One Wicked Night (31 page)

“It wasn’t intended to be.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Why are you here?”

With a husky laugh, she sashayed toward him. Lucien stiffened when she brushed her hand—and her breast—against his arm. Without invitation, she seated herself on the sofa, then patted the cushion beside her, gesturing for Lucien to sit. He remained standing.

Her cupid-bow mouth drooped into a familiar pout. “Why am I here? What an awful question. I’ve missed you. The very least you could do is tell me that you’ve missed me, too.”

“You
were
my wife,” he corrected. “We’re divorced now, at your insistence, if you’ll recall.”

She waved an impatient hand. “A mere legality. Besides, I was a foolish child then.” She wrapped imploring hands around his lapels, pressing her well-curved body against his chest in a way that had once driven him insane with want. “I realize what a dreadful mistake I made, darling, and I’ve come home.”

Tightening his hard fingers around her wrists, he removed her grasp on his coat. “I am not your darling, and this is no longer your home. Our divorce is not a mere legality; it is parliamentary law.”

Ravenna cleared her throat, then pasted on an engaging, but tight smile. “I’m trying to say I love you. I know I hurt you terribly with my frightfully bad behavior, but I
am
different now. And ready to be the best wife ever.”

Lucien tried to rein his surprise behind a tight expression. “Somebody else’s wife perhaps, but not mine.”

He extricated himself from her embrace and paced to his desk. Seating himself behind the massive mahogany piece, he watched her race across the room to stand directly before him—just as he had suspected she would. Her hands clenched nervously in the folds of her skirt. Whatever she wanted, she wanted it badly. The corners of his mouth turned up in a chilly smile.

“The only thing you ever liked about me, Ravenna, was my money,” he said, his tone insultingly conversational. “I assume that’s what brings you here now. How much do you need?”

She sidled around the desk and touched his arm, rubbing her thumb against his tensed muscle beneath. Her voice was a low, erotic whisper. “Nothing is impossible, darling.”

Her presence annoyed him. Her insinuation incensed him. He flung himself out of his chair, stalking past her, withdrawing from her touch. “Marrying again is.” He paused, turning to face her. Whatever walls stood between him and Serena, he thanked her for making this sweet, vengeful moment possible. “I’ve remarried.”

Ravenna’s black eyes flashed with fury. “What? You love
me
! I won’t believe anything so preposterous.”

“I suggest you believe it. It’s the truth.”

She hesitated. Lucien could see from her pursed lips and clenched fists that she was struggling to control her unruly temper. A moment later, she lifted her face to his, allowing him full view of much of the contents in her bodice. “If being with you means sharing a relationship of a . . . secretive nature, I don’t mind. I just want you back, darling.” She dropped her voice to a low note as she reached for him. “We can still enjoy each other, can we not?”

“We’ll deal much better together if you stop feeding me lies.” His voice thrummed with fury. “Now, if you do not seek money, what do you want? I know damn well it isn’t me.”

Once again, she sat, raising her tiny, round chin angrily. “No, we’ll deal much better if you stop this boorish behavior. Why do you insist that I don’t want you?”

He laughed harshly, surprised by her audacity. “You hated me from the instant I offered for you. You left me for Wayland.” He grabbed her arm, his voice rising. “I am the despised cripple you hated to call your lord. I am the cuckolded husband you begged for a divorce. I know you, Ravenna, far too well to believe you’re here because you care for me.” With that, he released her arm, then lowered his voice to a strictly polite level. “Why aren’t you in Italy? Where is my devoted friend Wayland?”

With all the dramatics of a stage actress, Ravenna buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

He held in a sigh. “Save your tears for someone who believes them.”

Sniffling, she lifted her head to regard him with wounded eyes. “How can you be so cruel?” Withdrawing a handkerchief from her glove, she wiped delicately at her eyes. “If you must know, James left me to marry a wealthy Italian countess.”

“For the money?” he asked.

“Perhaps.” Her voice was small, confused. To Lucien, she sounded genuine—for the first time in his recollection. “He wanted to leave me, and the countess made doing so easy.”

“Where’s the baby, Ravenna?”

Her dark eyes misted, haunted by soft shadows. “He was born dead, and . . . James blamed me.”

During the ensuing silence, Lucien felt a connection with his ex-wife that had never existed during their five year union. He understood her grief and guilt all too well, and offered softly, “I am sorry. It is hell, I know. It must make losing Chelsea even more difficult.”

Ravenna gasped, clasping her hands against her chest like a child herself. “You’re right. Oh, I’ve missed her so! Where’s my darling girl? Please let me see her.”

Alarm raced up his spine. “Didn’t you receive my letter?”

Her perfect-oval face lit up in a smile. “You sent me a letter?” Her voice sounded breathy. She flung herself against his chest. “I knew you cared!”

Lucien grabbed her shoulders and wrenched her away. “It was no love letter, damn it!” Taking a deep breath, Lucien continued in a soft tone. “I wrote you about Chelsea.” He heard his voice crack and struggled to keep it intact. “She . . .” He cursed, raking stiff fingers through his hair. “She died in April.”

Lucien crossed the floor to pour himself a brandy. The sounds of glass upon glass and trickling liquid broke the heavy silence. “A carriage hit her a few blocks from here.”

Ravenna’s mouth dropped open in fury before she flew across the room and slapped him. He took her assault in silence. “You bastard! This is
your
fault. How could you attend to your lust instead of your daughter?”

“I know the fault lies with me, Ravenna,” he uttered quietly in the face of her anger. “I am quite aware I should have properly cared for her.” He clasped her wrist in his grip. “But then, you should have been home, too. Before I left, Chelsea vowed to go out and find you.”

Glittering affront entered Ravenna’s dark eyes as she shook her head and began backing away. “You’re feeding me that vile falsehood to force your guilt on me. I won’t let you!”

“Keep your voice down. The servants will gossip enough as it is, and I do not want you waking my wife,” he said, knowing his words would infuriate her further—and perversely, he was glad.

With a gasp, she ran toward him on slippered feet, all pretense of adoration shattered permanently by her ugly snarl. She raised her palm to strike his face again.

He caught her wrist without effort, smiling at her dramatics. “Once was quite enough, thank you.”

She shook her head wildly, her glossy dark hair falling from its pins to tangle about her shoulders. “No. I could kill you and it wouldn’t be enough. I hate you!”

After a long, seething glare, Ravenna jerked her wrist from Lucien’s grasp and stormed from the room.

****

Serena stayed in her room the day following her passionate encounter on the floor with Lucien. Her husband neither came to her nor inquired after her—he only kept those damned silent guards at her door, ever-alert to the possibility of danger. His lack of attention hurt, more than she wanted to admit.

She paced, feeling trapped, behind the same door for too long. But facing Lucien would be more difficult. Mercy, how could she look at the familiar planes of his face, hard in anger, so soft in tenderness, and not remember their lovemaking? Not want him again?

She had but to close her eyes and envision every detail of his muscled chest, broad shoulders, and long, hard legs. Her remembrances also included a sharp recollection of the texture and tang of his skin, the soft rasp of his body hair . . . the strength of his manhood within her. Looking upon him across a room or table—without each of these thoughts showing—would be impossible.

She just couldn’t face him.

Her behavior was cowardly, she knew. Cyrus wouldn’t have hesitated to tell her so, were he here. Logically, she realized she could not spend the rest of her days in this ridiculous self-confinement, but she was like a caterpillar—not quite ready to emerge from her cocoon.

Caffey knocked and the guards admitted her after Serena’s call. “Here, milady. Chocolate and fresh-baked bread with strawberry preserves. Yer notes and whatnot are on the side.”

Serena looked down at the pitiful number of notes and invitation cards and frowned. Only three. When she had first arrived in London, she had been bombarded with both. Everyone had wished the duchess to attend their soiree or masque. She had been invited to waltzing parties, card parties, and weekend jaunts. More had arrived each day than she could decline in a week, much less attend.

Now, after the scandal of her hasty marriage four days ago, only three people sought her attention. Not that she enjoyed mingling with the
ton
, but such blatant exclusion hurt. Only a middle-class matron politely requested another donation for an orphanage. Her grandmother asked if Serena felt up to an outing at Lackington’s Bookstore in Finsbury Square tomorrow afternoon.

Most devastating, her grandmother’s note also stated she had planned a dinner party to launch the newlyweds.

Serena covered her face with her hands and cried. She couldn’t even face her husband in their own home. The possibility of surviving Lucien’s disturbing presence as well as the sharp tongues of the
ton
was nil.

Lucien entered her bedroom a moment later without even the most cursory of knocks a moment later. She knew it by the odd rhythm of his cane-assisted footsteps and the sudden stillness in the air. With a resolute breath, she wiped her tears away.

In a quiet, authoritative tone, he dismissed Caffey. The maid bobbed a curtsy and shut the door behind her.

“Serena?” His voice was soft, bringing forth an emotion-jumbled rush of memories: Lucien removing her stockings tenderly the night they met, sharing his sorrow over Chelsea’s death.

Unable to tell him the truth, that she hurt inside, her pride and heart both wounded and uncertain, she shook her head. “Here,” she said, thrusting her grandmother’s note at him. “It’s a dinner invitation.”

He gave it a perfunctory skim. “If you’re feeling up to it, we will go. She has influential friends who can help smooth things over.”

Stiffly, she nodded, dreading the function. “I shall send word for her to expect us.”

He stepped back, putting distance between them. Serena ached to reach out and touch him, to soothe the emotions behind his troubled expression.

“I talked to your man Vickery this morning. We’re working together now. We compared notes. We both learned that Alastair hired a pair of bad characters named Rollins and McCoy to kill Warrington.”

Serena, heart wildly beating with hope, leaned toward Lucien. She clasped his hand in joy, exclaiming, “That’s wonderful! Did you find them? What did they say? Do you think they can convince anyone of Alastair’s guilt?”

Lucien stared, brow furrowed, at their joined hands. A moment later he withdrew his. “Not anymore. Vickery informed me someone slit Rollins’ and McCoy’s throats two days ago. And supposedly—” he said, a cynical note creeping into his voice, “—no one saw or heard anything.”