Seducing the Viscount (26 page)
Read Seducing the Viscount Online
Authors: Alexandra Ivy
It was yet too soon to have entirely forgiven his sense of betrayal, but neither could he dismiss nine and twenty years of unconditional love.
Perhaps his childhood would have been easier had he known Norrington was not a cold, indifferent father and that Ella was more than an aunt. But in the end, did it truly matter?
“Enough, Ella. You will make yourself ill,” he soothed.
It was several moments before the older woman managed to gather her composure and glance into Ian's softened expression.
“Ian, does this mean you have forgiven me?”
“It is not so much a matter of forgiveness, but rather one of understanding.” His lips twisted. “I do not deny it will take time to adjust to the thought of you being my mother, but I do comprehend just how difficult it must have been for you. You did what you thought was for the best.”
A watery smile broke through the tears as Ella lifted a hand to lightly touch his cheek.
“Do you know, Ian, if I could change the past I would, but I would never, ever change the man you have become.”
“Nor would I.” A soft female voice spoke from the doorway, causing Ian's heart to leap with pleasure. “He might be a hellion, a scoundrel, and an infamous rake, but he is mine.”
Drawn like a magnet, Ian was on his feet and crossing the room to take the hands of the woman who had utterly and completely captured his heart.
Gazing into Mercy's wide, beautiful eyes, he lifted her fingers to his lips.
“For all eternity, my sweet. For all eternity.”
Standing distant from the small clutch of guests that were busily tossing rose petals at the carriage that was pulling away from Norrington House, Raoul Charlebois leaned against the wrought-iron fence with a quiet sense of contentment.
There could be no doubting Ian's shimmering happiness as he had stood at the side of Miss Mercy Simpson and proclaimed his vows. It had been obvious in his every lingering touch and the manner in which his gaze had never wavered from his new bride.
Mon Dieu
, the lovesick man had even been charming to the viscount and his mother to please his bride.
Raoul could have hoped for no better for his friend. There was the sound of footsteps, and, turning his head, Raoul watched Fredrick Colstone, the heir to Lord Graystone, approaching with two glasses of champagne in his hands. The slender gentleman with honey curls and silver eyes had arrived in London last eve along with his beautiful wife, Portia.
Raoul hid a smile as he caught sight of the smudge of grease on one ear and notepad that ruined the line of Fredrick's Bottle Green jacket. He would lay odds that the younger gentleman had spent the morning in one of his damnable workshops and was forcibly hauled to the ceremony by his efficient wife. Fredrick was utterly devoted to Ian, but few things beyond Portia could actually distract him once he was working on his inventions.
Halting at Raoul's side, Fredrick shoved the champagne into his hand and lifted his own glass in a toast.
“To the demise of the renowned Casanova.”
Raoul obligingly lifted his glass, a smile playing about his lips.
“A title I believe Ian has happily retired, although it is said that women all over England are wearing black to mourn his nuptials and that more than one gentleman found himself in utter ruin after betting that the Casanova would never wed.”
Fredrick rolled his eyes. “Somehow I am not at all surprised. He would not be Ian Breckford if his marriage did not cause a stir. I will give him this, he possesses excellent taste in women.”
“Have you mentioned this to your wife?”
Fredrick shrugged with the confidence of a gentleman secure in the love of his wife.
“Actually, she was the one to inform me just how fortunate Ian has been. She and Mercy are already fast friends.”
“And Portia is wise enough to realize that you are utterly besotted with her?”
“There is that.” Fredrick sipped his champagne, turning his head to watch the carriage disappear among the traffic. “Do you think that Ian will entirely forgive his mother for her deception?”
“I believe he already has, although it may be some time before his wounds are fully healed,” Raoul assured his companion. “He has even gone into business with the viscount. Some sort of investing scheme. Once they return from their honeymoon in Paris, I believe that he intends to open an office here in London, although he mentioned something of buying a house in Surrey so Mercy may be near her parents.”
“No doubt he will make a fortune. He always did possess the luck of the devil.”
Raoul drained his champagne, uncomfortably aware of a sensation that was perilously close to envy piercing his heart. Not for Ian's impending fortune. Raoul had more than enough wealth to suit his needs.
No, this was . . .
Mon Dieu
. He did not know what it was. Only that it had been plaguing him since he had caught sight of Ian gazing with mindless devotion at his sweet Mercy.
“So all's well that ends well,” he forced himself to mutter.
“Not quite.” Fredrick leaned against the iron fence, sliding a sly glance in Raoul's direction. “There is still one of us who has yet to seek the truth of his legacy.”
Raoul laughed with sharp disbelief. “You cannot expect me to follow in your footsteps?”
“Why ever not? You desire to know the truth, do you not?”
“Really, Fredrick, I thought you a great deal more intelligent. Obviously marriage has rattled your wits.”
“That is a distinct possibility, since I haven't the least notion what you mean.”
Raoul straightened, impatiently tossing the empty glass in a nearby hedge. He wanted to be away from Norrington House and the gathering crowd of gawkers across the street that had recognized him. Soon he would be surrounded, and he would be obliged to drive through London with a ridiculous parade of admirers trailing behind him.
With an impatient hand, he gestured toward his waiting carriage.
“Both you and Ian began your search as perfectly content bachelors and ended leg-shackled within a few weeks. You do not believe that I intend to follow in your footsteps?”
Fredrick chuckled, following in Raoul's wake as he stepped toward the curb.
“There are worse things than discovering a woman who can offer you happiness beyond all dreams.”
“Perhaps, but I cannot think of one at the moment.”
“Fate is a strange thing, old friend. It tends to find you no matter how you might attempt to hide behind greasepaint and ridiculous costumes,” Fredrick warned. “Surely it is better to meet it face-to-face.”
It was a relief when his groom pulled the black carriage to a halt before him. As much as he loved Fredrick, his mood was oddly volatile. He would not risk punishing one of his few friends with his ill humor.
“We are no longer ten years old,
mon ami,
” he pointed out, pulling open the door to the carriage. “You cannot taunt and dare me into some ridiculous deed that I am bound to regret.”
Fredrick made a rude noise. “If you will recall, it was always Ian who was daring us into some devilish stunt, while
I
was the voice of reason. You, on the other hand, were the one to ride to the rescue when we managed to tumble into a scrape.”
“An endless and tedious duty, I assure you,” he said dryly, disguising the wistful pang that tugged at his heart.
Ridiculously, he missed those simpler days when both Ian and Fredrick had depended upon him. He had grown accustomed to protecting them, to tending to their needs, even bullying them when necessary. Though he would never admit it, there was an emptiness to his life that he hadn't managed to fill since Fredrick and Ian had struck out on their own.
Perhaps sensing more than Raoul desired, Fredrick placed a hand on his shoulder.
“It is a duty that has now been taken from your hands. Perhaps it is time that you consider your own future.”
A strange chill of premonition inched down Raoul's spine, and he hastily stepped in the carriage, as if he could outrun the unnerving sensation.
“By rushing off to my father's estate to meet my destiny?” he mocked with a shake of his head. “No, I thank you, Fredrick. Return to your bride and your inventions. You have no talent for soothsaying.”
Closing the door, Raoul leaned back in the leather squabs and felt the carriage jerk into motion. Unfortunately, it was not before Fredrick managed to have the last word.
“Run if you will, Charlebois, but destiny is waiting for you.”
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London 1814
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The ballroom was a startling blaze of color. In the flickering candlelight, the satin-and-silk-draped maidens twirled in the arms of dashing gentlemen, the brilliant flare of their jewels making a rainbow of shimmering fireworks that was reflected in the mirrors that were set in the walls.
The elegant pageantry was near breathtaking, but it was not the passing spectacle that caught and held the attention of the numerous guests.
That honor belonged solely to Conde Cezar.
With the amused arrogance that belonged solely to the aristocracy, he moved through the crowd, needing only a lift of his slender hand to have them parting like the Red Sea to clear him a path or a glance from his smoldering black eyes to send the ladies (and a few gentlemen) into a fluttering frenzy of excitement.
Much to her annoyance, Miss Anna Randal did her own share of fluttering as she caught sight of that faintly golden, exquisitely chiseled profile. Stupid really when gentlemen such as the Conde would never lower themselves to take notice of a poor, insignificant maiden who spent her evenings in one dark corner or another.
Such gentlemen did, however, take notice of beautiful, enticing young maidens who would boldly encourage the most hardened reprobate.
Which was the only reason that Anna forced herself to follow in the wake of his lean, elegant form as he left the ballroom and made his way up the sweeping staircase. Being a poor relation meant that she was forced to take on whatever unpleasant task happened to crop up, and on this evening, her unpleasant task included keeping a close eye upon her cousin Morgana, who was clearly fascinated by gentlemen such as the dangerous Conde Cezar.
A fascination that might very well end in scandal for the entire family.
Hurrying to keep the slender male form in sight, Anna impatiently hiked up the cheap muslin of her gown. As she had expected, he turned at the top of the stairs and made his way down the corridor that led to the private chambers. Such a rake would never attend something as tedious as a ball without having a nefarious assignation arranged beforehand.
All she need do was ensure that Morgana was not the beneficiary of that nefarious part and Anna could return to her dark corner in the ballroom and watch the other maidens enjoy their evening.
Grimacing at the thought, Anna paused as her quarry slipped through a door and disappeared.
Damnation. Now what? She had seen nothing of Morgana, but there was no assurance that she was not already hidden in the room awaiting the Conde's arrival.
Cursing her vain, self-centered cousin, who considered nothing beyond her own pleasures, Anna moved forward and carefully pushed open the heavy door. She would just take a quick peek and then . . .
A scream was wrenched from her throat as slender fingers grasped her wrist in a cold, brutal grip, jerking her into the dark room and slamming the door behind her.
The reception room of the hotel on Michigan Avenue was a blaze of color. In the light of the chandelier, Chicago's movers and shakers strutted about like peacocks, occasionally glancing toward the massive fountain in the center of the room, where a handful of Hollywood B stars were posing for photographs with the guests for an obscene fee that supposedly went to some charity or another.
The similarity to another evening was not lost on Anna as she once again hovered in a dark corner watching Conde Cezar move arrogantly through a room.
Of course, that other evening had been near two hundred years ago. And while she hadn't physically aged a day (which she couldn't deny saved a butt-load on plastic surgery and gym memberships), she wasn't that shy, spineless maiden who had to beg for a few crumbs from her aunt's table. That girl had died the night Conde Cezar had taken her hand and hauled her into a dark bedchamber.
And good riddance to her.
Her life might be all kinds of weird, but Anna had discovered she could take care of herself. In fact, she did a damn fine job of it. She would never go back to that timid girl in shabby muslin gowns (not to mention the corset from hell).
That didn't, however, mean she had forgotten that fateful night.
Or Conde Cezar.
He had some explaining to do. Explaining on an epic scale.
Which was the only reason she had traveled to Chicago from her current home in Los Angeles.
Absently sipping the champagne that had been forced into her hand by one of the bare-chested waiters, Anna studied the man who had haunted her dreams.
When she had read in the paper that the Conde would be traveling from Spain to attend this charity event, she had known that there was always the possibility the man would be a relative of the Conde she had known in London. The aristocracy was obsessed with sticking their offspring with their own name. As if it weren't enough they had to share DNA.
One glance was enough to guarantee it was no relative.
Mother Nature was too fickle to make such an exact duplicate of those lean, golden features, the dark, smoldering eyes, the to-die-for body . . .
And that hair.
As black as sin, it fell in a smooth river to his shoulders. Tonight he had pulled back the top layer in a gold clasp, leaving the bottom to brush the expensive fabric of his tux.
If there was a woman in the room who wasn't imagining running her fingers through that glossy mane, then Anna would eat her silver-beaded bag. Conde Cezar had only to step into a room for the estrogen to charge into hyperdrive.
A fact that was earning him more than a few I-wish-looks-could-kill glares from the Hollywood pretty boys by the fountains.
Anna muttered a curse beneath her breath. She was allowing herself to be distracted.
Okay, the man looked like some conquering conquistador. And those dark eyes held a sultry heat that could melt at a hundred paces. But she had already paid the price for being blinded by the luscious dark beauty.
It wasn't happening again.
Busily convincing herself that the tingles in the pit of her stomach were nothing more than expensive champagne bubbles, Anna stiffened as the unmistakable scent of apples filled the air.
Before she turned, she knew who it would be. The only question was . . . why?
“Well, well. If it isn't Anna the Good Samaritan,” Sybil Taylor drawled, her sweet smile edged with spite. “And at one of those charity events you claim are nothing more than an opportunity for the A-listers to preen for the paparazzi. I knew all that holier-than-thou attitude was nothing more than a sham.”
Anna didn't gag, but it was a near thing.
Despite the fact that both women lived in L.A. and they were both lawyers, they couldn't have been more opposite.
Sybil was a tall, curvaceous brunette with pale skin and large brown eyes, while Anna had brown hair and hazel eyes and barely skimmed the five-foot mark. Sybil was a corporate lawyer who possessed the morals of a . . . well, actually she didn't possess the morals of anything. She had no morals. Anna, on the other hand, worked at a free law clinic that battled corporate greed on a daily basis.
“Obviously I should have studied the guest list a bit more carefully,” Anna retorted, caught off guard but not entirely surprised by the sight of the woman. Sybil Taylor possessed a talent for rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, wherever they might be.
“Oh, I would say that you studied the guest list as closely as every other woman in the room.” Sybil deliberately glanced across the room to where the Conde Cezar toyed with a heavy gold signet ring on his little finger. “Who is he?”
For a heartbeat, Anna battled the urge to slap that pale, perfect face. Almost as if she resented the woman's interest in the Conde.
Stupid, Anna.
Stupid and dangerous.
“Conde Cezar,” she muttered.
Sybil licked her lips that were too full to be real. Of course, there wasn't much about Sybil Taylor that was real.
“Eurotrash or the real deal?” the woman demanded.
Anna shrugged. “As far as I know, the title is real enough.”
“He is . . . edible.” Sybil ran her hands down the little black dress that made a valiant effort to cover her considerable curves. “Married?”
“I haven't a clue.”
“Hmm. Gucci tux, Rolex watch, Italian leather shoes.” She tapped a manicured nail against teeth too perfect to be real. “Gay?”
Anna had to remind her heart to beat. “Most definitely not.”
“Ah . . . I smell a history between the two of you. Do tell.”
Against her will, Anna's gaze strayed toward the tall, dark thorn in her side.
“You couldn't begin to imagine the history we share, Sybil.”
“Maybe not, but I can imagine all that dark, yummy goodness handcuffed to my bed while I have my way with him.”
“Handcuffs?” Anna swallowed a nervous laugh, instinctively tightening her grip on her bag. “I always wondered how you managed to keep a man in your bed.”
The dark eyes narrowed. “There hasn't been a man born who isn't desperate to have a taste of this body.”
“Desperate for a taste of that overused, silicone-implanted, Botox-injected body? A man could buy an inflatable doll with less plastic than you.”
“Why you . . .” The woman gave a hiss. An honest-to-God hiss. “Stay out of my way, Anna Randal, or you will be nothing more than an oily spot on the bottom of my Pradas.”
Anna knew if she were a better person she would warn Sybil that Conde Cezar was something other than a wealthy, gorgeous aristocrat. That he was powerful and dangerous and something that wasn't even human.
Thankfully, even after two centuries, she was still capable of being as petty as the next woman. A smile touched her lips as she watched Sybil sashay across the room.
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Cezar had felt her presence long before he'd entered the reception room. He'd known the moment she had landed at O'Hare. The awareness of her tingled and shimmered within every inch of him.
It would have been annoying as hell if it didn't feel so damn good.
Growling low in his throat at the sensations that were directly connected to Miss Anna Randal, Cezar turned his head to glare at the approaching brunette. Not surprisingly, the woman turned on her heel and headed in the opposite direction.
Tonight his attention was focused entirely on the woman standing in the corner. The way the light played over the satin honey of her hair, the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the silver gown that displayed way too much of the slender body.
Besides, he didn't like fairies.
There was a faint movement from behind him and Cezar turned to find a tall, raven-haired vampire appearing from the shadows. A neat trick considering he was a six-foot-five Aztec warrior who was draped in a cloak and leather boots. Being the Anasso (the leader of all vampires) did have its benefits.
“Styx.” Cezar gave a dip of his head, not at all surprised to find that the vampire had followed him to the hotel.
Since Cezar had arrived in Chicago along with the Commission, Styx had been hovering about him like a mother hen. It was obvious the ancient leader didn't like one of his vampires being in the control of the Oracles. He liked it even less that Cezar had refused to confess the sins that had landed him near two centuries of penance at the hands of the Commission.
“Tell me again why I am not at home in the arms of my beautiful mate?” Styx groused, completely disregarding the fact that Cezar hadn't invited him along.
“It was your decision to call for the Oracles to travel to Chicago,” he instead reminded the older man.
“Yes, to make a ruling upon Salvatore's intrusion into Viper's territory, not to mention kidnapping my bride. A ruling that has been postponed indefinitely. I did not realize that they intended to take command of my lair and go into hibernation once they arrived.” The fierce features hardened. Styx was still brooding on the Oracles' insistence that he leave his dark and damp caves so they could use them for their own secretive purposes. His mate, Darcy, however, seemed resigned to the large, sweeping mansion they had moved into on the edge of Chicago. “And I most certainly did not realize they would be treating one of my brothers as their minion.”
“You do realize that while you may be lord and master of all vampires, the Oracles answer to no one?”
Styx muttered something beneath his breath. Something about Oracles and the pits of hell.
“You have never told me precisely how you ended up in their clutches.”
“It's not a story I share with anyone.”
“Not even the vampire who once rescued you from a nest of harpies?”
Cezar gave a short laugh. “I never requested to be rescued, my lord. Indeed, I was quite happy to remain in their evil clutches. At least as long as mating season lasted.”
Styx rolled his eyes. “We are straying from the point.”
“And what is the point?”
“Tell me why we are here.” Styx glanced around the glittering throng with a hint of distaste. “As far as I can determine, the guests are no more than simple humans with a few lesser demons and fey among the rabble.”
“Yes.” Cesar considered the guests with a narrowed gaze. “A surprising number of fey, wouldn't you say?”
“They always tend to gather when there's the scent of money in the air.”
“Perhaps.”
Without warning, Cezar felt a hand land on his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the growingly frustrated vampire at his side. Obviously Styx was coming to the end of his patience with Cezar's evasions.
“Cezar, I have dared the wrath of the Oracles before. I will have you strung from the rafters unless you tell me why you are here wading through this miserable collection of lust and greed.”
Cezar grimaced. For the moment, Styx was merely irritated. The moment he became truly mad, all sorts of bad things would happen.
The last thing he needed was a rampaging vampire scaring off his prey.
“I am charged with keeping an eye upon a potential Commission member,” he grudgingly confessed.
“Potential . . .” Styx stiffened. “By the gods, a new Oracle has been discovered?”
The elder vampire's shock was understandable. Less than a dozen Oracles had been discovered in the past ten millenniums. They were the rarest, most priceless creature to walk the earth.
“She was revealed in the prophecies near two hundred years ago, but the information has been kept secret among the Commission.”
“Why?”
“She is very young and has yet to come into her powers. It was decided by the Commission that they would wait to approach her until she had matured and accepted her abilities.”
“Ah, that I understand. A young lady coming into her powers is a painful business at times.” Styx rubbed his side as if he was recalling a recent wound. “A wise man learns to be on guard at all times.”
Cezar gave a lift of his brows. “I thought Darcy had been bred not to shift?”
“Shifting is only a small measure of a werewolf's powers.”
“Only the Anasso would choose a werewolf as his mate.”
The fierce features softened. “Actually, it was not so much a choice as fate. As you will eventually discover.”
“Not as long as I am in the rule of the Commission,” Cezar retorted, his cold tone warning that he wouldn't be pressed.
Styx eyed him a long moment before giving a small nod of his head. “So if this potential Commission member is not yet prepared to become an Oracle, why are you here?”
Instinctively, Cezar glanced back at Anna. Unnecessary, of course. He was aware of her every movement, her every breath, her every heartbeat.
“Over the past few years, there have been a number of spells that we believe were aimed in her direction.”
“What sort of spells?”
“The magic was fey, but the Oracles were unable to determine more than that.”
“Strange. Fey creatures rarely concern themselves in demon politics. What is their interest?”
“Who can say? For now the Commission is only concerned with keeping the woman from harm.” Cezar gave a faint shrug. “When you requested their presence in Chicago, they charged me with the task of luring her here so I can offer protection.”
Styx scowled, making one human waiter faint and another bolt toward the nearest exit. “Fine, the girl is special. Why should you be the one forced to protect her?”
A shudder swept through Cezar. One he was careful to hide from the heightened senses of his companion.
“You doubt my abilities, my lord?”
“Don't be an ass, Cezar. There is no one who has seen you in a fight that would doubt your abilities.” With the ease of two friends who had known each other for centuries, Styx glanced at the perfect line of Cezar's tux jacket. They both knew that beneath the elegance a half a dozen daggers were concealed. “I have seen you slice your way through a pack of Ipar demons without losing a step. But there are those on the Commission who possess powers that none would dare to oppose.”