Two Shades of Seduction

by Monica Burns

  With a shrug of his shoulders, he rid himself of his coat and tossed it over a nearby chair on his path to the sideboard. He’d just poured his first drink when Fischer entered the room.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, I didn’t realize you and Lady Devlyn had returned.”

  “Lady Devlyn is still at the opera,” he said tersely. “I couldn’t stand the noise any longer.”

  “I see, my lord. Is there anything I can get for you?” Fischer’s voice held a note of concern, and Quentin kept his back to the man as he took a stiff drink of the brandy he’d poured.

  “No, thank you, Fischer.” With a wave of his hand, Quentin dismissed his longtime servant and topped off his glass one more time.

  The manservant murmured a quiet good night and left Quentin to his misery. Another glass of alcohol burned its way down his throat making him cough until the tie at his neck was choking him. With a violent gesture, he yanked the narrow band of material off his throat and let it fall to the floor.

  Decanter in hand, he sank down into a chair in front of the fire. His gaze focused morosely on the floor as he took a deep swig of brandy. How in the hell had it come to this? He was in love with his wife, and his wife didn’t return his affections. No, he didn’t know that. Eleanor could have been lying. He snorted with disgust.

  Past experience had taught him that Eleanor wouldn’t hesitate to lie if it meant she could inflict pain. She’d taken great pleasure in sharing with him that the morning scandal sheets would inform the whole of London that the Countess of Devlyn didn’t love her husband. Quentin tossed down another stiff swallow of brandy.

  What the fuck was he going to do? Without Sophie there didn’t seem to be much of a point to anything. Even the revenge he’d sought for so long tasted like sawdust in his mouth. He took another drink hoping to wash the taste out of his mouth. The day the baron had attacked Sophie, she’d said revenge would never make up for the pain her family had caused her.

  He hadn’t understood her words at the time, but they’d made an impression on him. So much so, that he’d chosen not to use Sophie’s ledgers to ruin Townsend. He grew still. Had he loved her for as long as that? He rested his head on the back of the chair and stared into the fire. What the hell was he going to do? Was it possible to make Sophie love him? He expelled a harsh breath of disgust. He was a fool to think so. He’d made sure from the beginning that she understood he was nothing but a scoundrel. She had no reason to fall in love with a man who had that type of reputation. Worse, despite her change of heart when it came to revenge, he’d told her he had no intention in hell of setting aside his plans for destroying the only family she knew.

  Brandy stung his throat again as he took another deep drink of liquor. He heard the clock chime the hour of ten as the liquor began to deaden his pain. The fire seemed immeasurably hot, and he popped several buttons off his shirt as he yanked it open in an effort to let the cool air brush his skin. Another deep swig of brandy rolled down his throat. This time there was no sting.

  Success at last. He’d wanted to drink himself into a drunken stupor, and he had. Already his head was throbbing and the room was spinning. But there was still just one problem. His pain hadn’t disappeared. If he’d been battered in a brutal fistfight, he couldn’t be in any more pain. God help him. A mirthless chuckle rolled out of his throat. The almighty wasn’t about to administer absolution to the Devil of Devlyn.

  His thoughts crashed together as he closed his eyes and sank deeper into a drunken haze. Christ, he didn’t want to think anymore. It was too much trouble to think. Slouched in his chair, he closed his eyes in hope of forgetting. But even drunk, images of Sophie filled his head. Images he couldn’t escape no matter how hard he might try. And heaven help him, he didn’t want to try. He drifted out of consciousness for what he thought was only a few minutes, but when he stirred, the clock was chiming the hour of midnight. Eyes half shut, he heard a quiet sound and turned his head toward the library door to see Sophie’s shadow in the doorway. He groaned softly. What the hell was he going to say as to his current condition?

  Eyes closed, he tried to ignore the sound of her shoes on the wood floor. When she stopped in front of him, he didn’t move. A soft rustle of satin echoed in the air as she knelt in front of him. The instant her hand gently slid across his thigh, he was hard as iron. Christ Jesus, the woman had the ability to bring him to his knees even when he was drunk.

  “Sophie. Don’t.”

  He groaned as she stroked her fingers over him. He’d gotten drunk to deaden the sensation of her touch, yet even in his stupor she was still able to torture him. Grasping her hands, he tugged her upward. As he did so, he caught the faint aroma of an exotic scent. He forced his eyes open and stared into Eleanor’s hard blue gaze.

  “What the fuck are you doing here,” he muttered with confusion as a sickening feeling rolled through him.

  Where was Sophie? She’d just been touching him. How had Eleanor gotten into the house? Out in the foyer, he heard the sound of Sophie’s voice, and he struggled to grasp the idea that Sophie hadn’t been the one touching him. Disgust slithered over him. Footsteps crossed the entryway, and in his drunken state, he moved too slowly. Before he could push Eleanor away from him, Sophie entered the library. With a roar of fury, he shoved Eleanor aside and staggered to his feet to face his wife.

  “Christ almighty…Sophie, it’s not what you think.”

  His drunken state didn’t protect him from the cold reality of his wife looking at him as if he were little more than an insect. Pale, serene, and regal, Sophie smiled coldly.

  “Nothing is ever as it seems, my lord. Forgive me for intruding on you and…your guest.”

  Without a backward glance, Sophie left the room, the door closing quietly behind her. The finality of the sound nearly drove him to his knees as he stared after her. One hand pressed into his forehead, he nearly fell down as he stumbled over Eleanor who was lying at his feet laughing. For the first time, he saw the state of his sister-in-law’s déshabille. One shoulder of her gown had fallen down to her forearm, while her hair was artfully arranged to give the impression she’d been in the heat of passion. A dark rage snaked through Quentin, and he reached down to drag Eleanor to her feet by the hair on her head. She shrieked in pain.

  “Damn you, Devlyn, let me go.”

  “First, you’re going to tell me what you’re doing here.” Quentin’s fist locked in Eleanor’s hair as he yanked her head back and stared down into her bitter, triumphant gaze.

  “Revenge, Devlyn. You could have had me, but you didn’t. But when you married that old cow…did you really think I’d let you get away with that?” Eleanor smacked at his hand in an effort to free herself. Quentin simply tightened his grasp on her hair and smiled cruelly as she yelped in pain.

  “Did it ever occur to you that I despise you?”

  “It was never about you Devlyn. It was about Sophie. She now realizes I will always be able to supplant her in any gentleman’s affections.” Vicious laughter pealed out of Eleanor. “The fact that I hurt you in the process makes my revenge sweet indeed.”

  Raw fury pounded its way through his muscles as Quentin utter a roar of fury. His fingers wrapped tightly in Eleanor’s hair, he half carried, half dragged her out of the library and across the marble floor to the front door. As he dragged her across the floor, Eleanor kicked, screamed, and batted at his arms in an effort to free herself. Throwing open the front door, Quentin barely controlled his impulse to shove her down the steps. Instead, he made sure she was clear of the door then slammed it in her face.

  Turning back toward the stairs, his blurred gaze traveled up to the second floor landing. Now he needed to convince Sophie that what she’d seen had been staged. How in the hell was he going to do that. From the look on Sophie’s face a moment ago, he was a doomed man. The realization pushed its way through his clouded thoughts until his stomach was twisted in knots.

  Christ Jesus, he was on the verge of losing the one thing in the
world he needed to survive. Sophie’s love. Pain ripped its way into every inch of him until his brain was clear of every thought except the fight that lay before him.

  Not once in his life had he ever backed down from a fight. Even when the odds were against him, he’d always remained confident he would win. Tonight was different. This time the stakes were far greater than any fight he’d ever been in before. Tonight his life was on the line.

  Chapter 15

  Sophie locked her bedroom door behind her. She doubted Quentin would try to enter her room, but it wasn’t a risk she was willing to take. Her gaze traveled to the door connecting their rooms, and she quickly locked that one as well. Protected from unwelcome intrusions, she stumbled toward the fire as one shiver after another rippled through her body.

  Hands stretched out to the flames, she tried to warm her icy fingers. Another shiver wracked her body, and she sank to her knees, praying for the fire to make her warm again. How could he have been so cruel? She’d accepted that Quentin didn’t love her, but she’d thought he respected her.

  What he’d done tonight was unforgiveable. In the dark intimacy of a theater box, he’d teased her as only a lover would, only to return home and rut with her sister. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Eleanor. She could have borne the pain more easily if she’d caught him with any woman but Eleanor.

  The strength of his betrayal surged through her with the powerful rage of a wild bull. It gored its way into her body until tears streamed down her cheeks. Slowly she sank to her knees and closed her eyes against the pain. God, how could she have been so stupid. She’d been realistic enough to know his attraction for her wouldn’t last. She’d expected this, but she’d never contemplated it would be her sister who would replace her in his affections. From the beginning, he’d been forthright about his disreputable character. But she hadn’t believed him. It was a mistake that had cost her dearly. An honorable man would never have done to her what he’d done tonight. To betray her with Eleanor was reprehensible. How could he have done such a thing when he knew the type of woman her stepsister was? And Eleanor. Her stepsister had actually been laughing as Quentin had stumbled to his feet.

  The cruelty of their actions nauseated her. One hand pressed to the back of her mouth, she fought not to retch. What was she going to do? The fire she stared into offered up no answers. She was so cold. Why didn’t the warmth of the fire penetrate her body? It was as if she were dead.

  Yes, that’s what it was. She was dead. She’d made the mistake of falling in love with her husband, and now she was paying the price. Quentin had taken away her dignity tonight in a way that was as cruel as her father’s retribution on her for her mother’s sins. When she’d propositioned Quentin, she’d wanted two things. Escape from her father’s house and the experience of a lover’s touch. But then she’d never dreamed of falling in love with him.

  God, he’d made her feel young, even beautiful, again. It was a sensation she’d not experienced in quite some time. She’d entered into this devil’s bargain of her own accord, fully aware they’d eventually lead separate lives. Had he laughed to himself at the way she’d responded to his lovemaking? The thought made bile rise in her throat.

  Still, there had been moments when she wondered if things might turn out differently for the two of them. Moments when she’d thought she’d seen a look of tenderness in his eyes or face. It wouldn’t happen now. They’d part company, but it wouldn’t be the quiet, unnoticed parting she’d envisioned.

  Tonight’s humiliation would not remain a private matter. Eleanor would see to that. The loathsome memory of seeing Eleanor at the Alhambra returned vividly. In a small way, perhaps she’d been the catalyst for this betrayal. Her suggestion that Quentin would never ask Eleanor into his bed had enraged her stepsister. A soft sound outside her bedroom door made Sophie awkwardly scramble to her feet.

  “Sophie, sweetheart. Let me in. I need to explain.”

  The fervency in his plea made her take a step toward the door before she stopped with a gasp of horror. God help her. She’d actually been about to open the door to him. She stared at the doorknob. The brass bulb turned slowly until it could go no further then rolled back into place. The sudden crack of a palm against the door made her jump.

  “Sophie, let me in. I need to talk to you.”

  This time his voice held the sound of a man intent on getting his way. She didn’t answer, and her heart rose in her throat as she waited for a heavy foot to break down the door. Nerves taut with trepidation, the silence stretched thin through the air without any further sound until she sagged inward. Her head bowed, she realized he wasn’t going to break down the door.

  A tear forced its way out of eyes that were squeezed shut. God help her, but she’d wanted him to break down the door. She’d wanted him to barrel his way in here and tell her it had all been a mistake. Drained and exhausted, she moved to her dressing table and pulled her wedding ring from her finger. She stared at it for a moment before she dropped it carelessly onto the marble tabletop. A quiet click behind her forced her to spin around, and the door leading into Quentin’s room opened slowly.

  His features implacable, Quentin stepped through the doorway holding up his key to the lock. When he moved toward her, she darted backward. An expression she couldn’t define crossed his face as he laid the key on her dressing table. It reminded her of someone in pain, but she knew the Devil of Devlyn didn’t feel pain. He only inflicted it.

  For a long moment, Quentin stared at her in silence, his green-eyed gaze never leaving her face. It was almost as if he were memorizing her features. The sound of mocking laughter echoed in her head, and she turned away from his penetrating stare. The silence between them was almost tangible, and she grew tired of the tension it created.

  “What do you want, my lord?”

  “You.”

  Sophie went rigid at his response. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected, but she hadn’t expected this particular response. The misery he’d caused her welled up inside her in the form of steely anger. Did he really think he could make such a demand after what she’d seen in the library? Disgusted by his behavior and arrogance, she shook her head in disbelief.

  “Your twisted sense of humor amazes me, my lord,” she said between clenched teeth as she turned to face him. “But then the Devil of Devlyn has a reputation to uphold, and making me a target is not surprising.”

  “It wasn’t a jest, Sophie.” His somber reply sounded so sincere, she almost believed him. She quickly came to her senses.

  “Then it should be, for I find it quite amusing.” She eyed him coldly.

  “Damnit. I want to explain.”

  “There’s nothing to explain, my lord. Our agreement when we married was that we would eventually go our separate ways,” she said in a calm, serene voice that amazed her. “I simply wish you’d had the decency to inform me of your intentions before you took a mistress.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he growled with frustration.

  “I don’t care that you decided to take Eleanor as your mistress,” she lied through clenched teeth. “But the least you could have done was shown me a small measure of respect and not chosen to rut with her in the house we share.”

  “Eleanor is not my mistress,” Quentin’s dark roar shocked her. It was the sound of a man determined to prove his innocence, but she refused to believe him. She shrugged her shoulders, displaying a nonchalance she didn’t feel.

  “Please don’t insult my intelligence,” she said with disgust. “I know what I saw. If it looks like a pig, then it is a pig.”

  “No.” His snarl reminded her of a wounded animal. She dismissed the thought as she met his fierce glare. “You saw what Eleanor wanted you to see. I didn’t ask her to come here. I don’t even know how she got into the house.”

  “And yet there she was between your legs preparing to service you like a common whore,” she choked out as she remembered all the times she’d pleasured him in the same way.
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  “It wasn’t like that,” he bit out. “I’d gotten drunk and fallen asleep at the fire. When I woke up, I thought you’d come home. I’d had too much brandy. I thought you—”

  “You must think me an utter fool,” she gasped in horrified disgust.

  The acute pain in her chest made her instinctively press one hand into her breast. It was as if he’d crushed her heart under his foot. His explanation for what she’d seen was that he couldn’t tell the difference between her and Eleanor.

  Her stomach roiled violently, and she struggled not to choke on the bile rising in her throat. The instant Quentin took a step toward her with his hand outstretched, she immediately recoiled. His features twisted in a look of what might have been pain as he came to a halt. She was a fool to think her contempt for him would cause him any grief.

  “You know my honor means everything to me, Sophie,” he said fiercely. “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe you thought Eleanor was me?”

  “Damnit, I’d had almost two decanters of brandy. Except for the fire, the room was dark. I’d been asleep and dreaming of you. It took me a good minute to realize I wasn’t dreaming.”

  “You were dreaming of me?” she sneered with disbelief.

  “Yes,” he said fiercely. “Is it so hard to believe I would dream about my wife?”

  A raw fury she’d never experienced in the whole of her life took root in her limbs. It made her long to leap forward and scratch his eyes. To make him bleed the same way her own heart was bleeding. She wanted him to feel the same humiliation she was feeling right now. Sharp fingernails dug into her palm as she eyed him with a bitterness that was growing by the second.

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