The Wickedest Lord Alive

by Christina Brooke

  She froze. “Good gracious, you did not have him killed!”

  “Of course not,” said Steyne, visibly annoyed. “My mother paid him off. I believe he was offered a lucrative post in the Americas.”

  “Oh.”

  She wondered about Lady Steyne, but did not know how to question him. Had he sent his own mother away?

  Seeming unaware of the questions he’d raised in her mind, he continued, “Your identity will be revealed at the house party at the appropriate juncture. We will continue the fiction that you lost your memory and we will mention nothing of our prior marriage.”

  Steyne narrowed his eyes, as if to bring the prospect he described into focus. “In the meantime, I shall be smitten with your charms. Nothing will do for me but to propose within the week.”

  Smitten. She couldn’t imagine it. “It would almost be worth it to see you act the lovelorn fool.”

  He grimaced. “It’s not a role I’ve had cause to play before. No matter. After a week or so, we’ll announce our betrothal. After which, we shall romantically elope and leave immediately for our honeymoon. That should let the rumor mill run out of power by the time we reappear.”

  Her tone was dry. “You think I am likely to fall into your arms after one week of courting?” She didn’t see what choice she had in the matter, but he didn’t need to know that.

  For an answer, Steyne gave her that direct, piercing look that somehow lit her with cold fire. With a faint curve to his lips, he moved closer. So close that her skin warmed a little from the heat of his body.

  That warmth called to her strongly. It was so long, so very long, since anyone had held her.

  But she kept her longing in check, clung to her sense of self-preservation like a drowning woman clung to a rope.

  His hand came up. She braced for his touch, but didn’t back away. To do so would be to admit how powerfully he affected her.

  One gloved finger brushed the pearl that hung from her earlobe. Then it trailed, lightly, ever so lightly, from the sensitive, vulnerable place behind her ear down the curve of her neck until it reached the pearls at her throat.

  Tremors shivered within her, tiny fissures snaking through the armor of her defiance.

  Galling beyond belief that his slightest caress wreaked such havoc. She’d need to shore up her defenses if she wanted to beat him at his own game.

  “Admit it,” he said, fingering the pearls at her throat. “You are more than half in love with me already.”

  That broke whatever spell he’d placed her under. How could he taunt her with talk of tender emotions when all of this was so blatantly a lie?

  Suppressing her fury, Lizzie stepped back and swept him a curtsy that fairly dripped with dignity. “But my dear Lord Steyne,” she said. “Love has nothing to do with it.”

  * * *

  Lizzie turned and blindly hurried up the path, back toward the assembly rooms.

  “Lizzie? Is that you?” Mr. Huntley’s deep voice floated down from the terrace above. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Her head jerked up and she saw him at the top of the stone staircase, silhouetted against the lighted ballroom.

  “Oh, plague it!” she muttered. Abruptly, she checked her pace and glided toward the stairs. Her mind worked furiously on an excuse for being there.

  But Huntley didn’t demand an explanation. Rather, he said archly, “Have you been out here waiting for me, my dear?”

  “For you? No, I—”

  “Don’t deny it, you sly little puss,” said Mr. Huntley in what he must have supposed was a teasing tone. “I intimated that I have something particular to say to you, did I not?”

  Not now. Not after Lord Steyne.

  It was all Lizzie could do to keep a pleasant expression on her face. “Yes, but no, I mean, truly, Mr. Huntley. I did not loiter out here hoping you would come.”

  By now, she’d reached the top of the stairs. In a lightning move, Mr. Huntley grabbed her hand and yanked her into his embrace.

  “Sir, I beg of you!” Lizzie struggled against him, but he was a large man and remarkably strong. “Release me. This is scandalous behavior!”

  “Ah, Lizzie, Lizzie, I cannot let you go,” said Mr. Huntley. “You know—how could you not?—how ardently I burn for you.” This speech was rather disjointed, interspersed as it was with his efforts to keep Lizzie imprisoned in his bearlike embrace. “If it were not for … ahem … circumstances, I should have spoken before now. But now, I must speak. I cannot remain silent any longer. I must ask you to be my wife—Oof!”

  Lizzie’s well-placed elbow stemmed the flow of his discourse, though it did not slacken his grip.

  She redoubled her efforts to free herself, twisting in his grasp. “Unhand me, sir. This is most ungentlemanly!” Good Heavens, what if Steyne saw them? He must be lurking out in the gardens somewhere.

  But her suitor, drunk on his own daring, was in no fit state to listen to her remonstrances. He tightened his hold and brought his mouth crushing down on Lizzie’s.

  “One might have guessed just how it would be,” said a brittle female voice from behind Lizzie. “Kissing on the terrace, Miss Allbright. Whatever next?”

  Lizzie wrenched her mouth from Huntley’s. She could have screamed with horror and vexation when she saw to whom that voice belonged. Miss Worthington would not scruple to spread this story far and wide. And worse, Mr. Huntley’s mama was with her.

  Lizzie wanted to stab Mr. Huntley with a shrimp fork. How could he do this to her? Who could have guessed such an upright figure would lose his head like that?

  This was what came of going out alone in the moonlight. And she’d thought her reputation in danger from Lord Steyne!

  But Miss Worthington’s voice seemed to achieve what Lizzie’s struggles and scolds had not. Mr. Huntley let go of Lizzie, but only to draw her arm through his.

  Proudly, he lifted his chin. “Mama. Miss Worthington. You may be the first to wish us happy. I have asked Miss Allbright to be my wife.”

  Miss Worthington looked as if she’d swallowed something unpleasant. Mrs. Huntley’s nostrils pinched so thinly, she resembled a snake. Then an expression of acute pain swept her features. “Huntley, how could you?”

  Covered in mortification, Lizzie said, “No! No, don’t say so. Sir, this is all a dreadful mistake.”

  “Huntley?” his mother said, her voice rising. “Huntley, I feel quite unwell.”

  “Oh, do but listen to me, all of you!” cried Lizzie. “I cannot marry Mr. Huntley. You see I’m already—”

  “Dear me. What have we here?”

  Lizzie whirled to find Lord Steyne leaning negligently against the parapet, taking snuff. She wanted to weep with frustration. She could happily murder both men for getting her into this.

  Even in the half light, she could see that Steyne’s eyes glittered with mockery. “You were saying, Miss Allbright? You’re already…?”

  Lizzie swallowed hard. Now was the time to declare her previous marriage, the escape she’d made, the lies she’d told. But surely Steyne could not wish for that any more than she did. He’d said as much when he outlined his plan to stage a second marriage between them.

  She searched his expression, but all she could divine was that he enjoyed her discomfiture.

  Huntley straightened. “I hardly think it’s any business of yours, my lord.”

  “Indeed?” said his lordship, dusting his fingertips with his handkerchief. “Forgive me. I did not realize you meant this conversation to be private.”

  “Huntley, I think I am going to swoon!” his mother announced. She tottered a few steps. Her son abruptly dropped Lizzie’s arm and caught his unconscious mother before she crashed to the ground.

  “Quick! Her smelling salts,” cried Huntley.

  Ever helpful, Miss Worthington obligingly dug through Mrs. Huntley’s reticule and produced them. She waved the pungent vessel under Mrs. Huntley’s nose. The lady woke with a start, then launched into a hearty b
out of hysterics.

  In the bustle that followed, Lizzie felt Steyne’s warm breath brush her ear. “Do what you must to be rid of him, but know this: If he touches you again, I will kill him.” Stepping back, he bowed. “Just a friendly warning.”

  “You needn’t threaten me,” said Lizzie crossly, glancing at her swain, who was waving Miss Worthington’s fan vigorously in front of his mama’s face. “If he touches me again, he’ll find himself in need of those smelling salts.”

  * * *

  Xavier had intended to leave the assembly once he conversed privately with Miss Allbright. That was before things had taken a turn for melodrama.

  He did not count Huntley a serious rival. How could he be? Xavier held all the aces in that particular hand. Besides, Lizzie could not possibly be romantically interested in a bore like Mr. Huntley, MP.

  If the damned clod-pole had not manhandled Lizzie like that, Xavier would have enjoyed the ensuing scene.

  He was unprepared for the blinding fury that blazed through him at the sight of Lizzie struggling in Huntley’s arms. It was fortunate the other ladies appeared on the scene before he could reach the pair, or he might have done something infinitely satisfying but regrettable to Lizzie’s attacker.

  He left the fray and returned inside, finding the company sitting down to supper. Lydgate hailed him and he joined his cousin, Miss Beauchamp, and her brother, Tom, at the table.

  Lydgate’s eyes held an unholy light of glee. “Enjoying yourself, old fellow?”

  “Excessively,” said Xavier with a slight yawn.

  “No doubt you’ve heard the news,” said Lydgate.

  “Indeed,” said Xavier. He didn’t wonder how Lydgate had found out. The fellow was like a foxhound on the scent when it came to gossip.

  Miss Beauchamp was clearly laboring under great emotion. She burst out, “You must not refine too much upon tittle-tattle of idle persons, Lord Lydgate. I am certain there has been a mistake.”

  Xavier turned his head to observe Lizzie’s friend more keenly. A pretty little thing. “Indeed? I had the impression the betrothal was in some sort expected.”

  Xavier had not wasted his time at this ball. The squire and his garrulous spouse had been a font of useful information about the denizens of Little Thurston.

  “Yes, but that’s only because—” But Miss Beauchamp broke off, catching her brother’s glare.

  “Hold your tongue, brat,” growled Tom.

  “You don’t know what I was going to say,” said Miss Beauchamp indignantly.

  “I have a fair idea, and let me tell you that won’t help Lizzie now.”

  Tom excused himself rather abruptly from the table and stalked off. Xavier wondered if the boy had more interest in the affair than a mere friend might.

  Xavier would very much like to know what Miss Beauchamp would have said had her more levelheaded brother failed to stop her. The little brunette was worth cultivating, it seemed.

  “That reminds me,” Xavier said, touching a napkin to his lips. “Miss Beauchamp, I wonder if you would honor us—that is, my family—with a visit at Harcourt this summer? It is the Duke of Montford’s principal seat, you know, and I think we might engage to provide you and your aunt with entertainment.”

  “Oh!” said Miss Beauchamp, appearing in equal parts startled and excited. “How kind of you, my lord. Indeed, I shall ask my aunt if I may.”

  Smoothly, Xavier said, “I shall, of course, invite Miss Allbright also.”

  Lydgate clapped his hands together. “That’s dandy. Wonder I didn’t think of it myself. We’ll make a snug little party of it.”

  “A snug little party. At Harcourt?” Xavier tried to picture it and failed. “By all means.”

  The dryness of his tone must have put Miss Beauchamp on the alert. She said, “We should not wish to intrude—”

  “Nonsense,” said Lydgate. “Not a bit of it. My so charming cousin merely sneered at my choice of the word ‘snug.’ Harcourt is rather a vast pile, you see. But never mind all that. You will be most welcome, Miss Beauchamp.”

  While plans were made for the sojourn, Xavier bent his mind to the problem of what to do about this latest turn of events. He was glad Lizzie hadn’t blurted out their prior connection as a means of escaping Huntley but her protests seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Now, everyone believed Huntley and Miss Allbright were betrothed.

  There seemed nothing for it but to allow matters take their course. Perhaps Lizzie had a plan to extricate herself from this mess. He would need to confer with her on that subject as soon as may be. He saw immediately how the matter might be accomplished, but he didn’t deny a certain malicious satisfaction at the prospect of watching her maneuver herself out of this fix.

  As long as the fellow didn’t touch her again, Xavier bore him no ill will.

  But the image of Lizzie locked in Huntley’s embrace was one he could not seem to erase from his mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Dear Heaven, would this evening never end?

  Lizzie missed supper entirely, for while she had little sympathy for Mrs. Huntley’s dramatics, she couldn’t leave the older lady’s side until she knew Mrs. Huntley was safely bundled into her carriage, attended by her devoted son.

  Huntley did spare Lizzie a few moments before he climbed into the carriage with the ladies, however. “My dear, most unfortunate! I am truly sorry that our special night has been cut short. Mama’s constitution is not strong. I should not have begged her to accompany me tonight. It was very wrong. As you see, even a delightful surprise such as we have given her tonight has overset her nerves entirely.”

  He reached for her hand, but she eluded him. “Mr. Huntley,” she said quietly. “I meant what I said. I cannot marry you.”

  The man’s skin was as thick as elephant hide. His smile didn’t falter. “Oh, my dear Lizzie, what nonsense you speak. I know very well it is the lady’s prerogative to be bashful, but I hope you will be done with that soon. I am impatient to set all in train. Mr. Allbright shall marry us, of course.”

  Mr. Allbright most certainly would not. “But—”

  “Mr. Huntley, I do believe you ought not to keep your mama waiting,” said Miss Worthington, emerging from the barouche where she had settled the ailing matron and tenderly tucked her shawl around her.

  Huntley started, then shook his head. “Indeed, you are right, Miss Worthington. In all the excitement, I was forgetting myself.”

  With a profusion of apologies, thanks and farewells to Lizzie and Miss Worthington, he climbed into the carriage and rapped on its roof with his cane.

  As the barouche set off, Miss Worthington said sharply, “A neat evening’s work, Miss Allbright. You are to be congratulated.”

  Lizzie watched Miss Worthington’s straight figure stalk back to the assembly rooms and wondered if it wouldn’t be best for all concerned if she packed her bags and left for the Continent.

  Then she remembered that was where her papa had retreated from his creditors and thought perhaps not.

  She would need to find a way out of this mess. No matter how much she protested, Mr. Huntley was not going to take a mere no for an answer. He must be made to repudiate the betrothal, or at least be eager to accept her rejection of his suit. How to do that, precisely, was what she could not, at the moment, fathom.

  Upon her return to the ballroom, it took very little time to realize that Steyne had left. She hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry about that.

  “Lizzie!” A small hand grabbed her arm in a viselike grip and dragged her to a quiet alcove.

  “Ouch! Clare, you are bruising my arm,” said Lizzie.

  Clare released her. “Sorry, but what is this I hear about you and Mr. Huntley? You didn’t say yes!”

  “No, of course I didn’t say yes.”

  “Well, everyone seems to think you did,” said Clare.

  “He wouldn’t take no for an answer,” said Lizzie. “You see, when he proposed to me, he … er … hugged me. Oh, it wa
s dreadful, Clare. And then Miss Worthington and Mrs. Huntley appeared on the scene at that dreadful moment, and I could not very well say that I had refused him, could I?”

  Clare’s mouth fell open. “Oh, Lizzie,” she said in a hollow voice. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll think of something.” She had to. Even Clare did not know how utterly imperative it was that she extricate herself from this situation with her reputation intact.

  With an urgent press of her hand, her friend said, “I’ll help you. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. Just don’t leave it too long. If I know you, Lizzie, you’ll be too tenderhearted to dig your heels in and you’ll be at the altar before you know it. Imagine having Mrs. Huntley as a mama-in-law. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  Lizzie had little leisure to mull over Huntley and his proposal, nor the shocking demand Steyne had made of her tonight. Not for her, the silent disappearance of Lord Steyne. She must stay to ensure all ran smoothly, not to mention accepting the congratulations of her neighbors on her betrothal.

  Not all of her acquaintance were in favor of the match, however. A particularly spiteful round of remarks from Miss Worthington and her friends made Lizzie wish that for once, she might be like the marquis and do precisely as she pleased.

  Imagine simply not caring whether one offended other people. Imagine knowing that whatever one did, one would surely be forgiven because one was a marquis.

  Or a marchioness.

  But no, she could never bring herself to behave in such a care-for-nothing manner. Not even if she were a marchioness ten times over.

  In the carriage on the way home, her fatigued body warred with her overstimulated mind.

  “What an evening,” said Clare, falling back amongst the squabs with a dramatic sigh.

  “I’ll say it was,” said Aunt Sadie. “What’s this I hear about you and Mr. Huntley, my dear?” she said to Lizzie.

  “It’s all a mistake,” said Lizzie. “He asked me to marry him, and now he won’t believe I don’t wish to be his wife.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want him?” said Aunt Sadie. “He is very rich, they say. And he would be a good husband. Very solid sort of fellow.”