Barbara Pierce - Sinful Between the Sheets

by Barbara Pierce

  He pounded on the door. Almost immediately the butler opened the door. "Good evening, Your Graces. The house­hold was not expecting you this evening."

  Fayne smiled at the servant. The butler had been in his family's employ for years and was well acquainted with their eccentric tendencies. "Good evening, Curdey. I trust you have room for me and my duchess for a few days."

  Stepping back, the butler opened the door wider. "Of course, Your Grace. If you would follow—"

  Kilby held out her arm, blocking his way. "Wait! A mo­ment, if you please, Curdey." She looked up at him, her vi­olet eyes shimmering with diffidence. "You love me?"

  "Evidently. I married you," he retorted, half convinced his duchess had struck her head. "I do not make a habit of marrying every lady I—"

  Kilby tactfully clamped her hand over his mouth. "I love you, too."

  His little duchess was striving to make a good impres­sion. Fayne could have told her the servants had by now surmised that there was nothing good about a Carlisle.

  "Curdey?" his mother inquired from above. "Who is at the door?"

  Fayne grinned impishly as Kilby did her best to crawl into his waistcoat pocket. "I thought you'd like to meet the lady who ruined me"—he ignored Kilby's ruthless jab to his injured ribs—"for all others."

  The dowager duchess was not what Kilby had expected. A few years older than Priddy, her resemblance to Lady Fayre was uncanny. Instead of the Carlisle green, the dowa­ger's eyes were a tranquil blue. Still dressed for an evening out, the older woman gestured for them to join her upstairs in the music room.

  "Come up. We have just returned." The woman warmly embraced her son. "Oh, how I have missed you."

  Fayne cursed when his mother tugged on his ear sharply. "What was that for?" he bellowed indignantly.

  "For your impatience!" the dowager snapped back. "What was this business of scampering off to Gretna Green? You are just like your father, I vow. You hold off for years, ig­noring all my attempts to pair you with a decent lady." She glanced at Kilby, seeking sympathy for the troubles a de­voted mother suffered on her children's behalf.

  Kilby gave the woman a faint smile.

  It was all the encouragement the dowager needed. "And then without a word to anyone, you pick out your own fine lady and marry her."

  Fayne winked at Kilby. Appearing offended, he said, "And you are not pleased?"

  The dowager gave his ear another punishing tug. “Tem, don't be a goose! Your bride will think she has pledged herself to an idiot."

  Kilby coughed delicately, using her fist to conceal her laughter.

  "Why could you not have married by special license?" The dowager gave him an aggrieved look. "You know how much I would have loved having you two marry in the gar­dens. Did you give your poor mother a single thought when you whisked your lady away without even a proper intro­duction? I suppose like most men all your thoughts were dedicated to the wedding night."

  "Christ, Duchess, no man is thinking about his mother on his wedding night!" he said, looking cornered.

  Observing Fayne squirm under his mother's blue gimlet stare was immensely pleasurable. Perhaps it was wicked of her, but the man had been always one step ahead, unobtru­sively maneuvering her in the direction he chose. It was not surprising it took a Carlisle to best a Carlisle.

  Kilby decided to take pity on him. "Fayne, are you ever planning to introduce me to your mother?"

  Fayne's green eyes flashed with heat. "Oh, for heaven's sake, not you, too?" Lacking his usual grace, he belliger­ently gestured at Kilby. "Mother, meet my duchess. Some­thing tells me she will be a fitting addition to our lunatic family."

  The dowager pulled Kilby into an affectionate embrace. "Welcome to our family, Kilby. I am pleased to see my son does actually possess some sense when choosing his bride, after all." The older woman surprised her by giving her a quick conspiring wink before leading them to the music room. "If you had encountered some of those horrid, gaudy creatures that were always trying to get their conniving hooks into my dear Tem, you would understand a mother's despair."

  "Enough, Mother," Fayne said, catching on to her game. "Kilby is aware of my disreputable past. Fortunately, she managed to ensnare my roguish heart before she regarded it irredeemable."

  A respectable Duke of Solitea? It seemed like an impos­sible task. "Oh, I suppose with Priddy's help, I could have you respectable, in what? Say, fifty or so years?" Kilby teased. Truly, she would not want to change him. She loved Fayne exactly the way he was, his sinful flaws and all.

  "Probably more like eighty, but I'll make the dedicated effort worthwhile," Fayne said, pausing in front of the door. He pulled Kilby against him and kissed her linger-ingly in front of the dowager. "I promise." Her toes curled at his husky vow.

  "Well." The older woman beamed at them, her eyes be­coming unquestionably misty. Even if Kilby had been slow to recognize her husband's love, his mother had immedi­ately noticed the wondrous changes in her son. He was not mockingly contemplating the cursed fate of the Carlisle males as he had done in the past. This particular Duke of So­litea was looking forward to a long future with his duchess.

  Fayne was the first to notice the room was occupied and barred Kilby's entry with his arm. "What are they doing here?"

  Two very handsome gentlemen turned at Fayne's irri­tated query. The dark-haired gentleman sitting in front of an ornate gilt harpsichord abruptly stood. The tallest of the pair was standing in front of a huge scrolling rococo-style pier glass. Like his elegantly attired companion, he had black hair and blue eyes. Both gentlemen were young enough to be Fayne's older brothers.

  Unperturbed by her son's surliness, the dowager intro­duced her companions as Vinson Savil, Marquis de Quain-trell, and Alain Kewell, Comte de Merieux. "We had decided to enjoy an evening at home for a change. Before your ar­rival, the comte was entertaining us with his marvelous skills."

  Kilby tried not to gape as the comte kissed his hostess's hand, and then boldly kissed her cheek. "Do you know these gentlemen?" she asked her husband.

  Fayne was not pleased to see that his mother had guests. "No. I have no desire to be acquainted with them, and nei­ther do you," he said curtly.

  How very autocratic of him! And this was coming from the man who once changed mistresses with each passing season. "Heavens, why not?" Kilby demanded, smiling at the marquis. "They seem to be good friends of your mother's."

  She was not going to start off her relationship with her new mother-in-law by being rude. They still needed to ex­plain a few things to the duchess, such as why Fayne de­spised her brother, Gypsy's guardianship, her newly found mother, and why Lord Ordish had been trying to kill them. Fayne had often told her that his family was eccentric. Somehow, she suspected that their past week exceeded even a Carlisle's standard for outrageousness.

  "They always are," Fayne muttered under his breath. "I brought you here because I wanted you to meet my mother. Tomorrow. I had assumed the Solitea town house was one of the few places I could get you alone for more than a few minutes. I certainly did not bring you here so you could flirt with the duchess's new lovers."

  "Lovers? Both of them?" Simply astonishing. Awed, she peered at the dowager with new interest.

  Fayne, noticing his wife's keen regard, scowled. "My mother prefers collecting them in pairs. And don't ask me why, it is not the sort of conversation I ever intend to have with her. Nor should you. I will not have you picking up her bad habits."

  The dowager, who had been sharing whispered confi­dences with Lord Quaintrell, glanced up, surprised to see them still standing in the doorway. "Tem, darling, do not dawdle. Kilby, you must sit beside me. Merieux has the most incredible hands. You can almost feel—"

  "That's quite enough," Fayne said, cutting his mother off. "Kilby will have to marvel at the comte's impressive talent another day. It is time I put my wife in bed."

  The man undeniably had no tact. Kilby refrained from digging her elbow into his sore ribs. "Fayne!
You are em­barrassing me," she hissed.

  His devilish grin should have tipped her off that he was up to mischief. "Apparently, I have not made myself clear." Fayne hoisted Kilby up and flung her over his shoulder. "Forgive us, Mother. Gentlemen. Another evening perhaps. My new duchess needs a few private lessons in obedience." He smacked her backside affectionately. "I expect you will not see either one of us for days."

  "Days?" Kilby echoed, mortified that she was dangling upside down. The man had to learn he could not haul her about like a sack of onions. It was so undignified. She caught a glimpse of the dowager and her male companions. They seemed very amused by Fayne's high-handed antics. "What do you think you are doing?"

  Heavens, the man has me screeching!

  "Hmm." He stroked the curve of her buttock posses­sively. "Someone has to take your waywardness in hand, little wolf. Who better than I?" he huskily drawled,

  Her lips parted for a scathing reply. Kilby paused, and then closed her mouth. There was no man who loved her more than Fayne. He was wicked, passionate, and adventurous— and he belonged to her. Life at his side would never be dull.

  "Absolutely no one, Your Grace."

  ““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““

  Having a rich English ancestry that can be traced back to the 1500s, Barbara Pierce credits her grandmother and the romantic family tales she was told as a child for inspiring her early fascination with English history.

  Striving to balance her love of history with the need to tell a compelling story, she debuted in 2000 with A Desperate Game. She next introduced readers to the Bedegrayne family with A Lady's Mischief, and then followed up the four-book series with a new family saga featuring the Carlisle family.

  To date, Barbara has written seven books and her work has been translated into several languages. Currently, she is hard at work on her eighth book.

  Barbara lives near Atlanta with her husband and three children. Readers may write to her at P.O. Box 2192, Woodstock, GA 30188, or visit her Web site at: www.barbarapierce.com for updates on her next book.