One Week As Lovers

by Victoria Dahl

  When he spied her laughing at one of Lord Osbourne’s jokes—they were new to her at least—Lancaster decided to leave her be. The only solution was to let her navigate the party on her own. He knew this, because he’d felt that terror himself on his first forays into London society.

  Not only had he felt hyperaware of his lack of city polish, but he’d been sure he was marked in some way. A secret script feathered over his skin. A scent that permanently marked him as defiled.

  But no one had noticed, not even those men known to prefer the company of their own sex.

  Lancaster had watched them carefully those first few months, looking for some sign that he was a member of that forbidden club. And of course, there was the constant, exhausting guard against pursuit or attack.

  In the end, Lancaster had found that those men were like any other men, no better or worse. Just the same. And as stories of Richmond had filtered into his social circle, he’d come to realize a sad truth. Richmond didn’t favor boys over girls. It wasn’t about sodomy or Greek love. Richmond simply liked the taste of innocence.

  With the memories clinging to him, Lancaster gave up his search for temperance and plucked a whisky from a passing footman. Emma caught him mid-swallow.

  “I hope you’re not drowning your sorrows.”

  He shook his head. “No. Celebrating. I’m doing moderately well.”

  “Well, that fifty pounds you entrusted to me has blossomed into nearly two hundred.”

  Though he’d meant to take another sip, he slowly lowered the glass. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. I purposefully played against Wolfson. He’s a spectacularly awful player and he can well afford the losses. You’re welcome.”

  “Emma!” he said. “Have I ever told you how mad I am for you?”

  “Not explicitly, no. But don’t let Hart or Cynthia overhear that. They might actually believe it.”

  He winked and raised his glass in a toast.

  “Care to tell me what happened between you and Miss Brandiss, by the way? I assume it wasn’t a love match.”

  “Not between her and me, no.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, if she cannot love you, then she doesn’t deserve you, Lancaster. The whole of the ton is in agreement that you are easy to love.”

  His cheeks heated at her words. “I…Um…Regardless, it seems I find myself continuously involved with women who do not love me. Quite pitiful, actually.”

  Emma cocked her head. “Cynthia loves you.”

  He wanted to grab her hand and ask what she meant and how she could know and what Cynthia had said to her. But he had his pride.

  Actually, it wasn’t pride at all. It was the hard realization that it didn’t matter if she loved him. The girl had been born with a spine of pure iron. If she was determined not to marry him, she wouldn’t. Her heart would have no say in it.

  “Well,” he said, “thank you for that small kindness. And for the larger kindness of spinning straw into gold. And for the unrepayable gift of keeping Cynthia safe.”

  Her eyes wandered toward a table that had grown raucous with laughter. “I would sooner cut off my own hand than see a young woman turned over to that man. I have witnessed his games, you know.”

  “As have I.”

  Emma turned back to him with a grim smile. “Then we are resolved.”

  By the time he’d wandered off from Emma, the whisky had finally hit his blood. Between the whisky and the winnings, he was hardly even bothered at all when the third person of the night mentioned his wedding.

  “Best be heading back to London soon!” chortled Sir Chisholm. “You’ll miss your own wedding if you’re not careful, you great lout!”

  He really wasn’t on the sort of terms with Sir Chisholm that would invite him to call a viscount a lout, but he patted his shoulder anyway, and escaped without a word.

  Yes, he had best be heading back to London soon. He couldn’t very well cry off the engagement on the eve of the wedding. Though facing Imogene and her father would hardly be pleasant, Lancaster couldn’t wait to have it over. He wanted to be happy. And breaking the bad news to the Brandiss family would be a start.

  “Lord Lancaster!” a familiar voice called in a very unfamiliar way. He turned to see Cynthia hurrying toward him.

  “Good evening, Miss Merrithorpe,” he said with a bow.

  She looked disconcerted for a brief moment, then offered a curtsy with a twinkle in her eye. “Good evening, milord. And how is your luck holding tonight?”

  “Well, thank you. Tolerably well.”

  Still smiling politely, she reached for his hand, and pinched the skin of his wrist between her fingernails.

  “Ow!”

  “Pray, Lord Lancaster, could you be more specific?”

  For a moment, rubbing his stinging wrist, he considered teasing her further, but she was nearly vibrating in her slippers, and the tremors had made their way to her breasts. Much as he enjoyed the view, there were far too many other men around. He leaned closer, keeping his eye on her exposed flesh. “We are winning, Cyn.”

  When she drew in a deep breath, the dress strained at the seams. So did Lancaster’s brain.

  “Are we?”

  “Yes. We’ve over seven hundred pounds now.”

  “Oh.” She latched onto his elbow and leaned toward his ear. “Oh, Nick, I’m so relieved.”

  “Yes.” Her breasts brushed his arm, then pressed even closer. “Perhaps I should get you a shawl.”

  “I shall start to moo if you say another word.”

  But he was distracted from his teasing again by the flush in her cheeks, and her pink lips, and the soft, soft skin that curved down her neck. He wanted to nibble there, work his way down to those generous breasts…

  Lancaster glanced up and his heavy eyes focused on the nearest face. Lady Osbourne, who was watching him quite strangely. Lancaster stood straight and eased his arm away from Cynthia’s chest.

  “If my luck holds, another hour of play perhaps. Are you enjoying the party?”

  “Absolutely not,” she answered, but she smiled when she said it.

  “Cynthia…” She was so lovely tonight, and he’d already told her, but what if she hadn’t believed him? “Cyn…”

  An outraged voice floated above the crowd. A bad turn of a card perhaps. Cynthia glanced toward the noise.

  “After we’ve paid your stepfather,” he started, but the voices grew louder. They seemed to be coming from the entry hall.

  “What is it?” Cynthia whispered, anxiety threading through her voice.

  “A player in over his head, I’m sure.” Except he was no longer sure. He put a hand on Cynthia’s arm. “Stay here.”

  Moving slowly at first, he picked his way through the guests. But as more people swayed toward the front hall, a sense of urgency overtook him. He edged past close-leaning couples, and glided around larger groups. By the time he got to the crowd gathered at the entrance to the hall, he simply pushed his way through.

  And found himself face to face with a nightmare.

  Chapter 20

  A decade had passed since Lancaster had seen him. Richmond did not frequent London. Not enough innocence to be had in town, perhaps, while the country offered a generous bounty.

  The past ten years had not been kind to the man. He looked helpless and frail. But Richmond had never appeared a monster. He’d been the consummate wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing. All “hail fellow, well met” in public, before he turned into a demon behind closed doors.

  Now he didn’t seem capable of even the smallest evil.

  His pleasant face sagged at the edges. He hunched slightly forward, fingers clasped over the handle of a cane. The hand holding it still looked strong though. It still looked thick and ugly. Lancaster felt frozen as he stared at that hand, remembering.

  He wasn’t aware that his ears had ceased to function until they began to pick up sound again. Richmond’s voice, hard with scorn, berated the butler. Two large footmen stood at his
shoulders, preventing Richmond from walking farther into the house.

  Stepping forward, Lancaster broke free of the crowd at his back. As he moved closer, he saw Bram standing at Richmond’s back, his face impassive, as if he were staring at an empty meadow instead of a chaotic argument. Bram’s gaze touched on Lancaster for a moment, but no recognition flickered there.

  “I won’t be kept waiting like a damned whore,” Richmond growled. “Escort me to a private room now.” His voice skipped down Lancaster’s chest, scraping at his skin.

  For so many hours of his life, for whole days, that voice had been the only sound in Lancaster’s ear. That voice laughing and grunting and cursing. That voice issuing cruel demands and whispering vile thoughts.

  When Richmond’s face angled toward him, Lancaster almost retreated. He almost turned and walked away. He could not do this.

  Richmond frowned at him as if he couldn’t place him. His eyebrows dipped lower as he tried to puzzle it out. Had there been so many then? Too many to recall? Lancaster’s stomach clenched at the thought.

  Then Richmond’s mouth bloomed into a friendly, harmless smile. “Hello there, boy. You look well.” His eyes dipped over Lancaster’s body. “Very well indeed.”

  Boy. Lancaster’s hands squeezed to fists. “Get out.”

  Richmond’s brow rose. “Are you speaking on behalf of His Grace now? I had no idea you were such intimate friends.”

  “Get out.” He stalked closer.

  “Not until I’ve retrieved my property.”

  “She is not your property, you bastard.” Lancaster lunged for him, leapt like a hound for his throat, and he managed to get his fingers into the soft flesh beneath Richmond’s jaw before hands grabbed at his arms.

  “Milord!” the butler gasped. “Please!”

  Lancaster dug his fingers deeper and watched Richmond’s eyes bulge with alarm. His cane cracked into Lancaster’s shin. Bram looked on, impassive.

  The hands finally pulled him off.

  “Lord Richmond,” Somerhart’s voice drawled from behind Lancaster’s back. “I don’t remember your name on the guest list.”

  “Where is she?” Richmond rasped, hand pressed carefully to his neck.

  “Perhaps we should retire to my study. Lancaster, would you join us?”

  Fingers still curled tight, crushing an imaginary throat, Lancaster glanced dazedly behind him.

  Somerhart’s hand was on his shoulder, so Lancaster turned and stepped out of his grasp. The faces of the crowd were pale ovals etched with open mouths and wide eyes, all staring at him. “Very well,” he said and started toward Somerhart’s study, the past trailing behind him like the shadow of a flame.

  “Richmond is here,” Emma said in a low voice as she led Cynthia out of the ballroom. “In my home.” Her voice vibrated with fury, or perhaps that was just the shocked trembling of Emma’s bones.

  “It’s Richmond?” The words came calmer than she expected. “Where?”

  “In Hart’s study. My husband wanted to end the scene, I suppose, but I’d have preferred that he toss that dog out on his ear.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Cynthia murmured.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She stopped at the mouth of a long hallway. “Would you like to join them? I understand if it would make you too nervous, but they are discussing your future, after all.”

  Yes, it made her nervous. It made her gut churn with acid to think of being in the same room with that man, but she had faced him before. Alone. “I’d like to join them, if you’d be so kind as to show me the way.”

  Emma smiled. “Good girl. Follow me. We cannot let gentlemen determine our futures, can we?”

  “God, no,” she muttered. “I’d sooner toss myself to the wolves. No offense to His Grace, of course.”

  “They are peculiar creatures,” Emma offered with a wink.

  Cynthia’s smile fell away when she realized they’d stopped before a tall, imposing door. Emma reached past her to ease it open, and Cynthia was rather relieved when the duchess followed her into the room. Dark wood reached all the way to the ceiling, and deep brown furniture added to the overwhelming masculinity of the space.

  Two pairs of men stood at opposite sides of a low table. There were chairs behind their knees, but none seemed inclined to sit. When she closed the door, Nick’s head snapped toward her, his face radiating disapproval.

  “Ah, here she is,” Richmond purred. Cynthia didn’t look in his direction.

  “You should leave,” Nick snapped.

  “No.”

  “I don’t want his eyes on you.”

  Richmond chuckled at Nick’s words, and the air sizzled with tension. Crossing his arms, the duke leaned against his desk and offered Richmond a cool stare.

  “Miss Merrithorpe is currently a guest in my home, and she isn’t going anywhere, I’m afraid.”

  Richmond sneered. “Even a duke can’t keep a man from his daughter.”

  “You are not her father.”

  “Cambertson means to retrieve her.”

  Somerhart shrugged. “My communication with Mr. Cambertson is none of your concern. If you are done here, Smith will show you the door.”

  “I am not done here,” Richmond snapped. “My need for an heir outweighs this chit’s need for independence. My cousin is in line to inherit and he is entirely inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate?” Nick barked.

  “This girl has been promised to me, and she has violated the contract of our betrothal with her childish drama. Her father will retrieve her and we shall be married tomorrow.” He snapped a paper from his coat. “I have the license here if you care to examine it. In a few hours time, she will be my wife.”

  Nick stepped so far forward that his shins pressed into the table. “You will never lay another hand on her, you sick fuck.”

  “Oh, she will not mind,” Richmond drawled. “There have already been hands laid on her, as I’m sure you’re aware.” He arched a mocking eyebrow. “I hope she did not try to convince you I was the one to breach her. I have been a perfect gentleman.”

  Faced with the barrier of the table, Nick simply leapt atop it and flew toward Richmond, who backed quickly behind the desk.

  “You shut your mouth about her,” Nick growled. He looked like an animal, back curved and teeth bare as he pushed both fists against the desktop. Cynthia was very afraid of what he might do next, and even the duke watched Nick with uncertainty, moving around to the side of the desk and holding up a hand for calm.

  Nick leaned across the desk, eyes locked on Richmond’s face. “I will kill you.”

  Despite that he’d backed up so far his shoulders pressed into the curtains, Richmond smiled. “Seems I’ve heard those words from you before, boy.”

  Though she’d been moving toward them, Cynthia’s step stuttered. What could he mean?

  “Bram,” Richmond barked, and the man moved to his side. “I believe we are overdue for a call on Cambertson. I shall see you again soon, Your Grace.”

  Cynthia hurried forward and was nearly to Nick’s side when Richmond passed. Nick kept his head down and his fists to the polished wood. The air sounded torn from his throat with every breath, as if he were a horse run too hard.

  What had Richmond meant? When had Nick threatened to kill him before?

  Just when she thought the confrontation over, just as she was drawing a deep breath of relief, Richmond stopped and spun slowly on one heel.

  Illogically, he leaned closer to Nick, well within reach of his hands. He leaned in until his face was only inches from Nick’s ear. And then he whispered something. Something that sounded horrible and made no sense.

  “I hope she squeals as prettily as you did, boy.”

  Everything shifted so quickly that time seemed to slow to accommodate each movement in the room.

  Nick’s head snapped back as if he’d been slapped, and Richmond drew away with a smirk, confident he’d landed a fatal blow. Past the line of Nick’s profile, Cynth
ia caught sight of the duke’s face just as a terrible realization lit his eyes. She could recognize the thoughts popping like tinder behind his gaze, because those same thoughts exploded behind hers.

  Richmond. Nick. Pain. And suicide. I hope she squeals as prettily as you….

  Paralyzed by shock, Cynthia was still staring at Somerhart when his expression flattened to alarm and he began to dive forward.

  “Wait,” she murmured, not understanding until she looked at Nick’s face. It wasn’t him anymore. He was a desperate, mad animal, teeth bared in a feral growl. Skin drawn tight over the bones of his face. And he was moving toward Richmond.

  His fist landed on Richmond’s jaw with such a loud crack that Cynthia’s stomach turned in protest. Nick followed the man’s falling body down to the floor, one of his elbows landing in Richmond’s soft gut.

  As the sound of retching choked from Richmond’s throat, Nick hit him again and then again. It must have been only seconds, only a few heartbeats of time, but it seemed forever before Somerhart reached them and pulled Nick off. Even Bram was moved to help, stepping over his master as Nick fought to get free.

  “Let me go!” he screamed, struggling as if he fought for his life.

  “Lancaster,” the duke snapped. “Lancaster!”

  “I’ll kill him!”

  “I know. But not in front of the ladies, if you please.”

  Those words seemed to trip a lock, and Nick gave up his fight with a startled glance in Cynthia’s direction. Though his chest still rose and fell with frightening rapidity, his face lost some of its madness. He stopped struggling and set his feet flat to the floor to support his weight.

  When Somerhart let go his grip, Nick rolled his shoulders as if putting things back into place. Then he stood straight and smoothed his coat.

  Richmond groaned.

  “I will see you at dawn,” Nick said without looking at the man sprawled on the floor. “And we will end this insanity.”