by Gaelen Foley
Another carriage-load of their acquaintances would be coming along behind them, but the earl wanted to get home first to make sure his staff was up and awake, and prepared to entertain his friends with his usual lavish hospitality.
Later in the night, no doubt, they would send for the harlots.
Lord Alec Knight knew the routine because it was always the same.
Staring out the carriage window at the rainwashed streets, all dark and empty, the golden-haired leader of their set barely listened to his friends’ rowdy exchange.
Alec did not know what was wrong with him tonight.
He would have gone home if he thought he would have felt any better there, but he knew the malaise would only follow him.
“Are you dicing tonight with us or are you still sworn off hazard?” A pause. “Hullo? Knight?” An elbow nudged him in the ribs. It jarred him from his brooding.
Alec turned to Fort with an air of distraction. “Hm?”
“What is the matter with you tonight?” Drax exclaimed at his absent manner. “I say, you’ve been acting strange for days!”
“Aye,” Rush agreed, the raven-haired heir to a marquisate. “I thought you were going to skewer Blakewell, training with the épée at Angelo’s today.”
“If he doesn’t work on his parries, next time I will,” Alec said coolly.
“What about Harrington? You nearly killed him, too.”
Alec scoffed. “His footwork’s atrocious.”
“You must give him credit for trying. You’re too fast for him.”
“Then he’s got no business stepping into the piste with me.” Alec shrugged and looked away.
“Jesus!” Rush laughed. “It’s only practice, Knight.”
“Leave him alone, Rush. He’s in a mood again,” Fort said.
“No, I’m not.”
“He’s always in a mood these days.”
“I’m not in any damned mood!”
“What is it, then? A toothache?”
“How the hell should I know?” he muttered. A rut, he thought.
“If you ask me,” Fort told the others, clapping Alec on the back, “all the dear lad needs is a willing lady—no, pardon—a lascivious, rampant wench to dance the goat’s jig on his lap for an hour or two. Help him to forget a certain Miss Carlisle. I’m in earnest!” he protested as the others laughed and heartily assented.
“Good advice! Get wapt, my boy. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
“Cheers, to a vigorous humping,” Drax declared. “ ’Tis the only cure for whatever ails a man.”
“You think I haven’t tried that?” Alec answered.
“When?” Rush demanded.
Alec heaved a sigh and looked away.
“Admit it, man! You’ve been a monk ever since her wedding, and that, to put it mildly, is unlike you.”
Drax leaned forward. “Tell us what’s the matter, old chap. We are your friends. Heartbroken?”
“Hardly. She is happy: I am happy for her. End of tale.”
“Problem with the tackle, then? Bit of the clap?”
“God, no! Jesus, Draxinger! Nothing like that.” Alec scowled and shifted in his seat.
“He’s not eighteen anymore,” the ever-loyal Fort said in his defense, his hazel eyes twinkling. “I’m sure we all know better than to go into battle without armor.”
“I daresay,” Alec muttered.
“Well, then?” Drax’s ice-blue eyes searched his face in concern.
Alec stared at him, and then merely shook his head. He had always been their leader in mischief, so how could he tell them that, these days, their constant pursuit of pleasure had begun to seem intolerably, well . . . pointless to him?
They all kept going through the motions, he knew not why. And unlike his mates, he had made mistakes—serious mistakes—spurred on by the nameless hunger that would not be satisfied, try as he may to chase down any reckless impulse of excitement.
But as lost as he might be, complaining seemed beneath contempt. All the world envied him and his friends their glamorous existence at the pinnacle of Society. Women wanted them, and men wanted to be like them. Surely this aching hunger for more was wrong. Even after his losing streak at the tables, Alec knew he still possessed more than a human being could reasonably ask of life.
Then again, when had he ever been a reasonable man?
His comrades awaited his explanation, but he shrugged it off, loath to discuss his disenchantment. If he did not speak of it aloud, perhaps it would go away. “No doubt you’re right,” he said after a long moment, a jaded half smile curving his lips. “I probably just need to dock a bit of prime tail.”
“Good lad! That’s the spirit.”
“Pemberton’s wife was throwing herself at you all night—”
“No, no, this calls for a professional.” Rush reached into his pocket with a grin and tossed over the latest edition of an infamous little volume called The Whoremonger’s Guide to London. “The evening’s bill of fare, my lord?”
“Here, have a drink.” Drax, owner of the equipage, opened the satinwood liquor compartment beside him, selected a bottle by the light of the tiny interior carriage lamps, and then passed Alec a crystal decanter of fine French brandy.
Alec accepted it with a nod and downed a determined swig, then passed the bottle on to Rush.
Meanwhile, Fort picked up the Whoremonger’s Guide and held it up to the little flickering lamp, squinting at the pages upon pages of names and addresses. “Ah, yes, now, let us plan the night’s menu,” he said cheerfully. “For the hors d’oeuvre, I believe I shall start with the Summerson twins—”
“Excellent choice,” Drax chimed in.
“And for the first course, hmm, this Spanish señorita called Bianca sounds intriguing—she’s new, but I’ve heard good things. As for the remove, Kate Gossett is always very tasty—”
“God, I love her,” Rush vowed. “What a dairy she’s got in her bodice.”
“Magnificent bosoms, yes. Second course, all four of the Wilson sisters, I should think—”
“No, no, I’m tired of them,” Rush protested. “Something different, something new.”
“Yes,” Alec echoed softly. Something new.
As his friends’ jaunty arguing about nothing in particular resumed, he considered their advice. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps a night of lust was all that he required, for even more than gambling, Alec loved sex, relished sex, lived for sex. It was love that he avoided like the plague.
Drumming his lips thoughtfully with his fingertips, he mentally riffled through his long list of sophisticated ladies and love-starved Society wives who regarded a wild, sweaty night with him as the high point of their year.
Perhaps.
But he was even bored of the pleasant sport of cuckolding his betters, and that was a very bad state of affairs. The thought of another meaningless rutting with some hard-eyed harlot threatened to bring back his “mood.”
He would have never admitted it aloud, but whores as a breed made him uncomfortable ever since his own lucrative arrangement with Lady Campion some months ago; fallen women pricked, he supposed, what little conscience he still possessed.
He had laughed about his services to the wealthy baroness at the time, even bragged about it to his mates—she was delightfully insatiable and, better still, made his gambling debts go away. Their scandalous arrangement had raised eyebrows, but he had gotten away with it, of course. He was Alec Knight. He always got away with everything.
Unlike his recently exiled friends, Lord Byron and Beau Brummell, one felled by scandal, the other by debt, Alec had fought for and kept his golden throne as a ruling prince of Society in spite of everything. It was style and money and class that made the man, after all, hardly virtue.
His family also had been scandalized at his brazen affair with the infamous baroness, but they should’ve expected something like this when the clan’s patriarch, Robert, the Duke of Hawkscliffe, had cut off his funds in a final
attempt to bring their wild baby brother to heel. Well, Robert giveth and Robert taketh away, Alec thought, but he refused to be controlled by his family’s wealth. No, with his expert bravado, he would never admit to a whit of repentance for having played the stallion for Her Ladyship.
And yet, somehow, these days, it wasn’t so easy to look in the mirror. Not when he knew damned well that his wickedness had cost him a fair slice of his self-opinion and the esteem of the only girl who had ever meant a thing to him.
After twenty years of unswerving devotion, dear, steady Lizzie, his younger sister’s best friend, had forsaken him for his old schoolmate Devlin Strathmore, with a final warning to Alec, her former idol, that he had better change his ways before he ran his whole life aground in pure self-destruction.
Well, there was nothing to be done for it now. Lizzie was a good girl, better off with Dev, and that was that.
Besides, as Alec cared for her like a sister, their flirtation had always felt slightly incestuous to him: Even a sinner like him had to draw the line somewhere.
Propping his elbow on the ledge of the carriage window, he lifted his hand with a heavy motion and wiped away some of the wet fog on the glass with the heel of his fist.
Strathmore was best for Lizzie. Alec had accepted that. The pair were perfectly suited and very much in love; the viscount was prepared to love her in a way that Alec had barely dared contemplate. He had not liked losing to his rival, but he had, of course, behaved like a gentleman in the end. How could he do otherwise? Deep down, he knew he was not good for Lizzie. He suspected he was not good for any woman, since he seemed much too capable of driving them insane.
He preferred not to think about it. He only knew that, ever since their wedding, the newlyweds’ bliss only seemed to underscore his deep-seated ennui; their irritating joy somehow made the hard glitter of his high life look like fool’s gold.
Resting his cheek on his hand, he stared out into the jet-black night when he suddenly spotted two figures on horseback in the rain. He perked up slightly with his usual dangerous curiosity.
The riders were coming up Oxford Street from the opposite direction, and he took note of them because they were the only other people he had seen about in this foul weather and at this late hour.
As the carriage approached, passing the riders near one of the brilliant gas streetlamps, Alec got a fair glimpse of the two uniformed men. Fierce-looking fellows, heavily armed. Probably looking for whores, as well, he thought cynically. Indeed, they appeared to be looking for someone, peering down every alley and byway as they rode slowly down the street, scanning the shadows.
Odd, he mused, but marking the odd shape of their tall, brimmed helmets, he understood. Foreigners, he realized belatedly as the carriage passed them by. Probably lost. The metropolis had been crawling with foreign princes, generals, and dignitaries and their entourages ever since the close of the war. All of Britain’s former allies against Napoleon were wildly popular in London society these days.
He considered halting the carriage to offer directions, but the foreign soldiers had vanished into the rainy darkness again before Alec could even determine if they were Germans, Russians, or Austrians.
“Something wrong?” Drax inquired.
“Oh—no.” Alec shook his head and put the trifling mystery out of his mind, determined to renew his interest in the night’s revelries. “Pass me the brandy.”
Before long the coach rolled into Hanover Square and halted before the large, darkened town house on the corner. Drax’s town mansion was a stately redbrick affair of four stories and three window bays, distinguished from all the other houses on the square by its covered portico over the entrance.
As soon as the carriage stopped, the gentlemen jumped out without waiting for the groom to get the door.
Indeed, while the coachman up on the box set the brake, rain coursing off the brim of his top hat, the liveried groom posted in the rear barely had time to take the hanging lantern off its hook before jumping down off the gleaming wet coach and hurrying to light the walkway for the young earl and his stylish guests.
Drax brushed the servant off, taking the lantern from him. “Never mind us, see to my horses,” he ordered as he reached into his waistcoat for his house key.
“Aye, milord.”
Drax held up the light, ushering his guests ahead of him.
The rain-slicked pavement diffused the lantern’s glow like polished ebony as they hurried up to the covered porch. With the lamp’s flickering glow behind him, the shadows were deep; Alec strode in the lead, as usual, and so it was he who nearly tripped over the prostrate form of a sleeping female on the ground.
“Good God!” He put his hands out quickly at his sides, preventing his friends from doing the same as they ducked out of the rain and crowded under the portico’s shelter.
“I say!” Rush exclaimed, before quickly recovering from his surprise. “Well, there you are, old boy. A gift from the gods. Go to it.”
“Shh!” Fort whispered with a wicked glimmer in his eye. “She’s sleeping!”
Alec turned to Drax with a frown. “Do you know her?”
“Never seen her before in my life.” Pushing the others aside, the earl lowered himself gracefully to one knee beside her and held the lantern nearer so they could better see their delicate-featured foundling. “What a beauty,” he murmured.
Alec relinquished his place at the front without comment as the other two bent down on either side of Drax, Rush sweeping his ebony cloak back over one shoulder and crouching down beside the girl, Fort leaning down slowly to brace his hands on his thighs. He tilted his head a bit, studying her.
“Nice-looking girl,” Fort remarked with his usual gift for understatement.
Alec hung back, on his guard. Perfect. Another whore.
She was sound asleep, breathing sweetly, like some enchanted fairy-tale princess awaiting her true love’s kiss—except for the smudge of dirt on her cheek.
Instead of a glass coffin for a bed, she had naught but the cold, hard ground. The sight of such a fair young creature reduced to such conditions caused a strange, tender pain in his heart. The thought of his nights with Lady Campion brought a twinge of guilt, like a clothing thread catching on the scab of a barely healed wound.
No, they were not so different, he and the sleeping girl on the ground. Perhaps it was that realization that made him keep his distance, a reluctant and unwanted sense of kinship. While his friends crowded around her, Alec leaned back against the opposite pillar, folding his arms across his chest. “She’s a little young, don’t you think?”
They ignored him, warming to their sport.
“The abbess must have sent her over for the party,” Drax whispered.
“She’s early.”
Rush flashed a satyric grin. “Maybe she was eager to get started.”
“So, Alec, old boy.” Fort looked askance at him over his shoulder. “How do you feel about brunettes?”
He snorted, eyeing her uncertainly. The wench was lovely, no point denying that. Her skin was like cream, her lashes black velvet. Her slim figure was wrapped in a knee-length olive-drab pelisse as she lay on her side on the damp flagstones, her head resting on her arm, her dark chocolate hair pooled around her.
“Slumber of the innocents,” Rush purred.
“Right,” Alec drawled.
Fort frowned at the angle of her neck. “That can’t be comfortable.”
Alec supposed not. He surveyed her slowly, from her tangled tresses to the couple of inches of black-stockinged calf visible between the top of her battered half-boots and the mud-spattered skirts of her plain, light blue walking dress. Cynicism flickered in his eyes at the deceptive air of innocence wafting around her like the scent of roses.
Nobody was truly innocent in this world, so why should he give a damn if his friends ogled her as though she were an object, a thing?
He rolled his eyes, losing patience with them—and himself. “Are one of you going to
wake the chit or are we going to stand here gawking at her all night?”
“He’s right. We must get her inside. I shall thrash my butler for making this sweet creature wait out here,” Drax clipped out. “Let’s pray she hasn’t caught her death.”
“That would be a waste,” Rush agreed. “Luscious little thing, ain’t she?”
“Hard to tell beneath the grime,” Alec muttered.
Rush sent him a wily grin. “Perhaps we should give her a bath.”
“Burn her clothes while you’re at it. Quite disgraceful,” Drax said, wrinkling his long straight nose.
“Yes. We’ll wrap her up in satin sheets.” Rush reached down to touch her hair, and something in Alec stirred violently.
He scowled. “Why don’t you give her some room?”
They all turned, looking startled at his sharp tone.
“You’re going to scare her if she wakes up and finds you breathing all over her like that,” he said matter-of-factly.
“We’re not going to scare the chit,” Rush scoffed.
“Alec’s always right about women,” Fort reminded them in a murmur.
“Yes, best leave this to me, Rushie, old boy. Bloody damned bull in a china shop, you are.” Gingerly, Drax touched her fragile shoulder. “Miss? I say, miss?” He shook her gently. “Wake up, my dear. Hullo?”
Alec watched her awakening in spite of himself. Entrancing creature. Yes, he’d give her that.
There was something so vulnerable in the way her sooty lashes fluttered drowsily. Her head lolled a bit, her lips parted slightly; then her eyes flicked open—luminous violet, jewellike in the lamp’s glow.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Rush greeted her softly.
Her beautiful eyes widened.
Finding his friends crowded around her, the girl sat up abruptly with a frightened gasp, visibly dazed and disoriented with slumber. At once, she scrambled back against the wall, panic flashing across her lovely face.
The three of them laughed, but Alec could tell that she was frightened, still half asleep and not sure what was going on. He knew he should speak out, but he didn’t want to get involved. Not when the pitiful sight of her caused a pained, muddled tenderness to stir and churn in the region of his solar plexus. He wanted to look away in boredom—but he found he couldn’t do that, either. Instead, he watched her in brooding hunger and mentally counted the days since he’d last had a woman. He let out a low exhalation of starved need.