The Wickedest Lord Alive

by Christina Brooke

  The duke’s lips pressed together in a grim line. Then he said, “There has been correspondence. Between your mother and your uncle. One letter only.”

  One letter was enough. It took all of Xavier’s will to conceal his shock and dismay. The strong presentiment he’d harbored ever since Ned and Charlie had died was justified. His own mistress had tried to murder him. He suspected she’d done it at his uncle’s behest.

  Now, it appeared his mother was involved in the plot. Even knowing her, knowing how utterly without conscience Nerissa was, he still burned to deny it. He’d never been less gratified by one of his predictions coming to pass.

  After a moment, he managed, “You have an informant in my uncle’s household?”

  So did he, but he had yet to hear this news. The news itself was so momentous, he did not have room for chagrin that the duke had received it first.

  Montford inclined his head. After a pause, he said, “Let us hope for your mother’s sake that she is distracted by the delights of Paris. I could not find it in my heart to be so lenient with her next time.”

  The duke’s tone was chilling. Nerissa’s brand of conscienceless manipulation was incomprehensible to most people. Montford was the only one who had never underestimated her. The duke knew precisely what collusion between Lord Bernard Westruther and Nerissa, the former Lady Steyne, portended.

  “Leave her to me, Your Grace,” said Xavier. “This time, I will finish it.” Finish her.

  He hadn’t told the duke of Bernard’s attempt to do away with him through Madeleine. He wanted to deal with that in his own way.

  Bernard had very sensibly gone into hiding. Martin would find him, of course, and then Xavier would deal with his ambitious uncle. But Xavier’s priority now was getting Lizzie with child as soon as may be.

  He’d always considered Nerissa capable of almost anything. But was she capable of conspiring with his uncle—his heir—to murder him before he could father a son?

  This clash must end it between them, for good or for ill. He did not care for his own paltry existence. He simply needed to beget that heir. Let the chips fall where they may, after that. He would have won.

  The muted clop of their horses’ hooves on the turf was the only sound that broke the silence as this unpalatable truth finally hit home.

  Eventually, the duke said, “Yes. It is time. But if you have need of me, I am at your disposal.”

  The words astonished Xavier. Not only did Montford undertake not to mastermind his mother’s demise, but he offered his services, too.

  “I’m obliged to you.” He sent Montford a swift, searching glance, but the duke was not looking at him.

  Xavier cleared his throat. “How soon do you think she will be here? If she does not linger in Paris, that is.”

  “I imagine you have in the region of a week,” Montford replied.

  A week. That was not much time in which to persuade his absurd and rather touchingly defiant bride that she could not escape her destiny as his marchioness. Yet, with his mother bearing down on them, he couldn’t afford to wait even that long. The careful, slow seduction he’d planned was no longer feasible.

  The first child they conceived might be a girl. If they were unlucky, it might take them months or even years to conceive a child at all. But he could not allow such doubts to creep in now. If there was no true pregnancy, they would have to invent one. That would at least buy him time to discover and thwart his mother’s plans.

  That this need for haste accorded with his own inclinations to bed his wife without delay did not escape him. He was slightly baffled by his impatience on that score. For so many years, he’d appreciated variety almost for its own sake. Now that he wanted one woman, it was as if diffuse rays of sunlight had been focused by a magnifying glass onto one, specific point.

  He burned for Lizzie Allbright.

  Their encounter in the vicarage drawing room had been the perfect opportunity to begin his seduction. He ought to have given in to his inclinations and kissed her then.

  Yet, anticipation could be powerfully seductive.… It was certainly heightening his own desire to an unacceptable degree.

  “May I ask you a question?” said the duke, breaking in on his thoughts. “Why this girl in particular?”

  The question took Xavier unawares, but he recovered in an instant. “Why?” He shrugged. “Because we are already married.”

  “Given the circumstances, there are any number of ways you might get around that.”

  Without answering, Steyne spurred his horse on, soaring over a hedge into the next field.

  Montford followed easily, and when they rode abreast once more, the duke went on as if he had not missed a beat. “Not but what it might as well be this girl as anyone else, I suppose. Her breeding is sound. She is young enough to bear children, yet not so young that she would harbor any silly romantical notions. And if she has been living in a simple country village with the vicar, she must be pleased to find herself with such vast riches and a great position to enjoy. All of that, together with the fact that you are already married … Yes, I see your point.”

  Xavier listened to this speech with growing amusement. “As you say, Your Grace. I will be interested to see what you make of her.”

  * * *

  Sick with apprehension, Lizzie waited for Clare’s verdict. She’d told her friend everything, stumbling a little over the part about her father’s cruelty and skating over the details of the wedding night.

  Clare had listened with both hands clapped over her mouth for much of the tale, her eyes avid, for Lizzie had sternly forbidden her to interrupt.

  “And so now,” Lizzie finished, twisting her handkerchief nervously, “I am on tenterhooks. For he wishes us to begin as husband and wife very soon. And I … Oh, Clare, I wish I were more than a mere convenience to him.”

  Clare’s eyes had widened to their full extent, and she made a few muffled, choking noises.

  “You may speak,” said Lizzie.

  Her friend dropped her hands and expelled a torrent of air. “Heavens above, Lizzie! How on earth did you manage to keep that secret all this time? You clever, clever girl.”

  Lizzie had not dared to hope for Clare’s understanding, much less her approbation. “You are not angry with me?”

  “Furious, darling. Absolutely livid,” said Clare. “How I should have liked to have such an adventure.”

  “You could have my place for the asking,” said Lizzie. But no, that wasn’t true, was it?

  She leaned forward to grip Clare’s hands. “Please believe I am heartily sorry for deceiving you all this time.”

  But Clare wasn’t listening. “So that’s why the marquis was so keen to see you on the day of the picnic. Yes, and I could tell he wasn’t best pleased when Lydgate invited Huntley to Harcourt. I thought he was simply being his disagreeable self.”

  Clare straightened as something occurred to her. She gripped Lizzie’s arm. “Oh, Lizzie, has he kissed you? Since he came to Little Thurston, I mean.”

  Lizzie felt her face redden. “No. There … there really hasn’t been an opportunity. And besides, I don’t think he wants to.”

  She said the last part rather dolefully. “It is all because he wants an heir, you know. You don’t need kissing for that.”

  “No kissing?” exclaimed Clare. “But kissing is so utterly divine.”

  Attempting to rally her own spirits, Lizzie forced a grin. “Well, you should know.”

  “If I had a husband, I’d kiss him all day long,” said Clare. “I’d never ever want to stop.”

  The dreamy note in her friend’s voice gave Lizzie a sharp pang. She did not feel at all dreamy about Steyne. He frightened, maddened, and exasperated her. Loving him might well prove to be as painful and fruitless as beating her head against a brick wall.

  But to spend all day kissing him … Heat bloomed inside her at the thought.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s not like that between us.”

  C
lare regarded her with that penetrating stare she sometimes employed—when none of her admirers were around, that was. “But it could be. I see the way he looks at you, Lizzie.”

  In spite of herself, Lizzie couldn’t stifle the hope that flared at Clare’s words. It would be stupid to hope too much.…

  “And my dearest, darlingest Lizzie,” continued Clare, gently touching Lizzie’s cheek, “I have seen the way you look at him. You are well on your way to falling in love.”

  For several moments, Lizzie teetered on the edge of denial. But this was Clare, and she had lied to her too much already.

  “I know I am,” she said. “Oh, Clare! What am I going to do?”

  * * *

  Aunt Sadie told them she’d see them at dinner, so once Lizzie had composed herself and answered Clare’s remaining questions, she and Clare rang for a maid to show them to the yellow saloon.

  “Ah! Here they are now.” Lady Tregarth came forward, smiling in greeting. She was Xavier’s sister and renowned as the family beauty. No wonder, thought Lizzie, a little dazzled. Rosamund was divinely fair, with eyes the same deep blue shade as her brother’s but with a merry expression in them wholly in contrast to Steyne’s jaded air.

  Lady Davenport was petite and pretty, and redoubtable. She’d need to be, Lizzie thought, to keep the scoundrel Davenport in line. Even Lizzie had heard tales of the roguish earl.

  “How delightful to meet you both,” said Lady Tregarth. “And how bad of Lydgate to invite you here and not be at home to welcome you. But I fear it’s typical of him.”

  Clare said, “Oh, pray do not regard it. We are delighted to make your acquaintance, my lady. Aren’t we, Lizzie?”

  “My brother is scarcely better, I fear,” said Lady Tregarth. “He asked me to make his excuses if you should arrive this afternoon, Miss Allbright. He was summoned by the duke, and when the duke summons, even my brother must obey.”

  Lady Davenport shivered. “I confess I am heartily afraid of His Grace.”

  Lady Tregarth laughed. “He terrifies everyone, but that is just his way. Besides, you stood up to him the first time you met, dear Hilary. You could find no better way of earning his respect.”

  Clare said, “His Grace sounds formidable. But I am anxious to make his acquaintance.”

  “Clare has political leanings,” Lizzie said in a stage whisper, which made the other ladies laugh. “Do not badger His Grace, Clare, or you might find yourself quartered in the stables.”

  “On the contrary,” said Lady Tregarth. “The duke is perennially interested in affairs of state, and he does not discount the opinions of we poor females, either.”

  Lady Davenport said, “What of you, Miss Allbright? Are you interested in politics?”

  “Not at all,” Lizzie confessed. “And please, call me Lizzie.”

  “Yes, we must be on first name terms,” said Hilary, nodding her approval. “Whenever someone addresses me as Lady Davenport, I confess I look over my shoulder.”

  “And you must call me Rosamund,” said Lady Tregarth. She included Clare in her smile, but her attention fixed on Lizzie. “I can tell already we are going to be friends.”

  No one could fail to experience a warm glow when subjected to that melting smile. But Lizzie suffered a jolt of alarm, too. Had Steyne confided in his sister? It seemed likely, since he had sought her advice on the matter of Lizzie’s wardrobe.

  Hilary said, “I believe you made Lydgate and Steyne’s acquaintance in Sussex?”

  “Yes, they were visiting Lady Chard,” said Clare.

  “Indeed?” The surprise in Rosamund’s tone made Lizzie feel self-conscious. Was she blushing?

  She thought it prudent to steer the conversation away from such probing. “Are your children with you, Lady Tregarth?”

  “No, it was thought best not to bring them on this occasion,” said Rosamund, a slight frown entering her eyes. “Little hooligans, they would have destroyed the place by now if they were here.” She added with a twinkle in her eye, “They take after the deVere side of the family, you know.”

  Pursuing that line of inquiry, Lizzie deduced that no matter how much she deplored their behavior, Rosamund clearly adored her progeny and would miss them dreadfully while she was here.

  Lizzie was envious, she realized. What would her and Steyne’s children be like? She found herself picturing a solemn blue-eyed girl and a fair, robust boy child with mischievous green eyes.

  She fell silent while the conversation moved to art and the very fine galleries at Harcourt. Tom and Mr. Huntley came in and joined the discussion. Huntley, waxing enthusiastic over the works of art he’d glimpsed already, inquired after the duke’s collection of intaglios he had heard so much about. Hilary offered to take the visitors on a tour.

  “For I am better versed in the collection than any of the Westruthers except the duke himself,” said Hilary. “Familiarity breeds contempt, you know.”

  Rosamund laughed. “Too true. Your hair would curl at the way we used to decorate the Grecian marbles on Twelfth Night.”

  She lightly touched Lizzie’s arm. “Would you care to take a turn in the garden with me, Miss Allbright? Walking in galleries is a rainy-day activity, and Heaven knows we get enough rainy days here.”

  The idea was attractive. After being cooped up in a carriage for hours, Lizzie craved a stroll in the fresh air.

  “We dine at seven,” Rosamund informed her as she rang for their outdoor accoutrements. “Rather late hours for the country but we are too, too terribly sophisticated at Harcourt.”

  Lizzie liked the gentle way Rosamund poked fun at the surrounding grandeur. One couldn’t feel overawed in her company. She had a way of setting everyone at ease.

  “Let’s take a turn in the park,” said Rosamund when their maids arrived with bonnets and parasols. “The formal gardens are so stuffy.”

  Perfectly pleased to go wherever Rosamund suggested, Lizzie accepted her new parasol and tied the ribbons of a pretty chip straw hat beneath her chin.

  They paused on the terrace, with the magnificence of Harcourt sprawled before them.

  “That is the duke’s land, as far as the eye can see and beyond,” murmured Rosamund. “It is an enormous responsibility.”

  “He must be an extraordinary man,” said Lizzie. “To have managed this along with I daresay many more properties. Not to mention taking six orphan children under his roof.”

  “Yes. He is extraordinary,” said Rosamund simply. “But he is not a warm man, you understand, and our childhood was not at all rosy.” She sobered, and her gaze was far beyond the patchwork of distant fields. “Sometimes I think His Grace was too late to save my brother.”

  Lizzie was so astonished at this confidence that she was at a loss to respond.

  Rosamund seemed to shake off her somber mood. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Allbright. I confess the liveliest curiosity. To think I never knew about you until now.”

  “I do not know that there is much to tell,” said Lizzie.

  “Now that is a blatant untruth,” said Rosamund. “Xavier told me about your marriage and subsequent flight, but how have you occupied yourself these past eight years?”

  “Well,” Lizzie said, trailing a fingertip along the balustrade as they walked. “I have lived in Little Thurston with the vicar, Mr. Allbright, who has been … a guardian of sorts. He is very kind. I love him dearly. When his wife died, I assumed many of her duties in the parish.”

  “A role that requires hard work, patience and tact,” said Rosamund thoughtfully. “Admirable.”

  That made Lizzie uncomfortable. “I don’t know if it’s admirable. I enjoy it.”

  “And your interests? Your passions, Miss Allbright? Do you paint watercolors or embroider or sing?”

  A dim memory of her grim-faced governess rose in Lizzie’s mind’s eye. “I haven’t the aptitude for such pursuits. I love reading and I do like listening to music,” she said after a little thought. “And the theater. I should like to go to th
e play when I visit London, I think.”

  If I should visit London.

  “What a good idea,” said Rosamund, her expression lightening. “We shall put on some amateur theatricals while you are here.”

  Privately, Lizzie thought she would have enough to do playing the role of Lord Steyne’s sweetheart, but she said, “A happy notion.”

  Rosamund tucked her hand into Lizzie’s arm. “I like to have a project, don’t you? Even at a house party. No, especially at a house party. They can be so deadly dull if one hasn’t some sort of purpose.” She gave a spurt of laughter, as if a rare joke had just occurred.

  Lizzie could not help but smile, for Rosamund’s laughter was infectious. “What is so amusing?”

  “Oh,” said her companion, “I am thinking of the look on my husband’s face when I tell him he must act in my play.”

  Something caught Rosamund’s attention. She craned her neck a little to see past Lizzie. “Ah! Here is my brother, and the duke with him.”

  She waved, and Lizzie’s head snapped around to follow the direction of Rosamund’s regard.

  The two gentlemen climbed the slight rise toward them, clearly fresh from the stables. They were dressed for riding; she couldn’t help noticing that Steyne’s hair was attractively windblown beneath his curly brimmed beaver hat.

  The duke was a tall man—easily six foot—but Steyne topped him by inches. Steyne was broader in the shoulder, too. Despite that, there was no denying that Montford exuded some indefinable aura of wealth and power that more than made up for his relative lack of inches.

  On closer inspection, the duke had deeply hooded dark eyes beneath eyebrows that were shaped like arrowheads. The effect was a look of jaded sapience—as if he viewed the world with a weary cynicism borne of intelligence and experience.

  It would be well nigh impossible to deceive this man, she thought. She wondered if Steyne had taken him into his confidence about her.

  Rosamund greeted the gentlemen as they approached. “A happy chance. We were about to turn back.”

  To Lizzie’s surprise, Steyne came forward to take her hand and lead her to the duke. “Your Grace, may I present Miss Allbright to you? Miss Allbright, His Grace, the Duke of Montford.”