Lost to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 1) (26 page)

Adele x

Slave to the Night

The Brotherhood Series

Book 2

Chapter 1

With trembling fingers, Grace Denton handed the invitation to the sour-faced majordomo and tried to offer a confident smile. He raised his bushy brows before studying the neat script. Thank the Lord she had the luxury of wearing a mask. It afforded a certain anonymity while certain parts of her anatomy were blatantly exposed for all to see. Never in her life had she imagined baring so much flesh. Her breasts were almost bursting out of her sister’s scandalous gown.

Under the servant’s hawk-like gaze, she felt her control waver as doubt pushed to the fore.

What was she thinking?

No one would believe she was Caroline. It took more than a striking similarity to assume someone’s identity. Her sister oozed confidence in every situation, whereas Grace blushed like a berry whenever she felt nervous. Caroline spoke with poise and eloquence, whereas she often rambled and muttered to herself and was prone to saying the wrong thing entirely.

“Enjoy your evening, miss.”

“I’m sure I will,” she replied despite fearing it was highly inappropriate to converse with the servants.

As she stepped into the ballroom, she gasped in awe at the vibrant spectacle. The crowd shone in their florid, flamboyant costumes and her eyes struggled to absorb the dazzling array of colours. Etiquette be damned at a masquerade, she thought, as milkmaids danced with knights and bishops and an Oriental princess partnered a sea captain.

Pushing through the crowd, she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d managed to climb the first obstacle, and now her toes were wedged into the foothold, even if she was dangling precariously from a precipice and could easily flounder.

Once the wife of a gentleman, she knew how to conduct herself in formal situations. Although her education had taken place at garden parties and provincial assemblies and she had no real experience when it came to mingling with the aristocracy.

Her older sister, Caroline, had been in London for a year — as a paid companion to an elderly matron, or so Grace had thought. Even Mrs. Whitman had been fooled. Else, despite Grace being a widow of three-and-twenty, she would never have left her in Caroline’s care.

Grace caught her reflection in one of the vast array of mirrors lining the wall. The candlelight rebounded off the glass and cast a golden glow over her surprisingly voluptuous figure squashed into the medieval-inspired gown. From the neck down she appeared exactly like all the other ladies: elegant and sophisticated with an air of wicked sensuality.

From the neck up, things hadn’t quite gone to plan.

She had singed a few tendrils with the curling iron. They were crispy, and the smoky aroma invaded her nostrils whenever she turned her head. What had started out as an elaborate coiffure, looked more like a poorly made bird’s nest. The pearl hair comb kept slipping down and was now digging into the back of her ear.

Hesitant feet caused her to amble around the ballroom. More than a few people turned their heads to acknowledge her. The mole on her left cheek — in the exact same place as Caroline’s — coupled with her fiery red hair, no doubt convinced them of her identity. Yet despite feigning an air of composure, inside she felt like a child in a room full of hungry wolves.

Grace knew the name of her quarry, but nothing more. One word from the dissipated lord would confirm what she needed to know. After spending a lifetime with Caroline, she could recognise the language of a liar. Although she had no skill when it came to the mannerisms of a murderer.

“Caroline. There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The warm, feminine voice caught her off guard, and she swung around with a gasp, her fingers fluttering to her throat and coming to rest on the topaz necklace — another of her sister’s prized possessions.

“Why, am I late?” Grace said, knowing that her voice lacked confidence, knowing that the lady before her was a stranger.

“No,” the lady replied, her curious gaze roaming over Grace’s hair. “You’re not late. But Barrington is looking for you, and he is not best pleased. I thought I ought to warn you.”

Grace recalled no mention of a Barrington in her sister’s diary. There had been a whole host of unseemly tales about other gentlemen; so she had to suppose this man lacked the skills necessary to capture Caroline’s attention.

Guilt flared.

Reading the evidence of someone’s innermost thoughts was a gross invasion of privacy, and she’d spent a whole day holding it in her hands before finally deciding to peel back the cover and peer inside.

“And what could I possibly have done to warrant Barrington’s displeasure?” Now she sounded far too haughty.

Oh, this was never going to work.

A frown marred the lady’s brow. “Don’t be coy. You know full well you were to meet him at the theatre last night. But looking at the state of your hair, it’s clear you’re not well.”

“I do feel a little out of sorts.” Feigning illness would go some way to account for her character flaws and a perfect opportunity to broach the subject of her quarry. “I would have stayed at home tonight, but I need to speak with Lord Markham.”

The lady made an odd puffing sound. “Markham? Don’t waste your time. You know his rule about never bedding the same woman twice.” She leaned closer. “Was he so good you would risk facing rejection?”

What was she supposed to say to that?

“He … he was so good I’d ride backwards on a donkey and cry
tallyho
just for another chance.”

The lady screwed up her nose and then giggled. “What’s wrong with you tonight? You’re normally so serious.”

“My heart’s all jittery thinking about Lord Markham. Where is he? Have you seen him this evening?”

“He’s standing near the alcove. Markham’s the only gentleman in the room not in costume, so you’re unlikely to miss him.” The lady placed her hand on Grace’s arm. “What are you going to do about Barrington? He will not tolerate your blasé attitude and without the protection of a gentleman, he can make things difficult for you.”

Grace didn’t have to worry about Barrington and neither did Caroline, not anymore.

“I’ll do what I always do,” she said making an attempt to sound vain. “I shall smile and flutter my lashes and all will be well.”

In their youth, Caroline had used the trick a hundred times or more.

“Oh, you’re incorrigible. Let me know how you fare with Lord Markham. Although I’m sure to hear tales of your humiliation. I may even rouse the courage to try myself.”

As Grace walked away, she was overcome by a wave of sadness. Was this how Caroline spent her time — comparing conquests and juggling suitors? There was something so shallow, so degrading about succumbing to the voracious demands of men.

Where had it all gone wrong?

After reading the diary, she had a fair idea.

There was only one gentleman wearing evening clothes. He was conversing with a man dressed in the garb of a Turkish prince, whose crimson pantaloons were attracting much female attention.

Lord Markham, or so she assumed, had the bearing of a man who bowed to no one. Dressed all in black, he exuded raw masculinity. With his arrogant chin, sinful mouth and lethal gaze he embodied all the qualities she imagined of a scandalous rake. His decision to forgo a mask made him appear all the more masterful, all the more dangerous.

Grace swallowed down her nerves and tried to muster just an ounce of her sister’s steely composure. It was the height of rudeness to interrupt a conversation and so she hovered at his side in the hope he would notice her.

The first thing he did notice were her breasts and his lustful gaze lingered there for longer than necessary. Grace could feel her cheeks flame under his scrutiny. Her instincts cried for her to flee, the feeling only tempered by her sheer desperation to discover what the gentleman knew.

His expression altered dramatically as his gaze drifted up to the topaz necklace, up to the mole on her cheek. Recognition dawned, and his countenance resumed the same tired, world-weary air.

“Ah, Miss Rosemond,” he said glancing down at her breasts once more. “I see you have found a way to enhance the paltry assets bestowed upon you. Some poor devil will have a fright when his hand curls around a pair of old stockings.”

The gentleman’s mouth was as foul as his reputation. Trust him to notice the only distinct difference. And why had he called her Rosemond? Had he mistaken her for someone else or had Caroline used a different name? More importantly, he showed not the slightest surprise at her presence.

“You presume to know me, my lord,” she said trying not to show her displeasure at his derogatory remark. He apparently felt within his rights to speak in such base terms, and she felt another pang of sadness for the sweet sister she once knew.

The Turkish prince sniggered, his turban wobbling back and forth, but became distracted when a lady stopped to admire the softness of his silk trousers.

Lord Markham raised an arrogant brow. “I know you a little too well, I fear.”

Grace lifted her chin. “How so? I find such a critical assessment causes my memory to fail me.” She was doing far better than she ever hoped and she resisted the urge to clap her hands together. After all, such a dire situation was not to be trivialised.

“When it comes to the weaknesses of the flesh, my memory never fails me.”

Grace smiled. “I’m afraid I can only recall the things I deem important.”

Lord Markham narrowed his gaze, and his mouth twitched at the corners. “Then tell me what you do remember.”

The request caught her by surprise.

How was she supposed to answer that?

“I-I couldn’t p-possibly repeat it.”

Oh, God, she was going to start mumbling.

Lord Markham turned fully and focused his attention, gazing deeply through the oval holes of her mask into her eyes. The room appeared to sway, and she sucked in a breath to calm the flutter in her heart.

“Oh, I think you can,” he said as the amber flecks in his green eyes grew more prominent. His gloved finger came to rest on her pendant, drifting seductively over the topaz stones. Grace shivered at his touch and his mouth curved up into a satisfied smile. “Tell me what you imagine occurred between us. Tell me.”

Grace swallowed. “I … I won’t repeat it.”

He leaned forward, the smell of pine and some other earthy masculine fragrance bombarded her senses. “Tell me.” He dropped his hand as his greedy gaze dipped to her breasts bulging out from the neckline of her gown. “Whisper the words to me.”

Little streams of light blurred her vision, forcing her to blink rapidly. Her mind felt fuzzy as though a dense fog had settled to obscure all rational thought. All she could think of was how it felt to lie naked with a man.

But not just any man — with Lord Markham.

Good heavens.

Beads of perspiration formed on her brow, and she touched her fingers to her forehead as strange words unwittingly entered her thoughts.

But there was murder afoot. She was convinced of it. The thought gave her the strength to fight whatever weird and wonderful notion filled her head.

She was here for Caroline. Nothing else mattered.

“I-I don’t remember anything,” she whispered her breath coming short and quick as she dismissed the image of her eager fingers roaming over his muscular chest.

The muscle in his cheek twitched, and he jerked his head back with a look of utter bewilderment. Had no one ever refused his request? Knowing she had the power to knock the arrogance out of him, gave her the courage to be bold.

“Nor will I waste my time or imagination pandering to your warped sense of curiosity. If you’re looking for someone to indulge your fantasies, I suggest you try …” Her mind went blank. Where do gentlemen find women to frolic with, other than at a ball? “Try the … the market.”

It was the first thing that popped into her head. You could buy everything at the market, why not women?

Lord Markham’s eyes widened. “The market?”

While her blood rushed through her veins at a rapid rate, it decided to take a detour past her cheeks, choosing her ears to convey her embarrassment. She could feel them swelling, throbbing and burning. If she were to touch them with wet fingers, they would most certainly sizzle.

“I am a viscount,” he continued with an indolent wave. “I do not need to trawl the markets looking for someone to warm my bed, as well you know.”

“Forgive me,” she said, overcome with a desperate need to wipe the smirk off his face. “What else was I supposed to think when you have the mouth of a sewer rat?”

“This is an interesting game,” he said showing no sign of offence. “I cannot recall the last time my mind was as stimulated as my —”

“I do not need to hear more of your vulgarity.”

He put his hand on his chest and laughed. “My vulgarity? Have you cared to glance in the mirror? Your hair gives the impression that you’ve recently been tumbled. Your gown is far too small and at any moment. I am in danger of being blinded. Your lips are red and swollen from—”