He took a long swallow, then with the hand holding the glass, indicated the chair opposite him. Not certain how much longer her quaking legs could support her, she gracefully sat, ever mindful of her posture, determined to remain a lady, even if he were no longer acting the gentleman. Since that first night, at least a thousand times, she’d imagined being in his presence, but not like this. They were always in a ballroom, their gazes meeting across the crowded room—
“Who?” he asked.
The brusqueness of his tone brought her back to the moment. She wrapped both hands around the glass. “Pardon?”
He sighed with impatience. “Who do you want killed?”
“I won’t tell you until I know for certain that you’re willing to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you warning him if you’re not going to take care of the matter—”
“No,” he interrupted brusquely.
Disappointment slammed into her. She considered arguing, but she felt almost undone by the kiss and his complete disregard for her plight. Despising the small tremors cascading through her and determined to make as dignified an exit as possible, she stood. “Thank you for your time then.”
“No,” he ground out. “I wasn’t saying I wouldn’t do it. I said no because you’re answering the wrong question.”
“Pardon?”
“I wasn’t asking why you wouldn’t tell me who he was. I was inquiring as to the reason you wanted him killed.”
“Oh.” She sat back down. Hope returned like a fledgling bird learning to fly. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that either.”
He took another swallow of his brandy, studying her over the rim of his glass. It was all she could do not to squirm. He wasn’t what she’d call classically handsome. His nose was slightly bent and uneven across the top as though at one time it might have been smashed. Oddly, it added strength to a face that might have appeared a bit too elegant otherwise. He was in need of a shave, but at this time of night, she suspected most men were. She could still feel where his dark whiskers had abraded her chin and cheeks as he’d kissed her.
She closed her eyes and fought back those carnal images and her body’s embarrassing reaction to them. Her lips were still tingling and swollen. She wondered if they’d ever again feel normal. Apparently being spawned from the depths of hell caused everything about a man to be exceedingly hot. She was surprised she’d not burned to a cinder.
“How many men have you kissed?” he suddenly asked.
Her eyes flew open, and—Drat it!—she squirmed. She considered lying, but what was to be gained by deception? She suspected he did enough deceiving for both of them. “Only tonight.”
He took another long swallow, scrutinizing her again. She didn’t like when he studied her. She didn’t like it at all. She was reminded of that first night, at the ball, when she’d felt as though he’d been measuring her worth—and had decided she was worth very little.
“But I’m not here to discuss kisses. I’m here to discuss—”
“Yes, yes, whether I’ll kill someone for you. And you expect me to take you at your word that he deserves killing without even telling me what he’s done. For all I know perhaps he neglected to ask you for a dance.”
“Surely, you don’t think I’m as trite as all that.”
“I know little about you, Lady Catherine, except that you have no qualms about visiting a gentleman in the dead of night. Perhaps you visited this gent, he rebuffed you, and you took offense.”
“I’m not in the habit of visiting gentlemen in the dead of night.”
“Your actions would speak otherwise.”
“Do you judge all by their actions?”
“They are more telling than their words.”
“And you no doubt have considerable experience with false words.”
One corner of his mouth eased up slightly, a mocking imitation of a smile. “Most women fawn over a gentleman when they wish him to do their bidding.”
She glanced down at the glass in her hands. She wondered if she drank its contents if she’d find her retreating courage at its bottom. “I meant no insult.”
“Did you not?”
She lifted her gaze back to his. “Yes, I suppose I did.”
His eyes widening slightly, he seemed surprised by the truth of her answer.
“So what did the gentleman do to earn your displeasure? Mock your gown? Step on your toes while waltzing? Present you with wilted flowers?”
“My reasons are my own, my lord. You’ll not goad me into telling you. Our arrangement will involve nothing more than you’re agreeing to take care of the matter at which point I’ll tell you who is to be taken care of.”
“Why should I agree to this? What is the benefit to me?”
“I shall pay you handsomely for this service.”
His harsh laughter, echoing between the walls lined with shelves laden with books, somehow seemed at home here. As though masculinity ruled and no space was allowed for anything of a kinder nature. “Lady Catherine, money is the one thing of which I have absolutely no need.”
She’d feared that would be the case, leaving her in a weak bargaining position. What could she offer him? She’d heard enough rumors to know he wasn’t a man who did anything as a result of having a charitable heart. “What are you in need of then, my lord?”
“From you—nothing.”
“Surely you are in need of something that your present circumstance can’t provide.”
He stood. “Nothing that would cause me to kill a man simply because you wish him dead. You’ve wasted your time by coming here. Please see yourself out.”
Dismissing her, he walked back to the corner and began refilling his glass. She wouldn’t beg, but neither would she give up quite so easily. She rose to her feet. “Is there nothing you want so desperately that you’d be willing to do anything in order to acquire it?”
“If you want him dead that badly, kill him yourself.”
“I fear I’ll botch it. I suspect it takes a certain type of individual to complete the act when the reality of it comes rushing home.”
“A man like me perhaps? A coldhearted bastard?”
“Did you—did you kill him? Did you kill your uncle?” She couldn’t believe she’d asked the impudent question. The words had rushed out before she’d had a chance to stop them.
He downed the amber liquid and poured more into his glass. “What answer would satisfy you, Lady Catherine?”
“An honest one.”
Turning slightly, he met her gaze. “No, I did not kill my uncle.”
And in spite of his answer, which his unwavering gaze revealed to be the absolute truth, the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickled, and she no longer had any wish to linger in his presence. She’d been a fool to come here, but then desperation often created fools.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you, my lord.”
“No bother, Lady Catherine. The kiss was well worth the intrusion on my evening.”
She angled her chin haughtily. “A pity I cannot claim the same.”
His dark laughter followed her out of the library, and she had little doubt that the sound of it would filter into her dreams, along with the memory of his lips pressed against hers. Visiting the devil had been a mistake, and she could only pray that her actions wouldn’t return to haunt her.
Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.
Lounging in the stuffed, brocade armchair, Luke drained the last of the whiskey from the bottle, before hurling it against the wall. Breathing heavily, he dropped his head back. The room was swirling around him, the darkness closing in. It was the third bottle he’d finished. One more should do it. One more should numb him to the gruesome images of innocence lost that were bombarding him. One more should shove them back into the darkest corners of his mind. One more should swallow the remorse, the guilt, the regret.
While others had prayed to God, he’d given his soul to the devil to find the strength
to do what needed to be done. And now a stupid chit was asking him to do it again.
Damn her!
She’d sent him invitations to her silly balls as though they were important, as though an evening spent in her company was well worth his time. What did she know of torment? What did she know of hell? Doing her bidding would only serve to drag her down into it, and once there, she’d find no escape. He knew that truth well enough.
Reaching down, he grabbed another bottle from the little army he’d lined up on the floor beside his chair. He’d had too many nights like this one not to know where to turn for comfort when a woman wasn’t near.
Damn, he should have brought one of Jack’s girls home. Not even Frannie would be able to offer him solace. He’d never be able to take her with the desperation that clawed at him now. What he needed was a woman strong enough to meet his powerful thrusts without flinching, a woman who wouldn’t cower, a woman who could call to the beast in him and have no desire to tame it.
An image of Lady Catherine Mabry writhing beneath him filled his mind, and he flung the half-emptied bottle across the room. He cursed her yet again. He fought so hard to remain civilized, not to revert to his roots, and she’d managed to completely undo him. He should have lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bedchamber; he should have shown her exactly what he was capable of.
Murder? Dear God, as he’d proven, he was capable of far worse than that.
From the Journal of Lucian Langdon
I did not know the name of the man I killed. I did not know that destiny had proclaimed him to be heir to a title.
I knew only that he had harmed Frannie—cruelly and without mercy. So I took it upon myself to be his judge, jury, and executioner.
Unfortunately in my haste to see justice delivered, I did not take proper precautions. There was a witness, and I was promptly arrested.
In hindsight, I can see that I was arrogant to believe that I alone had the wisdom to determine his fate. But I was intimately familiar with the judicial system, having been arrested at the age of eight. I served three months in prison. I bore the mark of my crime upon my right thumb. A T, for thief, burned into the tender flesh.
A year after my incarceration, it was determined that the practice of marking criminals in that cruel manner should be stopped. And so it was.
I knew prison was not a pleasant place. I knew some criminals were transported on great hulking ships away from England’s shore, but I didn’t know the particulars and so I could not judge the fairness of it.
I’d attended a public hanging or two. It seemed a harsh way to go.
But still I was not willing to risk that the man who’d hurt Frannie would go unpunished or that his punishment would not fit his crime. So I killed him.
The policeman who arrested me assured me that I’d soon find myself dancing upon the wind. I listened to his grave predictions with stoicism for I had no regrets. When someone harms those whom we love, we must do as we must. And I had always loved Frannie.
I was waiting in an interrogation room at Whitehall Place when they brought in an old gent. Vengeance burned in his eyes and I knew, without being told, that it was his son I had killed. By his dress and manner, I recognized that he was a man with the power to see me delivered into hell.
He stared at me for the longest, and I stared back. Since my arrest, I’d spoken not one word, other than my name. I neither denied nor confirmed the charges.
“Always ’old yer tongue,” Feagan had advised us on the matter of being arrested. “No matter wot ye tell ’em, truth or lie, they’ll twist it around to suit their own purposes.”
I’d learned early on that Feagan’s words were not to be dismissed. He knew of what he spoke.
Then the old gent did the strangest thing. He stepped forward, clamped his gloved hand around my chin, and turned my face one way and then the other. “I need more light,” he declared.
More lamps were brought in and set upon the table, until I felt completely exposed. The anger in the old gent’s eyes changed into something softer, an emotion I didn’t recognize.
“What is it, my lord?” an inspector asked.
“I think he’s my grandson,” the old gent rasped.
“The one that went missing?”
The old gent nodded once, and I saw a way out of my predicament. Already I had learned how to read people. I knew what the old gent wanted. With my answers to his questions, I deceived him into believing it was me.
When he was convinced that I was his grandson, he told the inspectors to give us a moment alone. He sat in a chair across from me.
“Did you kill my son?” he asked.
I nodded once.
“Why?”
For the first time that night, I spoke the truth. In the end, it was the truth that convinced the old man that I was redeemable. It would be some time before he forgave me completely.
My salvation and my punishment were to live my life as his grandson.
Chapter 3
“It’s so monstrously difficult to decide,” the Duchess of Avendale said. “I don’t know which one would be best.”
Looking across the small table in her garden, she caught Catherine in the midst of an embarrassing yawn, not that the duchess seemed to notice. She pushed the selections across the table. “Which do you favor?”
“Winnie, you’re selecting parchment for invitations,” Catherine told her. “Great Britain will not fall because of your decision. Which one do you like best?”
Winnie gnawed on her lower lip. “I don’t know. I think I like the look of the cream, but it’s more expensive. Is it worth it?”
“If it pleases you then it’s worth the extra expense.”
“It’s not I who has to be pleased, it’s my husband. The stationer is expecting me this afternoon. Will you come with me to make sure I do the invitations properly?”
Winnie had been Catherine’s dearest friend since they were small girls. It bothered Catherine immeasurably to see Winnie’s confidence waning. “You’ve given balls before. You know how to properly order invitations.”
“But Avendale is always disappointed in some aspect of the affair. I want everything to be perfect.”
Catherine couldn’t believe there were many men in London who truly gave a fig about ball preparations. It was Winnie’s misfortune that she’d married one of them. Always striving for perfection, he made her life miserable and took the joy out of every task.
“There’s no such thing as perfection, and even if there were, I think it’d be rather boring. Still, let’s go with the cream color,” Catherine said. “I think it looks a bit more elegant and I’ll purchase the invitations.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It’s the least I can do. You’re letting me host the ball with you, at your lovely home, since Father’s ill and it wouldn’t be proper to have a ball in mine. So I’ll see to the invitations.”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
Winnie released a deep breath. “Thank you. That’s one less thing to worry about.”
“I’ll stop by the stationers on my way home.”
“You’re such a dear.”
Catherine yawned again. “Sorry.”
“I don’t recall there being any balls last night, and yet since the moment you arrived, I’ve had the distinct impression you were out rather late,” Winnie said.
“I simply didn’t sleep well.”
“Is it your father? Has his condition worsened?”
It should have been her father keeping her from sleep. It had been almost a year since his last bout with apoplexy had left him a bed-ridden invalid. Now he was little more than a shell of a man. She spent her afternoons and often her evenings reading to him, trying to bring him what comfort she could. She’d hired nurses to see after him when she couldn’t be there, because she’d known he’d feel guilty if he thought she was devoting all her time to him. She was young. He’
d want her to enjoy life. But of late, that was very difficult to accomplish.
“No, Father seems to be the same, although it’s difficult to tell since he can’t speak.”
“What’s pressing on your mind then?”
A certain irritating lord. Somehow he’d managed to cast some sort of spell over her body to make it writhe unsatisfied for the remainder of the night, not that there had been much remaining after she’d finally gone to bed. What sort of debauchery had he been engaged in to return home so late? And to immediately assume that a woman such as she was there for carnal purposes? Only the worst of blackguards would view women in such a way. Catherine wasn’t a trollop. She was chaste and pure and proper. Although after tasting his kiss, she realized her life was rather dull. Still, his actions had resulted in her finally comprehending why ladies were discouraged from experiencing such intimacies until they were wed. Did all men hold such power over women—to make them burn with desire? Or was it only those like Claybourne, who loitered at the gates of hell?
“Winnie, you’ve been married for five years now.”
She’d attracted the Duke of Avendale’s attention their very first Season and had married him at Christmas that same year.
Winnie furrowed her brow. “Is that a question?”
“No, it’s an observation that I felt compelled to make before asking: Does he kiss you?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“I’m a maiden and I have no mother to ask about the questions that cause me curiosity, and so I must turn to my married friend for the answers. Does he kiss you?”
Winnie sipped her tea as though mulling over her answer. “On occasion.”
“Does it leave you wanting?”
“Wanting what?”
Catherine almost laughed. If she had to explain it, well, then he wasn’t kissing as Claybourne did. But Avendale had been born a gentleman, while Claybourne was little more than a scoundrel dressed in lord’s clothing.
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