The Wickedest Lord Alive

by Christina Brooke

  His chest contracted painfully. “I am not like any of you.”

  He couldn’t explain it, not even to Rosamund, the way their mother had tainted everything to do with relations between men and women. When he pictured marriage, he did not envision the contentment of his cousins and sister. He pictured the epic, bloody battles his parents fought.

  At least, his mother fought them. With ungovernable rages and hurled china and tooth and nail. While his father stood silent, remote, and faintly sneering at such a vulgarly impassioned display. Only to walk out again, no doubt satisfied at having driven his wife one step further out of her mind.

  Leaving Xavier to pick up the pieces, and to protect his small sister from the worst.

  When his father died and Montford finally lifted that burden from Xavier’s shoulders, it was too late. He’d developed such a hard carapace around his heart that not even he knew how to break through it.

  Life was a hell of a lot safer that way.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dinner that night was a miserable affair. Lizzie had dressed with more care than usual, desperate to try to reanimate Xavier’s interest in her.

  She was well aware that the minute she tried to get close to him, he withdrew from her. She was rather mortified to discover that she’d prefer his overt sexual advances to this impersonal, polite attention, this absence.

  The significance of the table arrangements that night was not lost on her, either. Xavier had requested Rosamund to make the change; she was sure of it. And he was flirting with Georgie, Lord Beckenham’s wife.

  How she knew that she wasn’t certain, for he did not leer at Georgie and the scintillating redhead did not blush or bridle and rap his knuckles. Perhaps she, Lizzie, was simply jealous that he paid attention to a beautiful woman when she coveted that attention for herself.

  Weren’t she and Xavier supposed to be pretending to fall in love? How did Xavier’s actions in the last few days bear that out?

  When the duke turned to converse with her, she answered him quite at random. Until the quiver in his lips told her she’d made a faux pas.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” said Lizzie. “I am not myself tonight.”

  “I suppose I can guess the reason,” said the duke. A heavy gold signet ring glinted on his finger as he reached for his wine. “You are a brave woman, Miss Allbright.”

  She made a rueful moue. “To own the truth, sir, I am beginning to feel like more of a dupe.”

  Be kind to him, the vicar had said. How could one be kind to a block of ice?

  “He is like an impenetrable fortress,” she blurted out before she could even register that the duke was perhaps the last man on earth to empathize with her plight. “Try as I might, I cannot seem to find a way in.”

  The duke sipped his wine. “Perhaps that is because you have tried only the obvious means of access, Miss Allbright. The marquis is a complicated man. But he is not impregnable. No man is.”

  She couldn’t imagine what he meant. Try a less obvious means than simply asking him to trust her with his confidence?

  “Guile, Miss Allbright. Feminine wiles. You do have some, I suppose?”

  Lizzie blinked.

  “At this moment, for instance,” said the duke, cutting into his beef, “you ought to be flirting with Beckenham, not seeking advice from me.”

  Lizzie slid a glance to the handsome, grave monolith of a man beside her. “Pardon me, Your Grace, but it does not seem to me that Lord Beckenham is much given to flirting.”

  “He is not. But trust me, Miss Allbright, if you simply engage him in conversation and smile, Xavier will soon assume you are flirting. Don’t overdo it, however. The last thing we need is a murder in the family.”

  Doubtful but willing, since it did not seem to her that she could actually avoid conversation with Beckenham, Lizzie did as the duke instructed.

  Xavier did not seem to notice or care what she was about. But since she liked Lord Beckenham a great deal, it was no hardship to smile at him. The dinner passed, and the ladies removed to the drawing room.

  Most of the gentlemen followed them soon after, but of Xavier and the duke there was no sign.

  Lizzie watched for them, on tenterhooks lest Montford report to Xavier the tenor of their conversation. She hoped His Grace did not mean to meddle. She had a good idea of how Xavier would react to such interference.

  Lizzie clutched the pearls at her throat and tried to enjoy the charming comic duet Hilary and Davenport sang together.

  Feminine wiles? She had no better plan. She might need to trust the duke to know what he was about.

  * * *

  Xavier knew his anger was irrational, and that he was well served for his plans to make Lizzie jealous. She’d given no indication she cared one way or the other for his polite flirtation with Georgie. He kept telling himself there’d been nothing at all beyond a certain ease of discourse between her and Beckenham, but he couldn’t tamp down the fierce resentment at even that small evidence of rapport.

  Lizzie wasn’t a natural flirt, but didn’t that somehow make it worse? That she’d genuinely found Beckenham so bloody fascinating was completely unacceptable. She’d been so absorbed in their conversation, she hadn’t paid any attention to the fact that her secret husband was dallying with the most flagrantly beautiful woman in the room.

  That he preferred Lizzie’s quieter, more subtle allure to Georgie’s sirenlike beauty was neither here nor there. Georgie was the kind of woman who invariably struck envy into other women’s hearts.

  Lizzie wasn’t to know the dazzling redhead would never look at another man but Beckenham. Nor that Georgie didn’t even like Xavier overmuch since their encounter that night at his Brighton villa last year.

  Why, then, had his behavior evoked no reaction? Was his bride as cool at heart as he was himself?

  He’d been vaguely aware of the gentlemen vacating their chairs while he stared into the dregs of his port. Xavier looked up, to see that he and the duke sat alone, and that the duke stared at him with a hard light of mockery in his eyes.

  “Will you join me, Xavier?” said the duke.

  This was not going to be pleasant. With a suppressed sigh, Xavier picked up the port and his glass and moved down the table to occupy Lizzie’s vacated chair.

  “I have news,” said Montford when the last footmen left the room.

  This was not what he’d expected.

  The duke poured himself another glass of the soft, full-bodied port and took a meditative sip. “Your mother is in England. She was seen disembarking a private yacht in Dover. And your uncle Bernard was there to meet her.”

  Too soon, was all Xavier could think. She couldn’t be here yet. She was supposed to be in Paris. He’d directed his agent there to make damned sure of it.

  Montford said, “Your manservant arrived immediately before dinner. I took the liberty of waylaying him for news, as you were already in the drawing room. I said I would convey his message.”

  The duke took a letter from inside his waistcoat and passed it over. “I think you’d better read this.”

  * * *

  Nowhere in the vastness of Harcourt could one feel quite so isolated as on its roof. The wind whipped Xavier’s hair and made his coat flap sharply against his sides as he stood there under the pitiless moon, the distant stars, as he stared into the night.

  The landscape was a series of undulating shapes in shades of purple and black and blue. The nearer prospect was a forest of chimneys, sloping gables shingled in stone tile, flat roofs the size of a London square covered in black pitch.

  Until he saw that letter, he’d hoped he was wrong about Nerissa. That her sudden departure from St. Petersburg and the fact she corresponded with his uncle could be explained away.

  The notion that his own mother wanted to do away with him was so fantastical, he would have laughed if the idea didn’t make his blood run cold.

  His brain teemed with a hundred screaming voices. He’d lost his abilit
y to think in a calm, logical manner when he’d read his uncle’s damning and damnably foolhardy letter.

  The allusions Bernard had made were veiled so thinly, a child could have read between the lines. The context made it clear Bernard and Nerissa had already settled on a course of action. Xavier didn’t need to read anything in Nerissa’s own hand to draw the obvious conclusion.

  He wanted to act, to preempt the strike he knew would come, but Montford had counseled him to wait.

  The Westruthers settled their affairs outside courts of law. No jury would be required to adjudicate this particular conspiracy.

  Xavier was positive now that Bernard had employed Madeleine to poison him. And her agreement to do so had not been due solely to an ambition for personal gain. Madeleine’s animosity had been all the more startling for her having concealed it for almost a year.

  What was it about him that inspired such hatred, particularly in women who were close to him?

  The scrape of a boot on the ground was the only sound that alerted him.

  His senses sprang to alert. Xavier swung around and threw himself to the side, in time to avoid his assailant’s plunging knife.

  He hit the ground with teeth-jarring thud, felt the roughness of the pitch roof scrape his cheek and hands as he scrambled to get to his feet. But his attacker kept coming. He was a big man and a massive boot clipped Xavier on the temple as again, Xavier threw himself to the side.

  The blow had not packed the full force of the fellow’s strength, but it was enough to make Xavier’s head swim. Vision blurring, Xavier launched to his feet.

  The attacker had not troubled to hide his face, which told him, if the knife had not already done so, that the fellow meant to make an end of him then and there.

  As they circled each other over the flat part of the roof, Xavier saw that at odds with his bulk, the man’s features held an almost unearthly beauty. One of his mother’s creatures, without a doubt.

  The assailant lunged, knife slashing. Xavier spun away. He couldn’t let the fellow get close to him if he wanted to keep a whole skin.

  Nausea rolled over him in waves from the blow to his temple. He looked about him for a weapon, a loose shingle or a shard of crumbled stone, but there was none. Damn Montford for keeping his house in such good repair.

  Think, man. Think!

  “She sent you,” Xavier called to his assailant. “You think she cares for you, but she sent you to your death.”

  The man’s lip curled. “No one sent me.”

  He made another lunge, and this time, Xavier caught the wrist of the hand that held the knife and delivered a swift, powerful blow to the man’s solar plexus.

  Before his attacker had time to recover, Xavier twisted, ducking under the man’s arm, wrenching it at an awkward angle while the man landed a blow on Xavier’s ribs that made him crush out an oath. Still holding the knife arm, he jabbed back with his elbow in the fellow’s face, then used both hands to force the knife arm to breaking point.

  With a grunt, the fellow reeled back from the hit. There was a crack as his arm finally broke and the knife dropped to the ground.

  As the man sank to his knees, yelling in agony, Xavier kicked the knife out of his reach.

  He bent to scoop it up, his head swimming dangerously. His vision wavered, tinged with gray fuzz.

  Incredibly, the fellow was dragging himself to his feet again, an ugly look of mingled pain and rage distorting those angelic features. His knife arm, the one Xavier had broken, hung uselessly at his side.

  “My mother sent you, didn’t she?” panted Xavier. “You should know she’s not worth hanging for.”

  The man shook his head, and he kept coming. “No one sent me,” he repeated.

  “Loyal to the last. You know, that’s very admirable,” said Xavier, his chest heaving with exertion. “It’s so hard to get good help these days.”

  By now, the gray at the edges of his vision was spreading. He had the knife, but did he want to live more than this fellow wanted to kill him? There was a fervor in those dark eyes Xavier had only seen before in religious fanatics.

  He never ceased to marvel at his mother’s powers of fascination.

  “Were you with her in St. Petersburg? Did you kill her husband, too?” Xavier forced the mocking tone into his voice as he maneuvered the man into position. “What a good little minion you are.”

  The fellow’s nostrils flared, and Xavier thought he detected satisfaction rather than offense.

  “You know nothing about it,” spat the fellow, advancing. “She did not send me. She begged me not to come. She could not spare me, she said.”

  Xavier saw it, now. This angel-faced bully wasn’t lying. Nerissa hadn’t sent him. He thought he was being noble, poor bugger, saving her the trouble and danger of coming after Xavier herself.

  “She wouldn’t want you to take care of me like this,” said Xavier. “Where would the satisfaction be in that for her?”

  The smallest frown of confusion entered the man’s eyes.

  “Believe me,” Xavier forced out, “you insult Nerissa by stepping in now. She is more than capable of murder, you know. Why spoil her fun? My mother wants to be in at the kill, man. Don’t you see that?”

  That seemed to give the fellow pause, but only for a second. “I’m protecting her. It’s for her own good.”

  His mother would curl her lip to hear that statement, but Xavier let it go.

  They circled each other again, but he could tell the other man’s strength was fading as the pain in his arm grew too great. He was white-faced, his feet dragging, but the zealous gleam in his eyes hadn’t dimmed.

  Xavier remained watchful. The mind and heart could lend the body superhuman strength.

  He wanted to goad the fellow, making him lose his head. He wanted to say something in the realm of: She must be one hell of a good swive if you’ll risk your neck on a suicide mission like this.

  But even now, even at this crisis, he couldn’t make his mouth form the words to insult his own mother.

  Instead, he said quietly, “I will destroy her. So you’d best do your damnedest to kill me first.”

  It needed only that. With a roar that was half swallowed by the wind, the man launched himself forward.

  In a wrestling move he had practiced to perfection with Lydgate many years ago, Xavier stepped to the side, gripped the man’s shoulders and at the same time swept his foot in the fellow’s path. The man’s own momentum sent him over the edge, good arm flailing, legs kicking, and an expression of stark astonishment on his face.

  * * *

  Xavier had not come to the drawing room with the other gentlemen, but that was not unusual.

  Lizzie stayed as late as she could, strangely reluctant to brave the loneliness of her bedchamber tonight.

  Yet, it was a chore to maintain lively conversation, and as the party broke up, she bade the company good evening with a sense of relief. She would not sleep well, if it all, but at least, she would have solitude. The strain of maintaining her pretense when her emotions were in turmoil over Xavier had become almost too great to bear.

  She reached her chamber, grateful for the warmth of the fire. The days might be sunny, but the nights at Harcourt were chill.

  Lizzie removed the Pomona green shawl and set it over a chairback, wondering where Beth was. But as she turned to ring the bell for her maid, she saw him and gave a sharp cry.

  Xavier. Dressed only in his shirt sleeves and trousers, lounging in a wingback chair.

  Excitement and longing rose inside her, but she wrestled them into submission, forcing herself to sound calm. “You must not be here. You must go at once.”

  He wasn’t looking at her, she realized. He was staring into the flames.

  She saw a wine bottle at his elbow, an empty glass dangling from his hand. And his eyes, when they turned to her, held none of the mockery, the malice, nor even the desire she’d seen there before. They were utterly bleak.

  Her self-righteous
indignation disappeared, along with her fear. She hurried to him, removed the glass from his resistless fingers and set it down.

  “Xavier?” she whispered. “What is it?”

  As if he’d only now registered she was in the room, his eyelids flickered. His attention traveled slowly to her, but he did not speak. It was as if there was too much pain in him to give voice to it.

  “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Her voice rose in concern. She’d never seen him like this before.

  “Xavier?” Tentatively, she placed her palm on his chest. She wasn’t sure why she did this, but the hardness of his chest, and the steady beat of his heart inside it, reassured her in some strange way she couldn’t pinpoint.

  His gaze lowered to her hand, then lifted to her face. He stared deeply into her eyes; his lips parted as if he would speak, but no sound came out.

  Not knowing what else to do, she leaned down to him and touched her lips to his.

  Softly, she brushed his mouth in the lightest of kisses, a wordless offer of comfort. That something was very, very wrong she did not doubt. Something so horrible, he could not even find the will to repel her questions with a sarcastic remark.

  She’d never imagined seeing him like this. He frightened her. But he drew her, too.

  He didn’t respond to her quiet caresses, but he didn’t push her away. She wanted to get closer. She framed his face in her hands, sinking her fingertips into his thick, dark hair. She deepened the kiss, stroked her tongue into his mouth, and with a groan that spoke of agony as much as pleasure, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her down to him.

  He kissed her with a blatant, animal hunger that he’d never shown her before. As if he needed her, needed this. She was glad to give him what he needed. Even while his suffering struck at her heart, joy filled her that she had the power to grant him this small measure of ease.

  Still kissing her, still holding her, he rose to his feet and carried her to the bed.

  “Yes,” she said, in case he had any doubts after her previous resistance. “I want you, Xavier.”

  Love me as I love you.

  “God, I can’t slow down. I must have you now,” he groaned in her ear. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”