Barbara Pierce - Sinful Between the Sheets

by Barbara Pierce

  She cringed as the duke parried twice and then took a stunning blow to his lower back. He used the forward mo­mentum to crouch low and spin around for a countering at­tack. His Grace tripped the baron and the man landed hard on his back. Lord Hollensworth froze when the duke pressed the tip of his singlestick against the man's breast.

  "Surrender," the duke demanded. He was drenched in sweat and breathless, his white linen shirt was marked in half a dozen places with his blood.

  Lord Hollensworth sneered and batted the stick away with his own weapon. "Mercy from a Carlisle? What a laughable notion! Are you finally feeling rernorse over my brother's death, you bastard? Surrender? Ha! Never to you."

  Extremely winded from their battle, he staggered to his feet, never taking his hate-filled gaze off his opponent. He swung his singlestick wildly, aiming at his opponent's head. The duke jumped back, dodging the blow.

  "Getting careless, Hollensworth?" His Grace taunted. "Tasting blood, are you?"

  "Only yours," the baron replied, feinting left and then blocking his opponent's hit. "Since you are too cowardly to accept my challenges, I will gladly use this staged mockery to bleed you dry."

  Her close proximity to the stage allowed her to hear their angry discourse. None of it made sense to Kilby. Something terrible had occurred and the baron was deter­mined to take his revenge on the duke.

  The duke used the side of his arm to blot the sweat on his face. "Looks like you are bleeding your fair share, sir!"

  The baron reversed their direction and aggressively lashed out at the slight opening his opponent presented. The duke must have predicted this move, since he turned his body, using his bent arm to block. Blood instantly soaked the duke's forearm.

  Lord Hollensworth howled in fury at his opponent's ap­parent skill and agility. As he kicked out, his foot con­nected with the duke's knee.

  "No!" Kilby shouted, clutching her parasol in a stran­glehold as she watched the duke's face contort with pain.

  Solitea stumbled backward to find his footing. The baron did not hesitate. He lunged and drove the point of his sin­glestick into the duke's chest.

  "Unfair!" Darknell unexpectedly called out beside her.

  The crowd was also booing and jeering their disap­proval. Kilby did not know the rules of this bloodthirsty game, but it was apparent Lord Hollensworth had acted dishonorably.

  His Grace glared at the baron in disbelief. The point of the stick had pierced the meat of his ribs. Furious, he grasped the offending rod and jerked the tip out of his chest. A bright splash of red appeared on the front of his shirt. The duke tossed aside his singlestick and released the rope confining his other hand. "To hell with good inten­tions, you miserable, sanctimonious devil!" He slammed his fist into the baron's jaw and sent the man flying back­ward. "I'm through playing. Let's settle this. I call for sabers!"

  The bastard had impaled him with a stick! Unbelievable. His friends had been right all along. He should have ac­cepted Hollensworth's challenge and been done with it. This was his reward for allowing guilt for his minor part in Hart Mitchell's suicide to interfere with his dealings with the grieving brother. When Hollensworth had first chal­lenged him, he should have accepted, and then callously tired a bullet into him to discourage him from ever picking up the gauntlet of revenge.

  Fayne deliberately turned his back on the baron and marched over to his friends. It was Cadd who offered up his saber. If Hollensworth dared to attack him while his back was turned, Fayne would kill him. There were hun­dreds of witnesses present who would verify that he had acted in self-defense.

  "Solitea," Ramscar greeted him, his face a mask of con­cern. "How badly are you wounded?"

  Fayne glared at the bloodstain on the front of his shirt that had a circumference larger than his hand. "I'll live. I give even odds for Hollensworth after his cowardly deed." The baron's ash rod must have split at the tip some time during their frenzied clashes. The point had been as lethal as an unbuttoned foil. Fayne had felt the tip shde into his muscle. The only reason why he was not lying on the ground fighting for his life was that the rod had struck one of his ribs.

  "You are deservedly furious, Solitea," Cadd said, hand­ing him the saber. "All the same, you do not want to com­mit murder in such a public fashion."

  Fayne sent his friend a look of annoyance. Cadd had acted as one of his seconds for every duel he had ever fought. He was generally the bloodthirsty one of their group. "God spare us all," he muttered. "Cadd spouting sagacity. I thought you at least would be standing on my side."

  He turned away from his friends, not waiting for a re­sponse. Fayne was livid, and a healthy portion was directed at himself. The wind picked up and teased the gauzy bluish-gray fabric tied to his arm. The ends fluttered on the breeze, reminding him of the lady who had given it to him. His hot gaze latched on to her pale face within seconds. Lady Kilby was clutching her collapsed parasol to her as if it were a shield. Her violet gaze met his, and he sensed her fear for him even at this distance.

  The mob was cheering his name. He let their energy flow over him, through him. Dismissing her, he faced his adversary. "You made a mistake, Hollensworth."

  "How so?" the baron scoffed. "I am not the one with the hole in his chest."

  He refused to be baited. "My skills at backswording are merely above average. My skills with a saber..." He passed the hilt of the sword from one hand to the other, smiling evilly. "Are exceptional."

  Fayne raised his sword, acknowledging his opponent, and then attacked.

  Kilby brought her fist up to her mouth, completely undone by the brutality she was witnessing. Both men seemed oblivious to their wounds as they circled, lunged, and par­ried in a terrifying danse macabre. The singing clash of steel set her on edge. There was a horrifying beauty to the violence that made it difficult for her to glance away.

  The Duke of Solitea was a lethal extension of his weapon. He did not hesitate to trip the baron when there was an opening or use his fist to land a well-deserved punch. Lord Hollensworth's mouth and nose were bleeding and his defensive parries made it clear the duke had been holding back. The man's eyes seemed to glow with an in­ner green fire as he pursued the baron around the stage. Each movement he executed was another step closer to the other man's defeat.

  It was evident Lord Hollensworth was succumbing to fatigue. Even to Kilby's untutored eye, the man's technique was clumsy and desperate. She could hear Darknell quietly comforting Lyssa, but she did not spare them a glance. All her attention was centered on the stage.

  Suddenly, the baron slipped. Sweat and blood from both combatants had splattered the wooden planks, making them perilous in places. Whether by design or accident, the baron's foot had backstepped into a wet patch and he lost his balance. The crowd's roar was deafening.

  The duke pressed the tip of the saber into Lord Hol­lensworth's ribs. The man's eyes widened in fear, knowing his life was literally in his opponent's hands.

  "Pray I do not slip, Hollensworth," the duke mocked, unmoved by the impressive bloodstain forming on the man's shirt. "At this range, my blade will not miss punctur­ing your lung. What say you?"

  The Duke of Solitea waited patiently for the baron's re­sponse while the mob circling the stage chanted for the man's death. Kilby closed ner eyes, unable to watch any more.

  "I—I yield!" Lord Hollensworth cried out. "Tfour Grace, I yield!"

  The frenzied mob cheered the victor.

  Someone shoved Kilby into Lyssa and Darknell as many of the spectators tried to move closer to the stage. She could not help smiling as she watched the duke gra­ciously offer his hand to the man so determined to hurt him. Playing to the crowd, the Duke of Solitea raised his saber in triumph and caused them to cheer louder for him. The man certainly had a flair for the theatrical.

  Darknell leaned his head close to Kilby's ear. "We should leave."

  Kilby nodded in agreement; though she was uncon­vinced their departure would be simple. She turned away from the st
age and waited for the viscount to clear a path for them.

  A heavy hand kept her in place. She looked back and was amazed to see the young duke grinning at her. Despite all the blood and sweat mottling his white shirt, he seemed unharmed. In his hand was the diaphanous scarf he had taken from her bodice.

  "This brought me luck," he shouted over the din of the crowd. "I suppose you want it back."

  "Yes. Thank you," Kilby said, surprised he would have bothered returning the bit of fabric to her. She offered him her hand. "I hope yo— Oh!"

  Instead of giving her the length of crepe, the Duke of Solitea seized her hand and tugged her closer. Good heav­ens, he was not so bold as to think of kissing her? She stared at the large, strong hand imprisoning her. Kilby was close enough that she could feel the heat from his exertion rolling off him. She could smell the musk of his sweat, the recognizable scent of blood. Twisting her palm up, the duke brought her hand up until it was poised inches from his lips.

  He waited.

  For what?

  The anticipation was too much. Curious, Kilby lifted her lowered lashes, her wary gaze meeting his, which burned with confidence and triumph. Using his thumb to peel down her kid glove, he exposed her wrist with a practiced gesture. Kilby inhaled sharply at the touch of his lips against her flesh. His mouth on her felt like hot silk and she trembled under his tender assault.

  She had been kissed before. Her parents' summer house parties had provided opportunities over the years for dar­ing young gentlemen to steal a kiss or two from her in the gardens. Those kisses had been sweetly innocent. Archer's drunken assault in Ealkin's library by comparison had made her sick to her stomach.

  The duke's kiss on her inner wrist was a new experience entirely. He had taken what should have been an innocent kiss on the hand to new heights. As he pulled away, the light fluttering in her stomach expanded as the sensation ascended into her breasts. She wanted to lift herself up on her toes, and see what it felt like to have those searing lips pressed against her mouth.

  Grunting his satisfaction, the duke curtly bowed over her hand. His green eyes had a feverish cast to them. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. "Come with me. I want to finish this in a soft bed."

  Kilby whipped her head up, wide-eyed and staggered by his offer. The man was assuming a great deal from one little kiss. "Thank you, Your Grace, for your lovely invitation. Nonetheless, I must respectfully decline," she said, keeping her voice even. There was nothing she could do about her blush. If Darknell guessed what the duke had in­decently proposed, the viscount would have felt obligated to call the man out.

  "Does your refusal have anything do with my father?" The Duke of Solitea smirked, giving her a shrewd look. "I assure you, I am not bothered in the least that he had you first."

  "How very tolerant you are," Kilby said, blinking in mock admiration. The pleasure she had felt from his kiss dissipated with the understanding that he viewed her as no better than a doxy. She resisted the urge to rub the spot where his hot breath and lips had caressed her wrist. "I still must decline. You asked me for the favor. The only one you shall have from me is gripped in your hand. Good day."

  Kilby walked away, pretending not to see Darknell's censuring stare as she passed him. The viscount stepped in front of the Duke of Solitea, a clear warning that he was not to follow.

  Fayne let her escape. Pursuing her meant taking on her guard dog, Darknell, and he was still hurting from his fight with Hollensworth. "Run, Lady Kilby Fitchwolf." He raised her scarf to his nose and inhaled the subtle scent. "I have claimed one favor from you, and I hunger still. I shall not be appeased until I have tasted all of you."

  CHAPTER 5

  "Did you enjoy your afternoon outing with Lady Lyssa?" Lady Quennell asked Kilby several hours later. Grimacing, the viscountess braced her hands on a chair and sucked in her stomach as two maids behind her tugged on the lacings of her corset. Priddy was an attractive woman with an en­viable, shapely body. She was too pretty to live the remain­der of her life as a widow. Slightly taller than Kilby, she had vivid light blue eyes and short dark brown hair, which she often wore curled. There was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, revealing her joy of the outdoors. Whereas most ladies her age were beginning to glimpse the aging lines of time, the viscountess's oval face was still youthful.

  Kilby had sought Priddy out, directly after she had re­turned from the fair. Her chaperone had retired upstairs in her bedchamber, preparing for the evening. Tonight they were spending part of the evening at the Sans Pareil The­ater. Afterward they were having a late supper at Lord Gut-trey's town house.

  "Very much so," Kilby said, sitting down on one of the chairs the viscountess had scattered about her boudoir for entertaining close friends.

  Once the maids had finished securing the ties of Priddy's corset, she straightened and gingerly exhaled. "This morn­ing you mentioned that you and Lady Lyssa were contemplating visiting Mrs. Ripley's literary circle? Did you attend?"

  Kilby had debated if she should confess that she and Lyssa had spent part of the afternoon at the fair. If her friend's family viewed Lord Ursgate as a disreputable character, she assumed the viscountess would be equally dis­tressed by the notion of Kilby casually conversing with the gentleman. "Our plans changed somewhat. We met up with Lord Darknell and decided to visit one of the fairs outside London."

  Priddy made a face. "Heavens, a rural fair. What was Lord Darknell thinking?" She made a soft disapproving noise with her tongue. "We need to tread carefully. If peo­ple were to learn that you were alone with the Duke of So­litea when his heart failed him ..."

  Kilby lowered her head and played with the lace at her wrist. In hindsight, she viewed her encounter with the new Duke of Solitea as potentially disastrous. She had rejected his insulting invitation. What would she do if His Grace took his revenge and broke his oath, thus revealing her connection to his father? If anyone recognized her as the lady he had demanded a favor from this afternoon, she doubted there was any hope of the quelling speculation.

  As she noticed her young charge's utter misery, the se­vere expression softened on the viscountess's face. She raised her arms and held still while one of the maids pulled the dress over her head. "Kilby, dearest, I must caution you about such amusements. These lesser fairs are always pop­ping up like mushrooms on the outskirts of town." Her head and arms appeared through the openings. Giving her skirts a shake, she helped the maid smooth the fabric into place. "They are generally organized to give young gentle­men the opportunity of participating and wagering on a multitude of sporting events."

  Kilby could not disagree with the viscountess's opinion. "Well, there is no call for concern. Lyssa and I had Dark­nell to protect us," she said, hoping to reassure her. "Besides, we noted numerous stately carriages, some bearing ladies of distinction."

  Priddy cocked her head in her direction, on odd expres­sion on her face. Moving away from the maid who was buttoning the back of her dress, she laid her hand affec­tionately on Kilby's cheek. "What is this? You speak as if you stand apart from these ladies, ma petite."

  Kilby gently touched the viscountess's hand. Priddy had been so kind to her since her parents' deaths. "You told Archer that I needed the polish only London could pro­vide. When I compare myself to the other ladies of the ton, I feel like a duck among swans." Kilby was aware she lacked the sophistication and confidence she had noted in other ladies close to her age.

  "Nonsense." Priddy took Kilby's hand and pulled her to her feet. Guiding her to the cheval mirror in the corner of the room, the viscountess stood behind her. "You are a beautiful young woman with a respectable pedigree. When I spoke of your needing polish, I was telling Archer what he needed to hear so he would agree to this trip."

  It had taken the viscountess several visits and countless discussions with Archer to gain his consent. Afterward, her brother had, up until the day she had left Ealkin, threatened to forbid Kilby's departure. Eventually, he had let her go beca
use he knew Kilby would return home for Gypsy's sake. "Archer was becoming ... difficult. I cannot fathom how you convinced him. Nevertheless, I am grateful."

  Priddy's brilliant light blue eyes knowingly met Kilby's gaze in the mirror. "We both are aware that it is time for you to permanently leave Ealkin. You need a home of your own, and a husband's protection. With your cooperation, I vow to accomplish the deed before the season's end. It is the least I can do for the daughter of my dearest friends."

  Although she had not revealed Archer's cruel accusa­tions about her mother, the viscountess had deduced that Kilby was not safe in her brother's care. And what of Gypsy's fate? Archer was not denouncing their blood ties, but Kilby feared he was fully capable of locking his young sister in a lunatic asylum. She felt like one of the rope-walkers she had seen at the fair. A single misstep could lead to her downfall.

  Kilby gave Priddy a strained smile, and the hint of tears sparkled on her dark lashes. The notion of marrying a stranger just for protection sounded as frightening as re­turning to Archer. "Marriage. I think Mama and Papa would approve."

  "Word reached me, Mother, that you were on your deathbed," Fayne said, entering her drawing room confi­dent that his casual stride would not betray the injuries he had received from Hollensworth.

  His mother was sitting on the sofa, stuffing a generous piece of cake in her mouth. His sister, Fayre, was stand­ing at the rectangular tea table pouring tea into a cup. The fraud! "For a soon-to-be-corpse, you seem quite ani­mated."

  After the surgeon had cleaned and bandaged the worst of his wounds, Fayne had returned to his house, hoping to medicate the stiffness setting in with brandy. The wish had been futile. On his arrival, his manservant had presented him with a distressing note from the duchess claiming that she had collapsed. Sensing a ruse, Fayne had remained at his house long enough to bathe and dress before he drove to the family town house.