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“I do look forward to it.”
After bowing to her, he reached for his tumbler of Scotch and headed to the door. Before leaving he turned back around. “I expect I’ll find you tonight?”
“I expect you will—and most likely someone else.”
Slamming the door behind him, Iain hurried down the stairs. Tossing back the remainder of the Scotch, he passed the crystal glass to his butler, who then handed him his greatcoat. Waving off the hat and walking stick, Iain left his house and hurried down the steps to his waiting carriage. Ducking his head after barking out the direction he was going, he climbed in and settled himself against the crème-velvet squabs.
Lurching forward, the carriage began its journey, the click of the horses’ hooves echoing down the street. It was November, and Mayfair wasn’t as busy as it was during the Season. Pity that, for he could have used the noise of life outside to keep him from reflecting on life inside the carriage.
He had thought to go to his club, have a bit of supper, a hand of cards and a few more drinks before his dawn appointment at Grantham Field. But all that had changed now. He had something he needed to do—not just out of duty, but because he felt compelled, driven, utterly consumed to see someone before the unthinkable happened tonight and he landed on the damp grass, toes cocked up, blood seeping out onto the green blades, while Lucifer’s hand rose from the ground, grasped him and tugged him down to his lair below.
Yes, Iain needed to see that person and … apologize.
But how did one effectively seek mercy and forgiveness for a crime that was more than a decade old? “I’m sorry” hardly seemed enough.
By the time he reached his destination, he had practiced a dozen pretty speeches, all better than the one before. As the footman opened the carriage door, he was firmly fixed upon the one he would use, assured that, at least, the lady would give him a moment to vent his spleen and do the honourable thing.
The Sumners’ majordomo took in the sight of him from head to toe before holding out his white-gloved hand for the invitation to the insipid musicale.
“I have a standing invitation,” Iain muttered.
“Very good, my lord,” the butler murmured. “I shall announce you.”
It was rather disturbing that the old geezer knew him by sight. It was not good in this instance to be reminded that his reputation preceded him.
Clearing his throat, the retainer announced in chilling tones, “His lordship the Marquis of Alynwick and laird to the clan Sinclair.”
Emerging from the shadows, Iain entered the room, aware it had gone still with shock. He stood tall and proud, wearing his Highland dress as he scanned the room for his quarry. He found her, and any thoughts of apologizing flew out of his head when he saw her arm in arm with a man. They were whispering and smiling to each other beneath a portrait of a classic nude, completely unaware of others around them.
Apologize? No. Murder, most likely. With eternal life in hell a damned surety.
Feral and enraged, and sotted from his finest Scotch, Iain prowled the room, the guests parting before him like the long grass of the African savannah does when a hungry lion presses through.
He would go for the throat—the man’s first. Then he would carry off his prey and bring her to his den, where he would play with her, torment her, before finishing her off.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SUSSEX ANGEL WAS feeling far from angelic on this, the most exciting evening she had experienced in years. Such a strange notion, because she, Elizabeth York, elder and only sibling to the Duke of Sussex, was as giddy and mischievous as a schoolgirl attending her first ball.
Such a strange observance, for she was far from a young girl. In truth, she was only a few months shy of her thirtieth birthday, and most firmly on the shelf.
If her age hadn’t turned her into a spinster, then her infirmity most certainly had. To put it bluntly, she was as blind as a bat. But Elizabeth didn’t care—not tonight. Tonight she had the strange sense that anything was possible. She had not felt that way in a long, long time, and the sensation was a welcome one. She had never wallowed in self-pity, but would be a fool not to admit there were times when she hid her true feelings behind a shield of strength and determination—a shield that was sometimes little more than a thin veneer.
But she would not think such things now. Tonight she would let herself imagine that she could be as beautiful and desirable as any woman present.
“Ah, let us stop here.”
And that lovely deep rumble was the reason for the impulsive giddiness currently ruling her. The Earl of Sheldon was escorting her about the room as if she were not an old maid, and disabled, too. It was worthy of a girlhood swoon—something the spinsterish Elizabeth would never contemplate, most especially before her peers, who, she was certain, watched her with rapacious interest as she made her way, arm in arm, around the room with the earl.
“Lovely.”
“It must be a portrait, then?”
She got the impression that they had stopped their promenade for a reason. Since she couldn’t smell any food or wine, she assumed it was not so that he could hand her a refreshment. The way he stood silently beside her, as if studying something, gave her pause, made her think that something must have caught his interest.
“Indeed. A rather interesting one.”
His voice seemed strained, and she thought she knew the reason behind it. Swallowing hard, Elizabeth felt some of the giddiness leave her. They had only been introduced, and he had asked Sussex for permission to escort the duke’s sister about the room. After Lady Lucy, her friend and companion, had most effectively catalogued the earl’s every feature, Lizzy had allowed her imagination to run rampant. Silly fool. Men like Sheldon didn’t need a blind woman hanging on their arm.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She felt the muscles of his forearm tense under her fingertips. “I quite forgot that I am to describe the art to you. What a great clod I am.”
“It is a queer concept, I grant you,” she murmured, hating that she was right about Sheldon, “but it is the only way for me to see—through your eyes. My friends Lady Lucy and Lady Black have quite a skill with descriptions. I feel as though I can actually see when they describe something.”
She sensed his gaze studying her profile, and fought back a fierce blush. Women of her age did not blush, for heaven’s sake!
“Well, then, let me see if I can at least meet them in skill.”
Perhaps she was wrong about him, after all? Smiling, she nodded for him to proceed, while waiting to hear more of his delicious voice, and to feel again that tonight anything was possible.
“We are standing before a classic Greek portrait. Atlas, I think.”
“With the world perched laboriously on his shoulders?”
“Indeed. Zeus is in the background, floating about on his cloud throne, with an ominous lightning bolt in hand.”
“Oh, yes, I can see it now. Poor Atlas grimacing beneath his agonizing effort, and Zeus, the pompous God, snarling at his success.”
A soft chuckle whispered between them. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Oh, and did I tell you that this portrait is a classic nude? Atlas appears quite as he did upon birth.”
“Scandalous!” she teased, her mood improving by the second. “Although I won’t ask you for the description. But rest assured, I would not allow Lucy and Lady Black to get off so easily without parlaying the particulars.” A whisper of breath, a pulse—a wave of something …
“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I’ve shocked you,” she said.
“No … Yes …” His voice sounded strained. “Of course not.” She heard the fabric of his coat move, and imagined him raising his arm to run a nervous hand through his hair.
And that moment was lost….
“Forgive me for speaking so bluntly,” she exclaimed. “A terrible habit, I’m afraid. I have just recently begun reacquainting myself with Society. It’s been rather more difficult than I first believed, but I had not thought my manners had deteriorated to this extent.”
He laughed. A deep, full laugh that was rich and warm. “No, it is I who must beg an apology. You did shock me, Lady Elizabeth, but I must admit, it was not in a negative way.”
“Oh,” she murmured.
“Oh, indeed. I think you a woman who knows what you’re about, and it’s rather refreshing. Puts a gentleman a bit behind, in a way—we’re only taught how to converse with silly young women who are searching for husbands. There is never any fun in the conversations. I usually find myself drifting off to some other time and place, I’m afraid.”
“I do that frequently, too. Tell me, what place do you drift away to?”
“The Middle East. I spent most of my childhood and youth there. Egypt and Jerusalem, mostly.”
“Ooh,” she whispered, and heard his neck crack as he whipped his head in her direction. “How I envy you. I have long dreamed of travelling to the East. I might have gone, too, with my brother, if I had not lost my sight.”
There was a period of silence—not borne of discomfort, but of thought. “If you might permit me to call on you, Lady Elizabeth, I would greatly fancy an opportunity to tell you some stories, and draw you a picture of the East through my eyes.”
She did blush then, a flush she hoped wasn’t discernible. While she tried to keep her composure, inside she was dancing for joy. Her emotions were suddenly volatile, something she never permitted herself. But then, she hadn’t allowed herself to think of a future in a long time. “I think that would be most lovely, Lord Sheldon. I anxiously await your call.”
“Will tomorrow do, or does that smack of a sort of desperation?”
“Not desperation,” she said with a smile and a slight lift of her chin. “But an eagerness to share a part of the world that few see, and even fewer Englishmen get to experience.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, and the sound slithered down her spine, awakening something dormant deep inside. Careful now, she warned. It was far too soon for feelings like this. She was being fanciful, allowing herself to be swept away. She had been impulsive and fanciful before, and it had ruined her.
“Zeus appears to be frowning even more now,” he murmured in a most becoming baritone rumble. “Do you think it a reflection upon our unseemly conversation, or is it the way our heads are bent together while we whisper?”
“Oh, dear, are we causing talk?”
She heard the smile in his words. “Talk of any sort is much better than the music we were forced to listen to tonight.”
“Do you not like Mr. Mozart?”
He shrugged; she felt the movement. “I have spent too long in the East. I prefer, I think, or perhaps I have just grown used to, the sounds of the doumbek and the darbuka. There is a haunting sensuality about it. Even having never been there, one may close one’s eyes and listen to the sounds and imagine silk veils and dancers before you. But that is a story for a visit, is it not?”
“Yes,” she said, and frowned slightly when she heard how breathless her voice was. “What is it?” she asked suddenly, aware of a sensation that swept the room. “I hear rumblings.”
“I fear that we were lost to all but our conversation.” The earl shifted beside her and Elizabeth sensed that he half turned away from her. “It appears as though the majordomo is preparing to announce someone.”
“Really?”
“Quite a character, it seems. Decked out like a marauding Scot, actually. Has an expression that would have given Genghis Khan fits of apoplexy.”
“Oh, dear,” she whispered. There was only one character of the ton who fit that description, and she wanted to be far, far away from him. “Well, I think it’s grown rather close in here, don’t you? Perhaps we should heed Zeus’s silent counsel and stroll to where a window might be cracked open, or perhaps a strategically placed terrace door?”
He was very intelligent, the earl was. He took her hand and deftly but discreetly manoeuvred her to the periphery of the room, where she could sense a door awaited their escape.
Suddenly, there was an almost violent brush of air that forced their hands apart. Then Sheldon was snatched from her side, right before she heard the thud of his body hitting something solid.
“I doona know who ye are,” Alynwick growled in his unmistakable brogue, “but yer hands are no’ where they belong.”
The earl tried to reply, but his rasping voice alerted Elizabeth to the fact he couldn’t take in air. The wave of shock from the crowd told her that the Highland beast was either choking him with his bare hands, or had thrust his arm, which she knew was as thick as a tree trunk, against poor Sheldon’s windpipe.
“Stop this at once,” she demanded in a hiss. “You’re making a scene.”
She could feel when those dark eyes landed on her. “I’m making a scene?” he retorted as if accusing her of making tongues wag.
Prickles of awareness raced down her spine, and Elizabeth knew the cause stemmed from the fact that every guest of the Sumners had their eyes fixed firmly on her and the mad marquis. “I insist you stop this now, Alynwick. Everyone will talk.”
“Doona worry, lass, we’ll give them somethin’ tae talk about, because yer leavin’ with me.”
“The devil I am!” she yelped in outrage. “Alynwick, dear God, pay attention to what you’re doing. I can hear Sheldon struggling for air.”
“Sheldon, is it?”
The sound of tussling, of fine wools brushing together, came to her ears, and she thought about throwing herself forward, hopefully between them. But if she fell to her knees, or worse, the floor, it would cause even more of a scene.
“Here now, what’s all this fuss about?” The masculine growl that came next Elizabeth was relieved to hear.
“Sod off, Sussex,” Alynwick muttered.
“Come now, my lord,” her brother said. His voice was smooth and light, but Lizzy heard the edge of warning in it. “We needn’t have such violence here.”
It was a subtle warning to the marquis. The Brethren Guardians, of which her brother and the marquis were both members, did not need this sort of notoriety. Indeed, just by coming to break up the pair, Adrian was putting the Guardians at risk—because no one knew that Sussex, Alynwick and Lord Black shared more than the most polite and distant acquaintance with each other. If the marquis didn’t cease this madness, then everything they had fought to keep from the prying eyes of the ton might very well be in jeopardy.
“Murder at the Musicale,” Sussex drawled. “I can read the headlines in the morning papers. I doubt you’re interested in giving the masses something other than sugar to sweeten their morning tea.”
Alynwick growled something in that familiar beastly way of his. That was followed by another rustle, a rasping gasp and a brush of masculine-scented air that swept past her—Alynwick being shaken off his lordship.
“Apologies, Sheldon. I am quite certain that the Marquis of Alynwick did not mean to introduce himself in such a way.”
“The hell I didn’t!”
“My lord,” Elizabeth whispered, moving a step toward the rasping earl and reaching out for what she thought might be his arm. “Are you all right? Can I summon a footman to fetch you something? A drink, perhaps?”
“Don’t even think to touch him in my presence,” said a dark, menacing voice in her ear. The sound made her shiver, as did the mysterious scent of his Scotch-laced breath washing over her. “If you doona want him torn tae pieces, leave him be.”
She didn’t want this—the marquis standing behind her, crowding her—and she stiffened, discovered the safe barriers she always erected when she found herself in his company. “You are nothing but an animal,” she snapped, careful to make certain no one but Alynwick could hear her outburst. “Unhand me this instant.” But the brute wouldn’t listen, and instead pressed closer to her, his big palm cupping her elbow in a fierce grip.
When he next spoke, he seemed to have put some measure of control on his anger, for his brogue had all but disappeared, leaving behind a silky English accent that worked its way along her body.
“Animal, am I? Should I throw you down now and cover you, as befitting the animal I am?” he whispered.
She would not encourage his wicked behaviour with an answer. But Alynwick was never one to back away from a challenge, or wickedness.
“In the animal world,” he growled, “the alpha is the leader. He must exert his power and let everyone know he is in charge—and he’s,” Alynwick said of Sheldon, “trespassing on my hunting grounds.”
“This isn’t the jungle, and your laws have no jurisdiction in the ton.”
“You think not?” he purred. “The ton especially is a jungle, a feeding ground for prey like yourself. I’m merely exerting myself as chief predator.”
Oh, she wished she could say what she really wanted to, and wish him to hell for the scene he had created and was bent on pursuing. But she was a lady, and must act the part while every eye of the ton looked on.
“Shall I call for your carriage, perhaps, Sheldon?” her brother enquired of the earl. Then his voice changed, as if he were looking in the opposite direction. “Lizzy, Lady Lucy approaches. She’ll escort you to our carriage. The evening festivities, I am afraid, have come to a rather abrupt cessation.”
Before she could sense any movement or sound, Elizabeth’s arm was taken firmly in hand, and she was whisked away with a rustle of silk, amidst shocked gasps from the Sumners’ scandalized guests.
“Let me go at once,” she demanded in a low voice, but the marquis didn’t hear her, or at the very least pretended he hadn’t, as he all but dragged her out of the salon and into a place that was much cooler and quieter.
“Whatever barbaric law you subscribe to, Alynwick, I am not one of your subjects. Unhand me.”
Silence. But his hold strengthened on her elbow, and his pace increased, so that she was forced to hurry her steps to keep up with him.
“You devil,” she explained, trying to disguise the alarm in her voice. “You’ll make me fall with this pace!”
“Shall I carry ye, then?”
“Don’t you dare, you heathen!” she spat breathlessly. “Where are you taking me, pray?”
“Someplace quiet, where I can thrash you in private.”
Her mouth dropped open in protest, but no words emerged. Only Alynwick and his fiendish ways could render her speechless and gauche. She hoped he hadn’t seen her expression, or the way she could barely keep up with him.
“This will have to do,” he muttered.
Her world was one of black obsidian, and she could not tell if he had brought her somewhere equally as dark, or merely shadowed. It was quiet, she knew. The distant clang of silver and china told her that they were closer to the servants preparing the midnight luncheon, and farther away from the salon. Whether they were in a room or a hall, she could not tell. She hated not knowing, of being blind to everything, when she had never been anything but these past twelve years. That she was not in control while in Alynwick’s company sent a jolt of panic down her body. Of anyone, she most feared being vulnerable when he was near.
The wall was cool against her neck and bare shoulders as he swung her around and pressed her against the plaster. She sensed him before her, his heat, the scent of his body. He loomed over her, his heavily muscled, tall frame standing so near her short, voluptuous one that she was forced to share the very air with him. She should lift her chin up, an act of defiance. Try to meet his gaze head-on. But she had no knowledge of her eyes, and what they might do, where they might be directed, and she would not give him a glimpse of her weakness, no matter how fleeting it might be.
So she stood quietly, willing her breathing to slow and become controlled. Her head was lowered, her face averted, turned away from him. His breath kissed her skin as she maintained her stance, knowing she was not meeting his gaze, but showing him indifference. He touched her, the faintest graze of his fingertips along her cheek, and she struggled against him, pushing away from his touch. It only made him press closer to her—obscenely closer, for she could feel the way his abdomen moved against her gown with each of his breaths.
“Say something,” she declared, despising the fact that she couldn’t see his face and expression. Was he looking at her? Smirking? Having a good laugh at her expense?
“What would you have me say?”
In a fit of frustration she stamped her foot. “How could you!” she demanded, thinking of how she must have looked to the Sumners’ guests as he dragged her out of the salon. “Oh,” she whispered, “what have you done?”
“Protected you,” he replied. “Sheltered you from the company of one who could never know you—not like how I know you.”
Refusing to pay any heed to the last of his statement, or the intimacy that seemed to be created between them, Lizzy forged on, thinking it best to steer him away from any reminders of the past. “Whatever were you thinking to do such a thing? Have you grown so uncouth?”
“Truth?” he murmured, and she refused to melt at the sound of his silken voice.
“Are you capable of speaking it?” she taunted.
“Aye. Are you capable of hearing it?”
Snorting with indignation, she motioned for him to continue. She did not, however, expect him to whisper into her ear, “I thought I might carry you off, back into my den, where I would play with you, paw at you, before devouring you whole.”
She shivered as she felt his hand brush along her gown. “And there is quite a bit to devour, isn’t there?” he went on. “You’ve turned into a right armful, haven’t ye? Plump as a Rubens’ model, ye are,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. His comment only made her more vulnerable—and incensed. Churl! To speak of her figure in such a way was positively unforgivable. She had gained a few stone over the years, it was true, but it was grossly ungentlemanly for the man to mention it.
Using some of her anger, she said in a haughty voice, “I demand to know what you are about, sir. The truth.”
“And I demand the same. What the devil,” he growled back, “are you about?”
“Not that it is any of your concern,” she sniffed in her best matriarchal tone, “but I am at a musicale, enjoying myself. I didn’t realize it was a crime.”
“Oh, aye, ‘tis a crime, all right, looking the way you do, making every eye in the room turn your way. Making them stare at the picture you present.”
She gasped, unable to help it. Such a cruel, cold bastard. She was a mature woman who could think what she wanted, say what she desired, and what she thought of Alynwick was nothing but the truth. She, more than anyone, knew just how cold and cruel, and every inch a bastard, the Marquis of Alynwick truly was.
His comment was beyond shocking, and she had to struggle to put herself to rights. She was an independent woman, a strong woman, and she would not let a member of the opposite sex demean her in such a way. She might be blind, but she always carried herself with dignity and decorum. If the occupants of that room were gawking at her, that was their problem, not hers.
Just as she opened her mouth to give him a scathing set-down, he leaned forward, and she felt a faint wave of heat against her cheek.
“How can you go about like this, knowing everyone is watching?” he growled. He was closer now, his breath fanning her mouth. She could smell the Scotch, almost taste the sweet spice on her tongue. “I canna bear to see it.”
When she would not answer, he pressed closer, the heat of his body greedily absorbed by her traitorous one. His mouth was even closer now, next to her ear, his voice almost a caress. “You show too much, Lady Elizabeth, reveal what is meant to be kept hidden, to be indulged and shared only with one that may appreciate the gift.”