GAIL RANSTROM
Lord
Libertine
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Prologue
London, May 25, 1821
Panic licking at her heels, Isabella hurried down the long dingy second-floor corridor of Middlesex Hospital, the man sent by the Home Office leading the way. He indicated a door and she stepped through into a ward with twenty or more beds. The odor, something foul and fetid, hung ominously in the air.
“This way, Miss O’Rourke,” her escort said, directing her to a curtain along the far wall.
She slowed, reluctant now, after all their urgency. He’d tried to prepare her, the man from the Home Office—Lord Wycliffe, she thought he’d said. He told her she might not recognize Cora, and that she needed to brace herself and be strong. She glanced up at him again, hoping for reassurance and finding none.
She wished she could have waited for Mama to return from looking for Cora in the park, but Lord Wycliffe had said there was no time to lose. She’d left her sister Eugenia to bring her mother and Lilly to the hospital when they returned. Then Lord Wycliffe had brought her here. To identify Cora. On the way, he’d told Isabella what had been done to her—she’d been beaten, dishonored, disfigured and cast off in a dust heap at the end of a blind lane, where she’d been found by the morning watch. Now, so close, Isabella was afraid of what she’d find.
She swallowed hard.
“Do you need a moment, Miss O’Rourke?”
She shook her head and proceeded slowly. Lord Wycliffe stepped ahead and drew the curtain back for her. He touched her shoulder as she went forward. “I shall wait for you, miss.”
Only the meager light able to penetrate a filthy window illuminated the bed, but there was nothing of Cora’s in evidence. Where was her cloak? Her gown or slippers?
Isabella stepped closer. The occupant of the bed was swathed in bandages wound around her wrists and neck. Her head was turned away, and Isabella summoned the last of her courage before she touched her shoulder. “Cora?”
Slowly, painfully, her sister turned, and a sob broke free from Isabella’s chest. She had thought she was prepared for anything, but she hadn’t been prepared for this…this parody of Cora. And it was Cora—her honey-blond hair caked with dark, stiff blotches of blood, her forehead missing a large triangle of flesh, her eyes—those sparkling blue eyes—dull now and nearly swollen shut, and her lips cut and distorted.
The tortured lips parted, and a faint sigh emerged. “Bella…”
She took Cora’s hand. “I am here, Cora. You will be all right now. I am here and I will take you home.”
“Not…going home,” she said, and a glistening tear trickled down her puffy cheek.
Isabella nearly choked with the effort to hold her sobs back. “Please, Cora…”
“D-don’t pretend.”
Isabella could no longer stem the flow of her tears. Her pain and grief welled up and spilled over.
“Be…brave,” Cora whispered. “Avenge me, Bella.” Cora stopped for a moment when her swollen lip cracked and a fine line of blood appeared. Then she blinked and started again. “He lied about everything…was not who he said.”
“Who was not? And how shall I know him?” she asked. “If he lied about his name…”
“A gentleman. Tonnish. Charming, dark hair and dark eyes…taller than Papa was.”
“That is not enough, Cora. I need more. You must hold on. You must get well, and we will—”
“His kiss,” her sister sighed, closing her eyes as if remembering. “Always…always wets his lips after his kiss. As if tasting…and he tastes of…something bitter.”
“But—”
Cora opened her eyes again and the sheer intensity of her gaze immobilized Isabella. “Promise, Bella.”
“I…I promise. I swear it upon my life. Rest now, Cora. Mama will be here soon, and we…we…”
But Cora’s hand slackened and her face froze in a concentrated study of Isabella, as if entreating, even in death.
“No…” Isabella moaned as her knees began to buckle. “No…no…”
Lord Wycliffe came forward and braced her. “Come away, Miss O’Rourke. We shall wait for your mother in the matron’s office.”
But at that very moment, her mother and sisters rushed through the ward toward them. “Bella! Bella! Say it isn’t our Cora! Say there has been some awful mistake.”
“Mama…”
Isabella tried to stop her mother and sisters from going to Cora’s bed, from seeing what had been done to her, but they swept Isabella aside, knocking her back against Lord Wycliffe. A long keening wail broke over the ward as her mother threw herself over Cora’s lifeless form. “My baby! Oh, my darling child! Bella, how could you? How could you have let her come to this?”
“I didn’t know—”
“It was your duty to know!” Mama buried her face against Cora’s chest and sobbed, her words barely distinguishable as she said, “It should have been you. Why couldn’t it have been you?”
The words, stark in their sincerity, cut into her heart and made it impossible for her to breathe. She turned away from the gruesome scene, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Eugenia and Lilly clutched each other tightly, but Isabella had never felt so alone in her entire life.
Lord Wycliffe, a complete stranger, offered her the only comfort she could find. He slipped an arm around her waist to support her and murmured some indistinct platitude. Grief, anger, pain and loneliness filled her as she silently renewed her promise.
Rest in peace, Cora. I will avenge you.
Chapter One
London, July 2, 1821
“What are we doing cooling our heels at a masquerade when we could be kicking them up at a witches’ Sabbath? ’Tis summer, Hunter. There’s got to be something better to do. Some prank, some diversion.”
What, indeed? Andrew Hunter yawned and scanned the crowded ballroom at the Argyle Rooms. A masquerade, and he and his friends had not bothered to wear costumes or even dominoes. What a sad state of affairs, when he could not think of anything at all to interest him—here or anywhere else. Well, it was bound to have come to this sooner or later. He had not left much undone, untried, untasted.
Henley nudged him again. “There’s going to be a black mass in the tombs beneath the chapel at Whitcombe Cemetery. If you know of another…”
Andrew took a deep draught of his brandy and then shook his head. “None better than the Whitcombe Sabbaths. Go on without me, Henley. I think I’ll make an early night of it.”
“Early night? Are you ailing, Hunter?”
Ailing? Is that what one would call boredom to utter distraction? Aye, then, he had a bloody terminal case of boredom. “It’s all hogwash, Henley. Pretend and make-believe. Witches’ Sabbaths, cock fights, bear baiting, whoring…”
His friend gave him a sage appraisal. “We need to find you an interest, Hunter. A cure for the doldrums.”
“Lord save me!” Andrew laughed. “You are going to suggest a woman, are you not?”
“Nothing like a willing lass to lighte
n your cares, eh?”
He considered the suggestion for one brief moment. Then even that palled. How many women had he had in the last year alone? How many assignations and seductions? How many illicit flirtations? God help him, he’d lost his appetite for even that.
When his older brother, the Earl of Lockwood, had married barely four months ago, Andrew had taken a small town house. He had no wish to hang about the family manor and watch Lockwood’s domestic bliss—comical as it was. His brothers, James and Charles, had also rented flats to grant the couple their privacy. Whatever restraint had been placed on Andrew by his elder brother’s presence was now gone. Perversely, the freedom to indulge his slightest whim had robbed him of the pleasure.
All the same, he felt an odd restlessness tonight, an air of expectancy. Something unusual was in the offing, but he suspected he wouldn’t find it in the usual places. “No,” he said at length to Henley’s suggestion of female companionship. “Think I’ll see what’s afoot at the club, then stumble my way home.”
The look on Henley’s face was amusing—as if he could not believe his ears. “Have you become that jaded, Hunter? We used to live for nights like this. Why, look! All around us, men and women are looking for mischief.”
Once again, Andrew surveyed the crowd. Spirits were high, it was true. Hiding identities behind costumes and masks gave license to lewd behavior. Or was it summer and the long warm days that loosened one’s morals? Whatever it was, it was present at tonight’s gathering and would likely be present at the many balls, soirees, musicales, fetes, fairs and pleasure gardens in the days ahead. But…
“None of it is new, Henley. Just the same old thing wearing different guises.” Lord, how he wished for something new—anything that would drag him from his constant state of numbness.
“Pshaw! There’s plenty of variety. Why, this is the first year Lady Lace has made an appearance.”
“Lady who?”
Henley inclined his blond head toward a group in one corner. Lively conversation punctuated by laughter carried to them. In the center stood a diminutive woman dressed in black silk and masked by a black lace-edged domino. She was slimmer than he liked, and not nearly as buxom, but she had a certain allure about her. She waved one graceful hand in front of her face in a dismissive gesture, and two fair young men backed away. Two more took their place, including his friend Conrad McPherson.
Andrew narrowed his eyes to peer through the dim candlelight. Yes, she was thin, but not so thin that she could not fill out a gown. And though she lacked a deep cleft between her breasts, milky white swells hinted at what lay beneath the lace ruching that trimmed her décolletage. Chestnut-brown hair tied up in black ribbons would have been drab if not for the gleam and glints of fire in the curls left to dangle down her back.
“Intriguing,” he muttered. “Tell me about her.”
Henley grinned, no doubt pleased he had snared Andrew’s interest. “She is called Lady Lace, always wears black and has, thus far, evaded revealing her true identity. They speculate that she is from the north. Yorkshire, perhaps, or Scotland or Ireland by the faint trace of a Gaelic accent. She has not been long on the scene—a week, perhaps—and some say she is the widow of a country peer. Others swear she is a courtesan looking for her next protector. All we know for certain is that each night she appears, she favors a man with a kiss. And what a kiss! No sisterly peck on the cheek, but one deep and full of promise. Why has she never chosen me, I ask.”
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “A device designed to make people talk and men anticipate her arrival. She is nothing if not a very canny businesswoman. Mark me, she will make a choice soon, and the poor devil will pay through the nose for it.”
“You are without a mistress at the moment, are you not, Hunter? What say you give it a go?”
“She’s not my usual fare. Not enough meat on her bones.”
“You might want to try something new, eh? What a coup to make away with the most sought-after woman of the season. Quite a difference between her and the schoolgirls invading town to make their bows.”
Did he care about a coup? No. But the thought of revealing what lay beneath the black weeds and lace held a certain appeal. He was not ordinarily competitive, but the idea of claiming a woman who did not behave like a schoolgirl and who would not act coy for a marriage proposal was alluring. Pray she was not a courtesan looking for a protector. He had just paid a generous congé to the last. “Go on to Whitcombe without me, Henley. I’ll catch up to you later.”
Isabella O’Rourke fought back her gag of revulsion as the black-haired man kissed her. He had a definite finesse, but the fact remained that she had permitted this intimacy with a stranger. And she knew now all she needed to know.
This was not the man who had killed Cora.
She drew away with a show of reluctance and placed one palm against his chest to keep him at a distance. “La! You quite take my breath away, Mr. McPherson. I shall have to watch myself around you.”
He laughed and gave her a crisp bow. “Do not watch yourself, madam. I shall do that for you.”
She smiled and drew her closed fan down the side of his right cheek. “I shall think upon it, sir. Now off with you.” She made a shooing motion toward the ballroom and waited until he disappeared.
Alone, she exhaled and waited while a bottomless shudder passed through her. She turned to the console table in the alcove and found an abandoned glass of rich amber liquid. Whiskey? Brandy? It didn’t matter. With just the slightest hesitation, she lifted it and took a deep drink, holding the liquor in her mouth until it burned. God grant it would burn away the last traces of her humanity so that she could finish what she’d begun.
She swallowed, closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall, waiting for the warmth to spread through her.
“That little shudder of revulsion, madam? Was it for yourself or your partner?”
Myself! She straightened and turned to face the intruder in the alcove. He was watching her, one shoulder propped against the wall and a cynical smile curving his deeply sensual mouth. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into her, and she suspected he saw more than he should. Oh, that would never do!
“You find a kiss revolting, sir?” Her question was not an answer, but she hoped he would not pursue one.
“I do not, but your reaction proves different.” He bowed, a mere mocking of manners. “Andrew Hunter at your service, madam.”
She gave him an equally mocking curtsy but did not volunteer her name. What would he say if he knew she’d only had her first kiss a week ago? “My reaction aside, Mr. Hunter, I do like kissing. That is why I do so much of it.” Oh, how smooth her lie was. How convincing.
He grinned as if deriving some satisfaction from her reply. “So, Lady Lace, is that your game? Gathering kisses?”
She was not surprised that he knew her alias. She was well on her way to becoming notorious. She considered lying to him but realized it would be futile. If she was any judge, this man had told enough lies in his life that he would surely recognize hers. “Perhaps I am too countrified, sir, but I am always amazed when I realize the degree to which complete strangers in the city feel they are entitled to the intimate details of one’s life.”
He gave her a slight nod. “I gather I am not the first to inquire into your background. But a name is hardly intimate, madam.”
“There is no need to grant anyone permission to use it, since I do not plan on being long in London.”
He reached out and lifted the domino from her face, dropping it on the console table. “Do I look like the sort of man who needs permission?”
No, he certainly did not. His very presence unnerved her. He was strong and commanding. He was dangerous. He was a man just like the one who had killed Cora. And then she realized what she had to do. She would come to it sooner or later, so it was best to have it over and done with now.
She closed the short distance between them, slipped her arms around his neck and lifted on her t
oes to reach his mouth. She felt his little shock of surprise in the sudden stiffening of his spine, but when she pressed her lips to his, he softened, wrapping his arms around her and turning with her until her back was pressed to the wall. No escape.
No mercy.
His kiss was consuming and powerful. It was undeniable, making her head swim and her senses reel. And then, when her resistance weakened, it turned coaxing, teasing with little flicks of fire at the edges. Her breasts, flattened to his chest, began tingling and aching, quite unlike anything she’d experienced before. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that she was losing herself to this kiss—losing her very will to resist.
Oh, dear Lord, she’d lost control of this situation! She summoned the few senses remaining to her and fought to regain that tenuous hold. Alas, Andrew Hunter had no intention of relinquishing it. His tongue met hers and merged with a hot demand. She wanted to retreat, but there was nowhere for her to go. With the wall at her back and Mr. Hunter at her front, she was trapped as effectively as if she’d been caged. And in another minute, she would crave captivity. She slid her fingers up his neck and stroked the soft wave of dark hair at his nape and arched against him, wanting more of the breathless feelings he elicited.
And then he went still and stiff. He surrendered her mouth with a low growl and reached up to disentangle her arms from around him and turned away. Had she disgusted him?
“You have bewitched me, Lady Lace,” he said as he turned back. “But I prefer to conduct such activities in private.”
She realized that she had somehow wandered from her original purpose, but she didn’t know how. She could only stand there, looking at him, unable to speak.
“Name your price. And please do not disappoint me by asking me what I mean.”
Lord Libertine Page 1