Nicole Jordan (16 page)

Which meant hundreds of thousands of pounds had exchanged hands, Kell knew, which meant a tidy profit for the house. At leastsomething in his life was going well.

He nodded, glad that he didn’t have to face Emma Walsh at just this moment. He didn’t have the energy to explain about his sudden unwanted marriage.

Favoring his wounded leg, he climbed the stairs to his private study. Emma had left neat stacks of receipts and promissory notes on his desk, along with several ledgers, but he had no interest in reviewing her accounting, or really any need. She was entirely capable of running the club as well as he.

Instead, Kell entered the adjoining bedchamber and eased himself onto the bed, where two nights ago he’d spent countless passionate hours ministering to his feverish patient—

Trying to block out the scorching memory, he flung his arm over his eyes and let his thoughts return to the dark days after discovering his uncle’s perversions.

They had escaped William Lasseter’s guardianship and fled to Ireland, where Kell had done his best to rear his brother and try to help him overcome his tormented past. Utilizing his gaming skills, Kell had managed to claw their way out of poverty and eventually accumulate significant wealth, so that by the time he reached his majority, he no longer needed the inheritance left in trust by his father. But he’d made serious mistakes with his brother.

Guilt-wracked and filled with self-remorse for what he’d allowed to happen, he’d tolerated Sean’s excesses more than was wise, providing him all the advantages money could buy, indulging him, not making him accept responsibility for his binges of drinking and gaming and whoring. He’d taken Sean to see the best doctors in Edinburgh in an effort to control his black moods, but he hadn’t enforced their recommendations that Sean live a quiet life.

Perhaps if he’d been sterner…

It was several years before Kell realized his failure. Longer still before he finally acknowledged that his brother’s simmering resentment at being abandoned to their uncle’s depravity remained a festering sore between them.

Then last summer Sean’s torment had been compounded when he was smitten with a heartless beauty and found himself impressed in the cruel arms of the British Royal Navy.

Raven Kendrick wasn’t directly responsible for that tragedy, Kell knew now, but there was no question that her irresistible allure had led Sean into more suffering. He would always bear the brutal scars on his back as proof—even though their uncle no doubt had scarred Sean far worse than the navy ever could.

Those brutal shipboard beatings had sent Sean over the edge, Kell could see that now. Sean clearly hadn’t been in his right mind when he’d abducted Raven. And no doubt he deserved retribution for his vicious treatment of her. But Kell was still desperately determined to protect his brother.

Enough to wed the woman Sean professed to love and risk his hatred.

Kell grimaced, remembering Sean’s bitter accusations of betrayal and the charge that he’d fallen for the wiles of a practiced schemer.

He hadn’t fallen for her, of course. Yet he would have to take care if he didn’t want to be led around by his cock. He could still feel the silk of Raven’s hair, the warmth of her skin, her beguiling combination of passion and innocence. He still ached with the hungry frustration of being unable to fully satisfy his own rampant sexual need….

Hell and damnation, Kell swore under his breath. He would do whatever it took to remain immune to her allure. At the very least, he owed it to his brother to keep his distance. He couldn’t add further insult to injury by rubbing Sean’s nose in his marriage. He wouldn’t fulfill those accusations of betrayal.

And that meant doing his damnedest to keep away from his new bride.

Raven’s morning was as trying as Kell’s, for she gathered her courage and forced herself to face her jilted betrothed, determined to apologize in person. She owed Halford that much.

Since a lady did not visit a bachelor’s residence, though, and since she preferred not to risk a public rebuff, she penned a note to the duke, asking him to call on her. She waited restlessly for several hours before he deigned to appear.

Her heart was pounding uncomfortably as his grace was shown into the drawing room, but one glimpse told Raven he was not inclined to accept her apology.

Charles Shawcross, the Duke of Halford, was every inch a nobleman, tall and distinguished and rather attractive in a stern sort of way. With his brown hair graying at the temples, he looked more like her father than a prospective bridegroom, yet despite his age and studied aloofness, they had enjoyed an unexpected compatibility. She’d come to admire his keen intelligence, while he had been attracted—against his will, Raven suspected—by her liveliness and even her unconventionality.

At her murmured invitation, Halford took a seat on the damask settee, crossing one leg over the other, regarding her without speaking. He had always been a private man of few words, but his simmering silence spoke volumes. She had never seen his expression so harsh.

There was anger in his blue eyes, as well as some darker emotion…. Could it possibly be grief? Raven wondered in dismay. She had never expected to cause him real pain. She’d thought her defection had merely wounded his august pride.

“Well?” he said finally, his tone glacial.

“You read my letter yesterday?” Raven asked.

“I did, madam. Thus I see no purpose for this interview. You made your feelings quite clear.”

She clasped her fingers in her lap, striving for patience. “I wanted the chance to explain in person, to beg your forgiveness.”

“Indeed? You expect forgiveness for the dastardly trick you played?”

“Yes, Charles…I truly am sorry. You did not deserve such wretched treatment.”

If he was surprised by her unfamiliar meekness, he gave no sign. “You are sorry for making me appear the fool? For jilting me to wed a murderous blackguard? An Irish nobody, at that?”

Raven took a deep breath, finding it difficult to defend her new husband’s unsavory reputation when she knew so little about him. “He is not a murderer,” she said quietly. “Nor a blackguard.”

“He is a notorious gamester who made me the laughingstock of the ton by abducting my bride on the very day of my wedding.”

She shook her head, knowing it was unfair to let Halford direct his anger at Lasseter. “He was not to blame. It was my fault entirely.”

Halford gave her a measuring stare, his eyes hard and mocking. “I am supposed to believe you orchestrated your own abduction?”

“No, that isn’t what I meant. The abduction was real enough, but…I did nothing to stop it. I did not want to stop it.”

Raven leaned forward, her expression imploring. She didn’t want the duke for an enemy, certainly not Kell’s enemy. But if she hoped to persuade Halford to leniency, she would have to convince him that she truly loved her husband.

“I didn’t intend for it to happen, Charles. I didn’t want to love him. But sometimes…we cannot predict yearnings of the heart.” She took another deep breath and voiced an outright lie. “It seems as if I’ve known Kell forever. But I declined his proposal years ago because my family considered him so unsuitable.”

“I should think so,” Halford said, his voice dripping contempt.

Trying not to react to his interruption, she went on. “As the day of our wedding drew nearer, however, I began to grow cold feet. I thought I was suffering from bridal nerves, but at the final moment…I realized I couldn’t marry you, Charles. Not when I loved another man. It would not have been fair to you.”

His lips twisted scornfully. “Now you claim to be interested in fairness?”

“Yes. Do think about it. I cannot have touched your heart. You never truly loved me. You saw me merely as a prize to be won. You enjoyed the challenge of triumphing over all my other suitors. And I, in turn…I only wished to wed you for your title.”

He winced as if from a blow, and Raven found herself aching for him.

“Charles, surely you can understand. My family had such grand plans for me. My grandfather hoped to see me well established in society, and I wanted to please him. But I found I could no longer deny my own heart. I do love Kell, Charles. I have for a long, long while.”

“Where is he now?” Halford demanded, suddenly glancing around the drawing room.

Raven eyed him warily. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Because I have every intention of calling him out.”

She felt the color drain from her face. “Charles, you cannot!”

“No?” he asked, his tone silken. “Are you afraid I will kill him?”

Given the lethal rumors surrounding Kell, she feared much more for Halford. If the duke issued a challenge, it might cost him his life. But no man of his grace’s consequence would like having his courage or his skill impugned. She swallowed a retort.

“Charles, please…Your quarrel is with me, not Kell. I am the one who deserves your anger.”

“And you have it, madam. It will be a cold day in hell before I can look on this occasion with any measure of equanimity.”

She bit her lip. “You won’t ever be able to find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Halford stood, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust from his impeccably tailored coat. “No, my dear, I don’t believe I could ever be that magnanimous. But for your sake, I won’t endeavor to kill him. I will merely make it my business to ruin him.” His blue eyes glittered like chips of ice. “Your libertine will rue the day he thought to steal my bride from me.”

Raven was still seated in the drawing room, numb with dread, when her dearest friend was announced.

Brynn Tremayne, Countess of Wycliff, was a flame-haired beauty who, last summer, had landed the most eligible lord in England quite against her will. But despite the difficulties between them, their marriage had burgeoned into a deep and abiding love—simmering with a passion that reminded Raven uncomfortably of her mother’s hopeless fervor. She was happy for her friend, of course, but she was not about to risk losing her heart the way Brynn had done.

The countess was dressed in the height of fashion; her tailored green merino walking dress and cream-colored spencer hid the slight roundness of her belly that was swelling with child, while her vivid red tresses were tamed in a sedate chignon. She said not a word, but her emerald eyes held such grave concern and love that Raven felt an ache catch in her throat.

She rose to her feet involuntarily. She had planned to put on a brave front, but when her friend held out her arms, Raven walked into her embrace and clung. After all the stress and despair of the past two days, she couldn’t hold back her tears.

Brynn simply held her, stroking her hair while murmuring gentle sounds of consolation.

Finally managing to control her sobs, Raven drew back with a sniffle. “I’m sorry,” she said furiously, wiping her eyes. “I hate watering pots.”

“I should think you have every right to indulge in a good cry.” Brynn pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and made Raven dry her face, her own gaze searching. “You really are unharmed?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“We were frantic with worry for you. Lucian turned London upside down searching for you before your message came yesterday.”

Raven didn’t doubt Brynn’s claim in the least. Lucian Tremayne, the Earl of Wycliff, was a spymaster for the Foreign Office and had countless agents at his disposal. “I regret putting him to such trouble.”

Brynn’s scoffing sound was almost amused. “Truthfully, I believe he enjoyed the challenge. He thinks town has been rather dull of late. But we were so relieved to know you were safe. And now you are wed…. You have to tell me all about it.”

She pulled Raven down on the settee and would not rest until she had heard the entire tale.

Raven told her almost the entire truth. About her abduction by Sean Lasseter, about finding herself in his brother’s bed, about her family’s fury. About how she had felt herself compelled to marry her rescuer. And finally her gratitude for Kell Lasseter’s reluctant sacrifice.

She refrained from mentioning her own dangerous feelings of desire. She had few secrets from Brynn, but there were simply some emotions that were too intimate to share.

When she was done, Brynn wrinkled her smooth brow in a frown. “I know very little about your Mr. Lasseter, other than he has a wicked reputation. And Lucian is only slightly acquainted with him. But Dare knows him and frequents his gaming hell. Perhaps you should speak to Dare.”

Dare was Jeremy Adair North, Marquess of Wolverton, formerly the Earl of Clune and currently the leader of the Hellfire League. Fondly called Dare by his vast number of friends, enviously known as the Prince of Pleasure by his admirers and rivals alike, he was as wicked and charming a rake as London had ever witnessed. And he possessed extensive social connections.

Raven nodded thoughtfully. If anyone knew anything about her new husband’s dark past, it would be Dare.

“What manner of man is your Mr. Lasseter?” Brynn asked. “Is he anything like his brother?”

“No!” Raven replied emphatically. “Thank God, he is nothing like Sean. Kell is….” She stopped, wondering how to describe the man she had wed.

He was formidable, compelling, intriguing—and vitally attractive, despite his scarred cheek and the smoldering intensity he kept tightly leashed. Or perhaps even because of it. Rather than offending her, his cutting, sardonic wit stirred her blood. Amazingly enough, she actually liked Kell when he wasn’t endeavoring to defend his brother. Indeed, she was far too drawn to Kell for comfort.

“Perhaps you should judge for yourself,” she said finally.

“So where is he? I should definitely like to meet him.”

“I believe he has gone to his club.” Raven met Brynn’s eyes. “We have agreed not to live in each other’s pockets. Ours is to be purely a marriage of convenience.”

“But you do mean to live here with him?”

“For a time, yes, but only to keep up appearances as newlyweds. Eventually I am to have my own house. As to where I would settle…I haven’t thought so far ahead yet.”

Brynn glanced around her with approval, eyeing the elegant furnishings done in burgundy and gold. “This is quite an attractive residence. For a wicked gamester, your Mr. Lasseter seems to have excellent taste. Better than most gentlemen I know.”