One Wicked Night (13 page)
Authors: Shelley Bradley
Yet now that she understood even more, could she continue to let Lucien hurt because of her behavior? No. But neither could she face him in person, to see the scorn on his face. The situation required an apology, no doubt. She hoped he would accept a written one, and prayed it would ease both the pain she had caused, as well as her guilty conscience.
****
“I’m bored,” Niles pouted. “It’s shocking to admit, but your season is more amusing than mine.”
Lucien glanced up from the morning’s edition of the
Times
, which told of a conspiracy of police officers that framed young boys to collect reward money. “I feel certain that won’t stop you from finding trouble soon.”
“Of course not. Such tame living would destroy my reputation.” He paused, as if in consideration. “Until then, however, I must live vicariously. Tell me what you plan to do about your virgin duchess.”
Lucien set aside the
Times
. “She is
not
mine. We all know that.”
“In a way, my friend, she is.” Niles seated himself at the end of the sofa. “Can you let her go so easily? Are you not tempted in the least to seek her out again?”
“Knowing now what kind of woman she is, I am certainly better off without her.”
Now Niles returned the arched brow. “So that is the excuse you use to console yourself.”
In an agitated lunge, Lucien rose from the sofa and swore. “Console myself about what?”
His cool tone didn’t put Niles off. “The fact that you still want her.”
Lucien felt a restlessness not present since the first revelation of Ravenna’s adultery. Perhaps the duchess was under his skin more than he cared to admit.
At a discreet knock, Lucien bade a footman to enter.
“An urgent message for you, my lord, delivered by the Duke of Warrington’s page.”
His gut seized up tightly as he took the note from a tray. “Thank you.”
A message from the duke? Or duchess, more likely. And what could possibly be urgent?
Turning it over in his hands, Lucien studied the unfamiliar wax seal with a frown. Trying to still his suddenly thudding heart, he broke the seal and unfolded the note.
I regret most deeply that my actions have hurt you. Although I doubt I can ever explain myself to your satisfaction, please know I never intended to harm you in any way.
S—
A surge of bewilderment and ire ran through Lucien’s veins. What could Her Grace’s ploy be now?
“Is the page awaiting a reply?” he asked the footman.
“No, my lord. He was instructed to deliver the message only.”
“That will be all,” Lucien said, and with a bow the footman exited.
“Damn.” What was the woman hoping to accomplish? He studied the mystery from all angles, and failed to discern how this latest bit of duplicity would further her cause, whatever that was.
“What is it, old man? Is it from the duke?” Niles asked.
“The duchess.”
Niles raised a brown brow. “What does she say?”
With a sharp flick of his wrist, Lucien sent the note sailing along the surface of a Thomas Hope library table. “She apologized for using me. How polite.”
Wincing at Lucien’s sarcasm, Niles said, “Perhaps she’s genuine about that.”
Lucien’s cold gaze sliced to his. “And perhaps men will fly to the moon.”
Niles gave an exasperated sigh. “She may truly feel she made a mistake. Give the girl some credit for trying to atone.”
“Haven’t you learned yet, young pup? Women only atone if it suits their purpose.”
“No. I haven’t found that at all.” Niles rose from the sofa and changed the subject, which was obviously going nowhere. “What are your plans for the evening?”
“I’m going to White’s. Care to join me?” Lucien said.
Niles shook his head. “No. I’ve been invited to attend a charming little rout. Why not come with me?”
Lucien paused. “Polite company holds no appeal at the moment.”
“You cannot continue to avoid every social function to evade the Duchess of Warrington.”
Lucien poured a glass of brandy, studiously avoiding Niles’s probing gaze. “I can until I figure out what her game is.”
And rid her from my thoughts
.
“Just what will you do until then?” came Niles’s sardonic question.
What indeed? Take a mistress? Maybe that would stop the horrifyingly vivid dreams of Serena haunting him each night. Another woman might erase the sweet taste of her honey skin from his memory.
Perhaps, but the terrifying reality was, another woman was the last thing he wanted.
****
Alastair cast his gaze down the narrow East End alley and found it cursedly devoid of anyone who could help him. Despair permeated the air, tainted by hopelessness and violence that swirled in the night’s fog. It crept beneath his clothing, seeping insidiously under his skin. His heart pounded and pumped. Staring at the two mountainous men before him, Alastair knew real fright.
“Now, gentlemen,” he began nervously. “Let’s talk this over. I will pay it all off.”
“That’s right, guv, or we’ll break yer legs.”
“It is simply a matter of time. Couldn’t you see your way clear to extending me just a few more days?”
One of the thugs scowled. Alastair cursed the fear that made him tremble. He cowered before
no
man, damn it, especially not any the likes of these back-alley scum.
“Ye knew the terms,” one of the ruffians said. “Briney told ye; five days, or we start cuttin’ ye up, piece by piece. He even gave ye an extra day ’cause he’s so nice.”
Christ, why had he ever gone to Whitechapel’s Rosemary Lane and gotten mixed up with a cent-per-center? He wished he hadn’t almost as much as he wished he had a bottle of strong Irish whiskey. But he had owed that East End slum the manager called a “club,” and he hadn’t had any way to pay except to take a very temporary loan—one he was now having a tad of trouble repaying.
“I realize that. However, tell Briney I will be a very wealthy man soon, if he will simply be patient.”
“He don’t have to be patient. He just has to be paid. Pay up, guv,” the man ordered. “Or else.”
Alastair cleared his throat. “I cannot do that just now. But next week—”
A solid, jaw-splintering blow interrupted Alastair. Just as he recovered from the terrible burst of pain, the other man rammed his fist into Alastair’s stomach, shoving the breath from his body, then followed that blow with a knee, hard and straight up, to the groin.
Alastair fell to the ground, clutching his genitals, only slightly cognizant of the puddle of urine he had fallen into, now dampening the knees of his pants.
As he tried to rise, a meaty hand grasped his hair cruelly, then propelled his head with smashing force against the wall of the brick building beside him. Pain exploded in his head. The blood trailing down his face in a small but steady stream was a secondary concern.
Alastair stumbled to his knees and tried to back away.
One man grabbed the lapel of his superfine coat and tugged him closer. At the stench of his unwashed body and black teeth, Alastair’s stomach revolted, giving up what was left of his dinner. The thug jumped away in disgust.
“Ye can’t run from us or Briney, guv. We’ll find ye wherever ye hide.”
“That’s right,” the other one added. “Ye’ve got two days to pay up, or you’ll be seein’ us again. We won’t be so nice then,” the man warned.
Alastair sagged against the cold wall with relief as he watched the two men leave the alley.
“Damn it,” he muttered to himself. How could he possibly pay them back in two days? He knew very well he couldn’t. But this evening had clearly demonstrated the need to put his half-formed plan in motion now.
With that in mind, he half-walked, half-crawled to his coach and ventured to Butcher Row where no sane man who valued his life would dare be, either day or night. But desperation overrode sanity, and Alastair knew two men there, both dangerous, who could be persuaded to commit any crime for a price. And Alastair felt certain he knew enough about the extent of his forthcoming inheritance to convince the old boys he meant business.
CHAPTER EIGHT
That night, Lucien saw Serena, all glorious golden hair and enticing honey skin, the instant she walked into the ballroom. Her low-cut bodice revealed more than a hint of the full breasts he still ached to touch. Her waist looked small indeed beneath a high-waisted gown the color of a ripe peach.
His head spun; his thoughts churned. Desire surged, filling him with pounding need that had gone unsatisfied since that magical night with Serena.
She mumbled something to the woman by her side, who he suspected was her turbaned companion from Vauxhall. Then she directed her eyes toward the room and scanned the crowd.
Her gaze met—and locked—with his.
He watched her lips part slightly, the expression rife with both surprise and vulnerability. An unsettling urge to fight his way across the room and kiss her senseless rushed through him. As if she could read his thoughts, her cheeks flushed like a beguiling pink bloom.
What a lovely liar she made, presenting the picture of innocence.
Lucien yearned to throttle Niles for persuading him to attend this damned rout, then curse him for insisting they stand beside the entrance to await anyone of interest.
He did neither.
He stared at Serena, reminding his runaway desire that she had used him to cuckold the elderly Warrington, had purposely given her virtue to him, a stranger, rather than her husband. That reality did not dissuade his gaze from touching her alluring curls and curves, then meeting her smoky blue eyes.
The woman he recalled Serena referring to as Melanie spoke. The duchess looked to her friend again. A flood of relief filled Lucien, along with an unsettling stab of disappointment.
His hands trembled slightly as he set his empty champagne glass aside. Again, he fixed his attention on the woman mere feet, and yet miles, away.
“The duchess is here, I see,” Niles said beside him.
Lucien closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block her from his vision. “Yes.”
“You all right, old man? You look sick as a cat.”
Lucien nodded, wishing he were anywhere but here, wishing he didn’t have to endure the sensual torture of Serena’s presence all evening.
She paired up for the next set, and Lucien knew her partner ranked among the worst rakes. Eyes narrowed, he watched the rogue stand much too close, despite the fact the music had yet to begin. Feeling the rush and churn of his blood, Lucien noted Serena politely trying to put space between herself and her partner. The rake was having none of it.
Lucien gripped the handle of his cane. Maybe the duchess wanted the man. Maybe she was teasing him. He told himself to walk away, leave the party.
He stood still, watching her unblinkingly.
The rake pulled Serena yet closer, one hand lingering infuriatingly high on the side of her waist. And Warrington was nowhere in sight. The man’s hand moved again, inching ever closer to the underside of her breast. Serena’s eyes turned wide with anxiety as she made discreet efforts to pull free.
Lucien hadn’t danced in more than five years. His surgeon had claimed that, due to the severity of his knee injury, dancing was one activity he could never indulge in again. He tossed his cane into an empty chair beside him.
Not caring how rude or shocking his behavior was, Lucien’s awkward, angry strides carried him across the floor to Serena.
He tapped the rake on the shoulder. “Excuse me, but I believe Her Grace promised this dance to me.”
The buck opened his mouth to refute Lucien’s claim when Serena spoke instead. “I apologize, but I am afraid Lord Daneridge is right. How silly of me to forget.”
At that, the rogue lifted Serena’s hand to his lips. “Perhaps another time, Your Grace.” He turned to Lucien with a mocking bow. “Daneridge,” he acknowledged, then disappeared into the sea of silk-clad women.
Conscious of the fact people were staring, Lucien took Serena in his arms. He tried not to revel in the feel of her pliant, honey-warm body in his embrace, of her hand in his. No luck. His every sense tuned in to her, inciting a mind-robbing desire. Damn her.
A moment later, the strains of a Viennese waltz floated to his ears, taunting him. Five years ago, the waltz had been vulgar. He had never learned the dance.
For a moment, he watched other couples around him, observing the patterns of their feet, how they flowed in time to the lilting music.
Serena lifted her face to his in question. “My lord, are you all right?”
“Fine,” he answered tersely.
Without further thought to the fool he would no doubt make of himself, he led Serena through steps that mimicked those around him. His knee was stiff, more so than he had expected. After only three steps, pain shot in bolts through his joint and up his thigh. He lurched more than glided, and knew he looked like the beast leading the beauty.
To his right, he heard a young girl snicker. Serena never mentioned it. In fact, she did nothing to indicate she was even aware of his less than graceful gait. For that, he was grateful.