Slave to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 2)

by Adele Clee

When he reached the doors leading out to the garden, she shrugged out of his grasp. "We can't go out there. What if someone should see us?"

  "You forget. The majority of guests will assume you're Caroline Rosemond. Trust me. She would have no problem being seen alone in the garden with a gentleman."

  She grabbed his sleeve and tugged it, forcing him to lean closer. A waft of orange blossom tickled his nose, the scent sweet and refreshing. "I think we have already established I am not Caroline. What if someone else sees through my disguise?"

  "The only way that's going to happen is if you continue to grumble and complain. Hold your head up and walk like you're desperate to be alone with me."

  What if he tries to kiss me?

  Her silent question bounded back and forth in his head. It was the first coherent thought he'd been able to hone in on. "Don't worry. I'm not about to press myself upon your innocent lips," he added though he was tempted to see if she tasted as good as he imagined.

  "I did not presume you would. But perhaps they are not so innocent."

  "Of course not," he said suppressing a grin. He'd bet fifty guineas she would turn into a quivering wreck at the mere mention of anything more salacious than kissing.

  He liked the way she puckered her lips when annoyed. It made a change from the sultry smiles and provocative pouts usually cast his way. When she'd squared her shoulders, she'd offered him another little treat. Although little was hardly the right word to describe such a plentiful display. They were soft, heavy and utterly magnificent.

  "Are we to stand here all night gaping?" she said, and he shook his head in a bid to focus on the matter at hand. "People are beginning to stare."

  Elliot glanced over her shoulder to find a sea of sparkling masks quickly averted. "No doubt the gossips are hanging on our every word. I suggest we move outside before we find ourselves depicted as ridiculous caricatures in the newspaper."

  He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm before escorting her out onto the terrace and down the three small steps leading to the lawn.

  "There's no need to sneak off in search of a secluded spot," he continued. Self-preservation was his only motive as he had no desire to fumble around with an innocent and this creature possessed such a sweet, beguiling charm even the Devil would question whose side he was on. "We'll just stroll around the perimeter. I do have my own reputation to consider, after all."

  She scoffed. "From what I hear, it's a bit late to start worrying about that."

  Somewhere, in a cobwebbed corner of his mind, he felt a stirring of disappointment. Why he should care what she thought of him was a complete mystery. After tonight, he'd probably never set eyes on her again. The memory would slowly fizzle away until he had no recollection of her sumptuous breasts and witty repartee.

  "Are you going to tell me who you are?" He glanced at her vibrant hair, at the teasing mole on her cheek. "You're obviously kin to Miss Rosemond as the likeness is uncanny."

  "Then you have answered your own question, my lord."

  There was a brief moment of silence while he considered her need to be evasive.

  "Are we to wander around aimlessly all night, trying to best the other by offering the wittiest quip?" Elliot smiled as he attempted to listen to her thoughts, but his own mind reflected the conflicting emotions of his body: an intense agitation mingled with the potent thrum of desire.

  When she sighed, the sound spoke of anguish and sorrow. "You met with Caroline, two nights ago. I would like to know why. What did you speak of?"

  Without warning, he stopped and pulled her round to face him. In her surprise, she sucked in a breath, and his gaze dropped to the smooth creamy swell.

  "My private affairs are my own business," he said forcing his mind away from all libidinous thoughts. "But if it satisfies you, I have not seen Miss Rosemond for more than a week. And even then, we passed nothing more than the odd pleasantry."

  "The odd pleasantry?" she repeated. "Are you usually so blasé about your conquests? I have proof you met with her."

  Elliot was not in the habit of having his word questioned. Nor did he particularly like her accusatory tone.

  "Remove your mask." The blunt words reflected his frustration. "I cannot hold a conversation with you when your face is obscured."

  She hesitated before glancing over her shoulder. There were no other guests in the vicinity. With a sigh she turned back to him, her fingers trembling as she removed her mask.

  In his mind, he had constructed a mental picture of Caroline Rosemond, expecting to see the exact same image. But he was mistaken. The similarity was unarguable, yet the face before him held qualities her kin could never hope to possess. She was not what one would call a striking beauty, but her countenance spoke of kindness, warmth, and affection. While she exuded innocence, the long lashes sweeping her peachy cheeks accompanied by full lips with a pronounced bow suggested an inner passion he felt compelled to pursue.

  He could recall no other woman who appeared to be so delicate and so determined at the same time.

  "Wh-what proof do you have?" Good God, had he just stuttered?

  The lady lifted her chin. "Caroline made a note of it."

  "Before the supposed event, I assume?"

  "Well, yes. But—"

  "Then you have no proof we actually met at all. My brother has recently married, and I have been occupied this last week with various family engagements. Ask her when you return home. Although I do not think she'll be best pleased to discover you've stolen her identity with the intention of snooping into her affairs."

  A pang of sadness hit him in the chest — her pain not his own.

  "I … I have not seen her for days," she suddenly blurted. "She went out to meet with you and did not return."

  Elliot narrowed his gaze. "Surely you don't think I've got anything to do with it. I told you. I have no idea what you're talking about."

  She sniffed and sucked in a breath. "I do not know what to think. But when you noticed me and assumed I was Caroline, I knew then you were not responsible for her murder."

  "Murder! Why on earth would you think she's been murdered? She's probably been whisked away to Brighton by a lover and simply forgot to mention it."

  "You're wrong." She shook her head vigorously, a stray tendril brushing her cheek. "She invited me to stay because I believe she had something important to tell me. She would never go away and leave me here alone."

  In his cynical experience, women like Caroline Rosemond cared only for their own interests. She would bow to the whims of whichever gentleman paid her rent.

  "Do you have access to this note?" If something truly had happened to Miss Rosemond, he did not wish to be embroiled in a scandal.

  Struggling to meet his gaze, she glanced down as the apples of her cheeks flushed pink. "It is not a note. It … it was written in her private diary."

  In the four years that he had lived with his affliction, in the years where he had hardened his heart to all sentiment, he had never felt a stirring of emotion in his chest. Yet the look of guilt etched on her face, the way her mouth curled down with remorse, touched him.

  Spending so much time with Alexander and Evelyn had evidently softened his steely resolve.

  "In times of trouble, we must do what is necessary to find the answers we seek," he said in a bid to console her.

  When her tempting lips curled up into a weak smile in response, he suddenly felt like the richest of men.

  "That was how I knew you had been on … on intimate terms with her."

  "Trust me," he said with a snort. "I have never been on intimate terms with Miss Rosemond."

  "But she mentioned your name and when you said you knew her, your words implied otherwise."

  "I knew you were not who you were pretending to be. As I said, my intention was to shock so you would stumble."

  She gave a resigned nod, and her shoulders sagged. "Oh, I see."

  "I can't explain why she saw fit to write such things, but I ca
n assure you I am not a man who welcomes such complications."

  "My sister certainly would be a complication in any gentleman's life." She sighed deeply. "I don't know where to turn now. I don't know what to do."

  The urge to come to her aid pushed to the fore, but he ignored it. He could not afford to draw undue attention to himself. Perhaps if there was an incentive. If he could sate the desire simmering beneath the surface. But despite the clawing need in his loins, he refused to dally with an innocent.

  "What about your family? Can they not help you?"

  "Oh, no!" Her eyes grew wide, the soft delicate blue reminding him of a cloudless sky on a summer's afternoon. A wave of regret swept over him, a reminder of all he'd lost and he sucked in a breath to eradicate the feeling. "There are too many secrets," she continued, "things my mother would not understand."

  "I see." She did not need to say any more, and he did not want to ask. Not out of politeness, but because he did not wish to deepen their acquaintance.

  "Well, there is another possibility to explore," she said. "And I would trouble you for just one more thing."

  He almost said 'anything' but curbed his eager tongue and merely nodded.

  "My sister was friendly with a gentleman called Barrington. I would ask you to point him out to me."

  "Lord Barrington!" The lady would do well to stay clear of such a man. "I do not know what you intend to do here, but I suggest you let me escort you to my carriage. My coachman will take you wherever you need to go. I am confident your sister will make a dramatic appearance in a day or two. It would not be wise to jeopardise your own reputation."

  She gave him a tender smile that expressed gratitude. "I thank you for your counsel. But instinct tells me you're wrong. I know something awful has happened. Just as I know you speak the truth when you proclaim your innocence." Her gaze drifted over his face, and his heart lurched. "Now, can you tell me if you've seen Lord Barrington this evening?"

  "Miss Rosemond," he said with a sigh.

  "It is Mrs. Denton, Grace Denton. But I ask that you mention it to no one."

  "You're married?" Disappointment flooded his chest. The lady looked no older than twenty. While her words revealed a level of maturity and intelligence, there was something pure and unworldly about her. She held an innocence and a level of naiveté he found endearing.

  She offered a weak smile. "I am a widow."

  The revelation caused another momentary surge of emotion. The more they conversed, the deeper, the more intimate his knowledge of her grew. As he tried to shake the feeling of comfortable familiarity, he glanced over her shoulder to see Lord Barrington hovering on the steps as he scoured the garden.

  What Elliot did next was unarguably the most foolish, most surprising thing he had ever done. He wrapped his hands around Mrs. Denton's delectable arms, pulled her closer to his needy body and kissed her.

  It was a way of preventing her seeking out Barrington, a way to let Barrington know he'd staked his claim. After all, widows were fair game. But when she gasped as her lips touched his, he couldn't fight the urge to plunder her mouth. Wild and reckless, he thrust his tongue deep inside, desperate to taste her, desperate to sate the passion burning within.

  Oh, how he wanted to feel disappointed. He wanted to prove that she was just an ordinary woman, nothing special. He wanted her to react as all the others had done: unrefined, vulgar, wanton — the only sort of woman he deserved.

  But the Lord had delivered his most virtuous, most tempting angel to torment him.

  With surprising strength, Mrs. Denton pushed him away. She swallowed visibly as her breathing came short and quick, her soft breasts heaving to punish him all the more. Bringing her gloved hand to her lips, she touched the tips of her fingers to her mouth.

  "Mrs. Denton," he began, but he had no words to account for his actions, the situation being strange and foreign to him and the more he thought, the more his mind grew hazy.

  Which was why he failed to notice her draw back her hand.

  When it connected with his cheek, it sounded like a dull thud but stung his pride like the lash of a whip.

  "You mistake me for someone else, my lord," she said, kindness and warmth replaced with coldness and loathing.

  The stone barricade around his heart shook, bits of broken mortar crumbling away. God help him, he wanted her more than ever — to see her smile, to trust him, to open her caring heart to him.

  Damn it.

  Sensing her disappointment and disdain, he stepped back. "Go." The word came out as a growl, a vicious warning and he simply stared as she pulled down her mask, picked up her skirt and ran off into the night.

  Chapter 3

  Grace raced through the garden, desperate to be away from the world of sin and degradation her sister found so appealing. Inside, her chest burned. Days of suppressed emotion refused to be tempered yet still she fought to keep it at bay.

  To cry would mean failure and she would not desert her sister in her hour of need.

  Lord Markham proved to be worthy of his scandalous reputation. Of course, she'd only had the word of a stranger and a few notes in a diary, but his crude assault supported their statements.

  A pang of sadness filled her heart.

  Not just for her poor sister. During her conversation with Lord Markham, she had caught a glimpse of a kind and considerate man. She had confided in him, talked to him as a friend and he had treated her like a common harlot. When she returned home, she would study the diary, convinced she must have missed something. As despite his dissipated antics, she believed the reckless lord's protestations of innocence.

  Finding no exit out of the garden and reluctant to step back into the ballroom, Grace made her way down a flight of stone steps leading to the basement door. Moving through the servants' quarters, she followed the corridor up to a service entrance and soon found herself out on the street.

  Without a cape for protection from the chilly night air and no money to hire a hackney, she hurried along the pavement before coming to an abrupt halt at the crossroads.

  With nothing to assist her but the muted light from the lamps, she scoured the streets looking for a familiar sign or building. Nothing captured her attention. Was it left and then right or the other way around? It had all seemed so simple earlier in the evening. She had been so desperate to get to the masquerade that she'd forgotten to make a mental note of the directions.

  Mrs. Whitman would have a fit of the vapours if she could see her now.

  What sort of lady roams the streets alone at night, she would say, dressed as though she's eager to be tupped at the back of the buttery? Only a naive fool intent on courting trouble.

  Hearing raucous laughter spilling out onto the street behind her, she made the quick decision to turn left. She'd only taken a dozen steps when she heard the clip of heels charging along behind her. With her heart stuck in her throat and feeling a strange sense of foreboding, she picked up her skirt and ran.

  "Caroline." The frustrated masculine voice called out to her. "Caroline. Wait. I only want to talk."

  She didn't want to wait.

  She didn't want to talk.

  Fear gripped her again, and she wished she could close her eyes and wake up miles from this dreadful place.

  The clicking got closer, the culprit's shoes striking the ground with efficient regularity. In the dark, she didn't notice the uneven stone. The loose-fitting gloves provided little protection as she lost her balance and tumbled to the ground. The pain of stubbing her toe was nothing compared to the burning sensation searing her forearms as she slid along the cold slabs.

  It took a few seconds for her mind to catch up with her body. But when the large hand grabbed her wrist to pull her up, she cried out in pain as the determined fingers dug into the grazed skin.

  "You're hurting me."

  "Why are you running from me?" the gentleman said. Ignoring her plea, he swung her around to face him. "I just want to talk to you. I waited for over an hour at t
he theatre."

  So this was Lord Barrington.

  Dressed as an Elizabethan courtier with his white stockings and thick ruff, he towered above her, and she felt weak and minuscule in comparison. The grey flecks in his side-whiskers and the prominent lines framing his thin mouth suggested the man was much older than Caroline.

  "I must go home," she said, almost losing her gloves as she tried to pull away from his grasp, but he took hold of her hands and refused to let them go.

  "Look what you've done." He turned her arms over to reveal the thick pink welts flecked with blood. The lace frill at one elbow dangled loosely. "Why won't you let me take care of you?"

  "Please, just let me go. We can talk tomorrow. I need to apply some ointment to the wounds, and it's—"

  "You said you would consider my proposal. You said you would give me your answer." He was still panting from overexertion and his sickly sweet breath forced her to turn her head away to inhale. "I do not appreciate being made a fool of."

  In theory, his words should have soothed her. Lord Barrington believed he was speaking to Caroline and evidently knew nothing of her disappearance. Yet his eyes held a wild, urgent look as though she was a juicy piece of pie and he couldn't wait to satisfy his slavering chops.

  "I … I don't have an answer for you."

  "Is it the terms? Do you wish to negotiate?"

  Negotiate? He was not buying a horse or items of equipage. "I need more time."

  "You'll give me your answer now," he growled jerking her closer. "I cannot spend another night wondering if I'll have you."

  Panic flared.

  She had no idea what this man was capable of.

  With a quick glance left and right, the street appeared to be deserted. But a blanket of fog had begun to descend, the roads ahead disappearing into a blurry haze. If she could run, if she could get a good start, she might be able to lose him.

  Grace tried to tug her hands from his grasp. "At least let me remove my mask so we can talk."

  Her words seemed to placate him, and he let go of her hands. As she removed her mask, she swiped him across the face with it, ignoring his blasphemous curse as she rushed towards the cloud-like mass. But his strides were longer, his obsession fuelling his determination and he grabbed the back of her dress and pulled her back against his chest. She felt the material strain in protest, heard the delicate threads tear apart.