time in her life, she wondered about forbidden things. Man-Woman things. Everything about the Duke screamed of virile excess.
She was untouched, yet the very sight of him sent her senses into a tizzy and made her question once again what it was about men that made women lose the sense God gave them.
Collecting herself with an effort, she turned to Grace's brother and forced a tight smile. “Lord Bentley.” She nodded politely before returning her gaze to the demon-god. “Pleased, Your Grace."
"Are you?” His voice was dark like sin, rich like honey, and laced with humor.
"I think so.” She blushed at his forthright manner and her own bluntness. Somehow it embarrassed her. “I mean, yes. I'm not normally so inept."
"You are perfect.” He took her lace-gloved hand and kissed it, his hot breath invading the delicate fabric. Helplessly, she shivered, and the beast speared her with a knowing glance. Audaciously, his thumb caressed the palm of her hand, and she gave a startled jerk.
"Not so perfect,” she answered tartly. Good heavens, she was flirting!
His answering grin was charmingly white and merriment lit his eyes. He was irresistible, and it scared her to death.
"An imp then?"
Elizabeth's smile cooled as she struggled against his charm. “Never."
Duke Haverton's regard unnerved her, and she fought the urge to squirm. Sudden
ly, he smiled, as if sensing her unease. “Might I have a dance?"
Uncomfortably, Elizabeth glanced at her dance card, then at the others in her party. It seemed a thousand eyes watched them and feeling ridiculous, she blushed. There was no way to avoid him without arousing further talk. “I-I ... yes."
His hand, bronzed and ungloved, looked awkward against the pale skin of her elbow, and she caught her breath at just how quickly he maneuvered her onto the crowded floor. A reel had just begun, but he paused near the musicians where he made a whispered request. As testament to his power among the ton, a slow waltz thrummed sensuously through the stagnant air of the crowded room. Delighted dancers were soon swept up in the haunting music.
Feeling quite unlike herself, she fell into the Duke's masterful arms. One large hand enveloped her own, while the other settled with slow assuredness onto her lower back. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of her gown, and his scent enveloped her with sandalwood and exotic spices. Everything about him was raw and masculine, making her feel giddy. She'd never been held closely by a man such as him. Against her better judgment, she breathed deeply and let herself sink into the sensual aura surrounding him. It was a mistake, she knew, but she simply could not help herself.
This man, though unlike any other of her acquaintance, was still just a man, she told herself. Charlotte had succumbed to just such a thrill, and now she was dead for it.
Elizabeth steeled herself. Unwillingly, she lifted her head, a woman of pride, and stared him straight in the eye. Before those molten silver eyes consumed her, she caught her breath, reminding herself he was merely mortal, not some girlish fantasy.
His lashes were thick and black, she noted with a small shudder.
When at last he smiled at her, she felt struck as though rocked by a quake. Her gloved hand trembled as it rested on a broad, hard shoulder.
She felt tiny in his arms, though by any description, she was tall for a woman. Men of his size were intimidating, she thought, stifling the tremor that shook her to the core. He was dangerous, too sensual and too exotic in appearance for safety. Any woman would be a fool to fall under his spell, and Elizabeth was no fool.
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