Praise for the work of Charlotte Featherstone

SEDUCTION & SCANDAL

“One can become addicted to Featherstone’s sexually charged romances. The quick pace and wonderfully dark and dangerous heroes are what readers dream about. Secrets, passions and conflicts abound as readers are led through a labyrinth of plot twists, séances, supernatural revelations, visions and love scenes that take their breath away and leave them panting for more.”

—Romantic Times

“Ms Featherstone has the phenomenal ability to transport me into another time and place with each of her books … I loved the story line and the characters. I find that I am lying in wait for the next addition to this remarkable series.”

—Fresh Fiction

“If I had to sum this book up in one word it would be AWESOME. I absolutely loved it … This book has a bit of everything—mystery, murder, romance, deceit and a touch of history all bound under a beautiful cover … I HIGHLY recommend it. I gave this one 5 out of 5 roses.”

—Seduced by a Book

“Taking its cue from gothic novels of old, Seduction & Scandal has everything I love in darker historicals … I literally could not put this book down. A very solid 5/5 stars and highly recommended for fans of gothic historical romances.” —The Romanceaholic

PRIDE & PASSION “… sensual and intriguing …[an] engaging and steamy yarn” —Publishers Weekly

“Featherstone mixes her haunting erotic style into a tale tinged with mystery, paranormal elements and the atmosphere of the era … [she] stirs the pot, merging deep sensuality and a frightening, chilling mystery: a hunt for a madman that will have readers on the edge of their seats.”

—Romantic Times,

Don’t miss The Brethren Guardians series!

Seduction & Scandal August 2012

Pride & Passion September 2012

Temptation & Twilight October 2012

Temptation &

Twilight

Charlotte Featherstone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Aly, better late than never, right?

Thanks so much for coming up with the

‘Duke of Deliciousness’, I owe you for that one!

Thank you for being such a good friend.

CHAPTER ONE

THERE WAS A SPECIAL PLACE in hell for men such as him. A small berth closest to the hellfires, one that reeked of smoke and brimstone and rotting souls, would be his home for eternity. His berth, he was quite certain, would read Blasphemer. Seducer. Whoremonger and Licentious Rogue, to name only a few. But to list all his failings and sins would require a tablet the size of which Moses used to recount the Ten Commandments.

As a man not given to excessive description, he found the above-mentioned failings communicated quite well the depth of his amoral, unfeeling soul. He was rather enamoured of that—it had taken years to cultivate a hardened shell with no humanity within.

He wondered if even now the Black Angel’s minions were preparing for his reception into the underworld. How he hoped so, for he would need a merry party after the conclusion of tonight’s business.

Shifting into the light cast by the gas lamp, Iain Sinclair, Marquis of Alynwick and laird to the clan Sinclair, gazed into the looking glass, only to see the devil himself staring back at him. He wondered, with a self-deprecating grin, if it wasn’t a premonition of sorts. A prelude of where his eternal soul would rest if things did not go as planned tonight.

The devil, he mused, as he stared into the mirror, was a strikingly handsome fellow with long dark hair, given to curl, that had sent many a lady into swoons. Chiselled cheeks and chin, and a set of dark eyes—their colour could only be described as obsidian. Dimples in both cheeks flashed when he grinned in mockery, as he now was. His lips—oh, such decadently full lips that promised every kind of pleasure and rapture while indulging in the most wicked of sins.

The devil, Iain thought, as he motioned for his valet to pass him his tumbler of Scotch, looked remarkably like himself—a beautiful male, a dark, soulless bastard.

He was not a vain man—self-deprecating, true, but never vainglorious. The women of the ton might think him beautiful, showering him with compliments on his handsome face and muscular body. But he knew the truth: that what everyone saw on the outside was the polar opposite of what lurked inside him—a wretched ugliness that was slowly eating away any inner beauty he might have once possessed. No, his shell might be worthy, but inside he was anything but.

A sigh from the bed behind him confirmed this observation.

“You’re as beautiful as Lucifer, and as wicked as the lord of the underworld could ever hope to be.”

His gaze flashed back to the mirror, where the image of a woman lying naked and flushed pink amongst the white, rumpled bedsheets greeted him. His body jolted at the sight, as if he had all but forgotten the visitor. The lady—a rather loose term for the female—was not the sort he was used to cavorting with. She was too thin and slender, almost fragile. He preferred buxom. Blowsy, they used to call women such as his ideal back in the day, when a plump, luscious armful was every man’s fantasy. How could he help it? He adored the female shape, with all its softness and curves. With breasts and hips, and thighs that made a man feel like a man, that cushioned and welcomed him and made him think of safe harbours and all the other melodramatic sap spouted by the poets.

Poetry be damned. The truth was Iain was a fool for a set of lovely big tits, and a nice round arse to grip in the throes of carnal pleasures. It had always been this way for him; a pair of plump breasts could keep him pleasantly occupied for hours on end, and the lady deeply satisfied. As coarse as his mouth was, it was highly skilled—and devilishly wicked, able to produce the most wondrous results while pressed against his favourite part of the female anatomy.

His gaze slipped to the lady’s breasts. Rather disappointing for a man of his proclivities and appetites, but there it was. He was doing his duty, seeing to his obligations as one of the ancient Brethren Guardians.

Sighing again, she watched him, one arm tucked beneath her head, making her back arch in the belief she appeared more buxom. It was a useless endeavour. She would never possess the sort of body he liked to worship—or the one in particular he craved with every amoral fibre of his being.

Her knee rose, her delicate foot sliding along the crisp sheets. When her leg dropped to the side, so did his gaze, following the sensual action. She was well made there, he supposed, but already he’d tired of it. Strumpets never could hold his attention.

“Won’t you come back to bed and play with me?” she said, her voice coy, yet her tone holding just a hint of cloying desperation. “I’ll let you be as naughty as you desire.”

“I doubt you could handle that. My sort of needs would make you swoon.”

“In ecstasy, I’d wager.”

“In shock.”

He shared a secret grin with Sutherland, his valet. Iain supposed he should be rather mortified that his servant was here in this room of utter debauchery, witnessing such a thing while assisting him with dressing. But it was habitual for his valet, who had been with him for decades. Sutherland had witnessed one sort of debauchery and debacle after another. Besides, the lady lounging on the bed rather fancied the whole idea. She had been the one to suggest the activity, after all. She had a fantasy, she’d admitted to him, of lounging naked in his bed, watching his valet assist him with his toilette.

Iain was all for fantasies. He had a few very special and intimate ones of his own—so deeply personal that he wouldn’t dare share them with anyone, except perhaps the lady who always featured in them. Those were for his own private pleasure, when he was alone and could indulge himself without interruption.

He didn’t really relish this particular fantasy. However, the lady seemed to be enjoying herself, and that was the objective. He needed her cooperation.

“It really is scandalous how handsome and magnificently built you are,” she murmured as she studied his body in the mirror. “The gossip spread by your past lovers certainly wasn’t embellished. I think magnificent a rather bland word to describe you, and what you possess below the waist. Monstrously marvellous is what I call it.”

“My dear, I am a Highlander. We are brawny lads built for hard work, both menial and more pleasurable tasks.”

“Then put me in a carriage to Loch Lomond and gift me with an entire clan!”

She giggled, and his brow arched as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of the shirt Sutherland held out.

“Oooh.” She sighed dramatically. “If only I hadn’t met Larabie first, I might now be Lady Alynwick, and what is it the Scots call the laird’s wife?”

What the devil made her think she would be the one, after a long—very long—list of lovers? He would never marry. Never. And certainly, he would never think to marry someone like her. He was jaded, but he wasn’t cruel. The women he cavorted with were no more interested in a lasting liaison than he was. Which made them infinitely good choices. It was a mutual, if unspoken agreement: all parties were in it for themselves. Women for pleasure and the notoriety and novelty of sharing his bed, and him for a relationship born of convenience, and to assuage his animal’s needs—of which he seemed to have more than his share. Another sin, no doubt.

“Oh, come now, my love, you give the impression that you are emotionally unavailable. But I know the truth,” she pressed.

“Do you? So you’ve realized that I am not ‘unavailable,’ but vacant. Completely, emotionally empty—which means, of course, that I am ‘available’ to no one.”

“How your disdain for the world and everyone in it arouses me.”

“We make a good pair, do we not? Everything we touch turns black.”

Her gaze raked over him from head to foot and he felt as though he were being devoured, his statement of how he saw them completely missing its mark. “Oh, you might act that way now, Sinclair, but I assure you, when I want something enough, I get it. And I want you … very much. Available, unavailable, vacant—it matters not. I want to possess you.”

He heard Sutherland’s grunt, which meant he was either smothering his amusement or enjoying himself at his master’s expense. Either way, Iain glared at his valet while buttoning his own shirt.

“You’ve already had me, luv,” he murmured silkily. “Be content with that.”

“Contentment eludes me. I peaked three times tonight, and already I want more. I have learned that I’m rather insatiable when it comes to your skill in the boudoir. You truly are a master of lovemaking.”

No, not lovemaking, but fucking. He hadn’t made love in years.

“Oh, I’ve already done myself in, haven’t I? I married Larabie when I should have waited another month till I met you. Perhaps you’ll remedy that tonight when you’re duelling my husband over my honour.”

Iain winked at her while Sutherland wrapped the pale green and sky-blue plaid of his Sinclair kilt around his lean waist. The lady nearly swooned at the sight, which made her forget all that nonsense about possessing him. No woman possessed him—ever.

“And Highland dress to fight for me, my lord? You make my head spin.”

His was spinning as well, and not in a pleasurable way. Reaching for the Scotch, he drained it in one long swallow, emptying the tumbler. He motioned for Sutherland to refill it, which the faithful retainer did while Iain saw to his kilt.

If he was going to die tonight, he wanted to meet his maker in the clothes that best suited him—Highland dress. It was a bit elaborate for an old-fashioned English duel, but it fit him. He was an outlandish character, forever scandalizing the English peers with his brutish Scottish ways. He’d never fit into this world of delicate manners and anaemic pleasures. It was not his way. He was not delicate, not polite and his sexual desires were anything but staid. When he fucked, he didn’t want to remember to be gentle and soft. He wanted to lose himself in the woman, be taken to a place where no god or devil dwelt—no demons, no memories, just unspeakable pleasure. During that rapture, he wanted to say the words in his own way, to lose all control and let the cultured English accent that his father had literally beat into him fall away, leaving his Highland brogue to whisper in the woman’s ear. He couldn’t hide his more amorous emotions behind his English accent. That accent was cool and mocking, designed to disguise what he was feeling, giving him that devil-may-care aura. When he talked thus, he sounded like his late father, a pompous prat with little concern for anyone, which strangely enough enthralled the ladies.

Hell, Iain could barely remember a time he felt that much at ease to let himself go. In the bedroom he was always calculating, every move a choreographed dance. He didn’t lose himself, and most definitely had never been transported to his imaginary plane of pleasure on the wave of a fierce climax.

“Shall I wait here for your return, my love,” she asked, “or will you come ravish and debauch me in Larabie’s bed?”

Iain smiled at that and watched her in the mirror as he belted his kilt with the little leather strap and buckle. “A wicked creature you are. Have you no shame, Georgiana, mussing up the earl’s sheets with another man’s body?”

Her smile was scheming as she sat up and came to her knees, unashamed of her nudity and the fact that there was another present in the room with them to witness it.

“Very little, I’m afraid. You’ve stripped me of any decency I might have had.”

“Indeed?” he asked before taking another drink.

Her eyes were glittering. “You’ve stripped me of many things with your immoral ways, my lord. I fear being bad with you is really rather addicting.”

“Rather like Scotch,” Sutherland grumbled as he knelt to fasten Iain’s clan pin to the kilt.

“Watch it,” he growled, “or I’ll slam my knee into your nose.”

Sutherland, immune to his moods and taciturn disposition, merely ignored the threat and squelched a grin.

“Well, my dear?” Iain inquired as he slipped his dirk into his woollen sock. “Do I pass muster?”

“Indeed you do. I see that the story one hears about a true Highlander is correct—you do wear nothing between the plaid and your flesh.”

Halfway to being good and sotted, Iain turned away from the mirror and faced his paramour. Lifting the kilt, he showed her what she wanted to see. Grasping himself, he let the lady admire it.

“That part of you is magnificently made, Sinclair, even in this state.”

Quirking his lips, he stroked himself once, giving the lady what she wanted, so that later, she would give him what he wanted—which differed vastly from what she desired. He was bedding her only to get information about a secret club she frequented—the House of Orpheus. Orpheus was an enemy of the Brethren Guardians, and had to be destroyed. Iain was playing the part of a Casanova to gain what he and the other two guardians—the Earl of Black and the Duke of Sussex—needed.

Casanova, he mused mockingly as he let his kilt fall back into place. No, he did not feel like the legendary Italian lover, but rather like a male whore—as filthy and corrupt as an East End flash boy.

When he had concocted this plan, his friend the duke had told him that nothing good would happen out of it, but he had laughed, mocking him for the prig that Sussex was. Iain believed his soul was already gone, believed himself impervious to any more pain. But the truth was, he was not. He was drowning in sin, and any time now, he believed he’d wake up one morning only to look in the mirror and find all the sins he had committed marring his face. It would be a horrific sight, but a true reflection of what resided in his soul.

“Have you time for another round? Sex always invigorates men.”

“You think me full of sap, then?” he teased, when he did not feel the least bit light and cajoling. “You are a biter, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Sutherland did laugh then, smothering the outburst quickly.

Her eyes narrowed. “I hope that isn’t derogatory, my lord. I would hate to have to instruct my dear husband to shoot you dead.”

As if Larabie, that fat, pompous bastard, could even try. “My dear, a biter is a term used to describe the most lascivious and wanton of wenches, which I am quite certain you will agree you are.”

“Oh.” She eyed him with a glittering glance that told him she was pretending not to know the true meaning of the word. How he loathed the game of playing innocent when she was so far from it. “Tell me, how does ‘biter’ play into the description of a wanton?”

She wanted to be shocked, and he was in the right frame of mind to appease her. “A biter, sweet Georgiana, means that said wanton is so eager for sexual congress that she will offer herself, bottom up, to her lover. A man calls her thus when he knows she’s aching for a little slap and bite on her arse, hence the term.”

“Cunny, too?”

His lips curled in distaste, but he hoped she would see it for something far more appealing. “By all means, if you wish to have your cunny bitten, I shall be happy to oblige.”

Thankfully, Sutherland had departed before the conversation turned to this. Even he had some personal level of decency, and this crossed the boundary.

“How I adore it when you speak filth, Lord Alynwick.”

He gave her a mocking bow. “I aim to please you, my lady.”

“You do. Surely you know that.”

He did. Who would ever see to his own pleasure was another matter entirely.

Now alone together, Georgiana smoothed her hand down her body, her thighs spreading in invitation as her pale hand slid between them. She was as insatiable as he was. Any man looking for a mistress would find her ravishing—would likely even empty the family coffers for her. But Iain was not looking for a mistress, and her avarice made him feel empty and cold.

“Tell me your fantasies,” she whispered. “I’ve told you mine.”

“As I’ve said, I have none.”

“Please?” she purred.

“Shall I make one up to appease you, then?”

She pouted, and her sharp, glittering eyes told him she knew that he had one. “Someone to spank and punish you?”

He winced. “Good God, no. I’m not one for pain with pleasure.” He’d had enough pain inflicted on him by both sides of his family, and while away at school.

“To be tied up, to give up all your control?”

“No.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. She would never guess what the Sinful Sinclair, the Aberrant Alynwick thought of when he was alone at night in his bed, with nothing but the moon and stars to keep him company. He hardly allowed himself to think of it. Only when he was deep in his cups, and his feelings unguarded, did he allow himself to dream of his ultimate fantasy—a saint with a sinner. An angel cavorting with the devil. An innocent offering herself up to him—a sordid, sinful man who wanted to partake of her goodness, while showing her how delightful it could be to join him on the dark side of seduction. But not just any innocent. No, that would be too easy. There were numerous virgins in London. He could seduce any one of them, and live out his fantasies. No, only one innocent—in mind and soul, in deed and thought—would do for him.

And damn her, how her guileless eyes and goodness rattled him. He’d walk through the Moroccan desert for her, would bleed himself dry for one chance to taste her lips, feel her breasts in his hands, pressing against his flesh.

But good girls did not like bad boys. Good girls gave wide berth to men who indulged in the sort of behaviour that governesses warned them about and etiquette books forbade.

Ladies like her did not allow men like him to partake of their innocence, while corrupting them with sin. And the woman of his dreams was every inch a lady by birth and character, and she called to him like gin to an East End drunk.

“You are in a strange mood tonight, Sinclair,” Georgiana observed. “Almost contemplative, I would say.”

“Really? How droll. I suppose I should be thinking of how I might spend the next few hours lying in sin and regret before I am forced to confront my future. I might very well be dead come the morrow. A send-off worthy of the most proliferate rake should be in order.”

“It should. I offered and you declined.”

“Ah, yes. Well, a man needs to have his head—both of them—in the right place during these matters. Rest assured, after I have satisfied the terms of your husband’s duel I shall come and release all the pent-up frustration and contemplation that is building inside me. Will that suffice?”

She flopped back onto his bed with a pout, her legs sliding evocatively against each other. “I suppose,” she muttered. “But you’ll think of me when you are on that field, fighting for my honour?”

“Trust me, I shall be thinking of nothing else.” Christ, he needed another drink. He was getting bilious, nattering away about such tripe. All he could say was that she—and this damned duel—had better be worth it. If he didn’t discover anything about Orpheus from Lady Larabie, he might just end up putting a bullet in his own chest.

“Are you afraid to meet him?”

“Larabie?” Iain snorted. “Not in the least.”

“No, the Grim Reaper.”

“Him? Why should I? I already know the path of my destiny.”

“And have you any regrets?” she whispered, watching him with eyes that were suddenly very clear and knowing—eyes that made the hairs on his neck rise in warning.

“No, none.”

“No business left unattended? Nothing left unsaid? No apologies to be made?”

“Not a one, I’m afraid,” he growled as he fitted his sporran around his waist. “I never apologize. It means I was in the wrong—and I am never that, luv.”

“Such brass bollocks you possess, my lord. No atoning for your sins before you fall to the earth, never to speak again. No absolution for past transgressions.”

He froze, not wanting Georgiana’s words to have any sort of impact upon him, but they did, damn it. Unknowingly, the witch made an image flash in his mind, one that left him tense and uncomfortable, his mouth curling in disdain—for himself, for his foolish, hurtful past, and a damnable pride that had caused his fall.

“Ah,” she whispered, and he saw cruel delight flare in her dark brown eyes. “Perhaps the Aberrant Alynwick is not so deviant, after all?”

“You goad me, and I shall exact punishment upon you after this infernal duel is complete.”

“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.”

“As I am completely blind, my lord, I have no idea what you are talking about. Just what am I showing?”

“I refer to the garment you have chosen to arrive in.”

“What could be the matter? It is an evening gown, sir. Or have I had the misfortune to leave the house without my dress? Is that it? Am I naked?”

“You might as well be for what little it covers up.”

His voice had changed. It still held anger, though she could not fathom why, but there was something else there, and she reached up, smoothed her hand along her throat, to discover for herself what atrocity Alynwick saw displayed before him.

“That gown,” he rumbled in a dark, seductive voice, “is an invitation to sample what you so willingly display.”

She stiffened at his absurd statement. “I have no notion what you insinuate is being displayed.”

There was a smile mixed with the edge in his voice. “Lass, you ken damn well what I mean.”

His body shifted, and hers jumped as if being lanced with a lightning bolt as she felt the smooth texture of his nails grazing the mounds of her décolletage. Oh, God, he’s running the back of his hand along me.

“Such a sight, lass, makes a man dangerous,” he murmured, though Elizabeth could hardly hear him for the roar of blood in her ears, and the outrage that made rational thought impossible. “Such a display is just what a man needs before he dies.”

His lips followed the path of his fingers. Those seductive lips of his, which could pleasure and tease, or thin with cruelty, were grazing her chin, working down the column of her throat as he gently inserted his fingers into the cleft between her breasts. “Oh, aye, to die in arms such as this, and to be buried in such soft, lush flesh, is what every man should wish for.”

“You are drunk, sir,” she cried, her fingers fisting in the folds of her silk gown.

“Not too drunk, luv,” he drawled before flicking the tip of his tongue in the hollow of her throat. “No’ so far in my cups not to be able to pleasure ye the way yer asking for by wearing this gown and revealing all this creamy flesh.”

“It was not for your benefit, I assure you,” she retorted, but he only chuckled as he lowered his head and allowed the silken ends of his unbound hair to cascade over her bare shoulder.

“Nevertheless, lass, I’ll take what I can get.”

Determination paid off, for she waited, breathless, as Alynwick slowly dragged his mouth across the expanse of her bosom. When she could see him in her mind, she raised her hand and struck him hard against his cheek, the sound a loud crack in the quiet.

“I am asking for nothing. You, on the other hand, are asking for another sharp slap.”

He laughed, reached for her wrists and raised them high above her head, holding her captive. She was stunned by his reaction, shocked that he had not been at least startled by the sound slap she had given him.

“Do it again, Beth,” he rasped, and the name on his lips—the only lips to have ever called her that—made her struggle in his hold.

“Again,” he said, almost panting. “Touch me again.”

“You are a degenerate!” she spat, but he only held her wrists tighter. “You disgust me.” How could he still be aroused? she wondered. And she truly felt ill, thinking that he might have taken some pleasure from that slap, and her present struggle.

“I might meet my end tonight. What can you give me in case my death might come to pass?”

“A good kick in your nether regions if you do not unhand me this instant. Besides, you will not die tonight, or any other night, for the devil doesn’t want you in his realm, because you are even more evil and wicked than Lucifer himself!”

“Aye, I am, and I’ve come to give you a taste of that wickedness.”

“I have never been tempted by your evil bent.”

The air stilled, and she bit her lip—but it was too late. “Oh, aye, lass, you were once. You were tempted and torn asunder by it. Should I remind you what it was like to sin with me?”

He pressed up against her, his mouth found hers and he claimed her fully—not softly, beckoning, but hard and strong. His mouth twisted over hers, opening, parting her lips. Stealing her breath as he stroked his tongue inside, commanding her with deep sweeps as that insistent, searching tongue mated with hers in a fierce joining.

Oh, that it had been horrendous and grotesque. But it was not. His invasion robbed her not only of her breath, but of her thoughts, and the inner voice that reminded her that she had once followed him down this very same path, and he had abandoned her, left her alone and ashamed on a road that led nowhere but to heartache.

“Beth,” he groaned as he broke away and buried his face in her throat. “I dinna want this night to be like this—dinna want more sins heaped on me before I go to that field.”

“Is that it, then?” she snapped, pushing him away. “You thought you ought to give me a kiss to make it all better? To placate what is left of your tarnished honour?”

“I didn’t want to die with things left unsaid. With you thinking … Well, with the way things are between us.”

“You are fighting some idiotic duel over some tart you’ve bedded, and you’re afraid you might lose? And before you go to hell you want to be forgiven?”

“No, I want to apologize.”

Lizzy stopped him from saying anything else. “Save your breath, Alynwick, because it’s useless.”

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. This may be the last time I can tell ye—”

“I don’t give a damn about how sorry you are, or that you have at last come around seeking forgiveness. And furthermore, I will take this moment to relieve you of the misapprehension you are labouring under. I do not care, and have not cared for a very long time, whether you live or die, Lord Alynwick. I only regret that it will be someone else’s bullet that may put you out of your misery, and not mine!”

He let her go then, and she moved past him just as she heard Lucy’s voice calling to her. He stopped her, wrapped his strong fingers around her upper arm, holding her close to his body so she could feel his chest move with each breath, feel the movement of his mouth against the shell of her ear. “Come the morrow, if I am left alive upon Grantham Field, be assured that I will come for you. We have unfinished business between us, and I intend to end what we have started here tonight.”

“You had your chance, my lord,” she retorted. “You didn’t want it then any more than you do now.”

“So little you know,” he said, and she could tell he had whispered that between set teeth. “You couldn’t possibly even begin to know what I want.”

Lizzy stilled for a fraction, warred for the briefest instant before saying, “It is of little consequence what you desire, Alynwick, for now I find I no longer want you.”

CHAPTER THREE

I NO LONGER want you.

Was there a more painful phrase in the English-speaking world? Iain didn’t think so. He’d been hurt, his heart smashed open, bleeding, upon hearing those words. Now, hours later, he still bled, the severed vessels opening every time he heard that hated sentiment repeated in his turbulent thoughts. Even closing his eyes, he heard her, and saw her, too—the way she had stood up to him, back straight, regal chin tilted at the perfect angle to relay feminine hauteur. She had not been playing coy when she had told him that. She had been speaking the truth, a truth born deep in her soul. And hours later, the bleeding continued, and the pain of that reality shattered whatever illusion and pitiful hope he had been desperately clinging to.

Most horrible, for him, was the realization that he had not even known he’d been clinging to anything, much less hope. But comprehension had dawned the minute Georgiana had challenged him about regrets. It had been then that he realized he harboured the sentimental emotion.

For the first time in his life he had not run from the knowledge, from the feeling that made its presence known. He’d accepted it, and by the time he had arrived at the Sumners’ musicale, he had actually claimed it, welcomed it. But with that revelation, so foreign to him, and yes, terrifying to admit, had come the heartache of knowing that Elizabeth had washed her hands of him.

She didn’t want him. And he had never stopped wanting her.

“Miserable existence,” he muttered as he lifted the bottle to his mouth and drank heartily of the Scotch. He deserved no less, he knew. But somewhere inside him he had always believed that Elizabeth York understood him. Knew deep down the extent of his flaws and the defects of his personality. He had always thought that she accepted that about him, and had forgiven him his trespasses all those years ago, like the angel he not only thought her to be, but knew her to be.

But his angel had teeth—and claws—that had effectively eviscerated him tonight. By God, what had he been about, doing what he had? Demanding such things? He knew better than to let the years of hunger for her get the best of him. And they had.

He’d been in a murderous, incredulous rage when he’d first glimpsed Elizabeth standing beside the earl. A living, breathing darkness had blanketed him, and while he wished he could feign ignorance as to its cause, he knew better. The carpet had been torn from beneath his feet, and landing flat on the ground had winded him. A sort of red mist had gathered and clouded his sight: rage stemming from the shattered hope that one day he might find his way back to her.

It had always been a comfort to him—a perverse comfort, because he was a capricious man who took pleasure in such selfish thoughts as the one he had long clung to. In his mind, there was still time, still a chance that she might one day be his. Elizabeth did not go out in Society. She did not accept men’s arms and stroll about salons with them. In essence, there was no other man in her life. No golden male to rival Iain’s black soul. And the knowledge had always comforted him.

Selfishly, he wanted her to stay free of courtships and such. It gave him hope. And tonight, when he had been feeling strangely melancholy and … alone, he had needed Elizabeth. Needed for them to find their way to one another again. And that … Well, that had been all dashed to the farthest regions of hell.

Seeing her with Sheldon—the smile, that was not forced nor feigned—had ignited in Iain something unholy. Some damned monster that gnashed and snarled and struck out with huge, clawed hands.

She had been happy, and he had been more than unhappy to see her that way. Misery, the old saying went, loves company. Iain had believed that Elizabeth and he shared the same misery, the same unrequited longing. A love denied, but that would not die despite the cloying darkness that threatened its light.

But tonight had made clear that she did not share his misery. He’d been confronted with the fact that he was a fool. That he had taken the one thing in the world that had ever meant anything to him and tossed it away like a child’s toy, only to be outraged when another had come by to pluck it from the sand.

Iain had toyed with Elizabeth, cast her aside and left her to find her own way in the world. Sheldon, that bastard, had been the one to find her, to pick her up and marvel at the treasure she presented.

Love unrequited. Love denied—and spurned. Iain felt the stab of pain where his heart should be. Pressing his eyes shut, he sought to banish the sensation from his awareness.

If he were any sort of gentleman, hell, any sort of decent human being, he’d slink away with his tail between his legs and never look back. But he wasn’t decent. He had the pride of a marquis and a bloody Highlander. Everything inside him screamed to take what he thought rightfully belonged to him, honourable or no.

It’s only fair, you bastard, a taunting voice inside him jeered. You’re getting a taste of your own medicine.

And it was a damn bitter pill to swallow. One best diluted with a good single-malt Scotch.

“God save us, you’re foxed!”

Iain held up the crystal decanter as he studied Black entering his carriage. He didn’t have the patience for the earl, not tonight. Friends or no, he couldn’t stomach the earl’s happiness, which seemed to radiate from his every pore. “Good and drunk,” he replied in a slurred voice. “Thought I’d give that fat, pompous Larabie a bit of an edge tonight. Lord knows he’ll need one.”

“You cannot meet him like this. I doubt you can even walk.”

“I can, too,” he drawled, before taking another sip. Black snatched the decanter, spilling some of the amber liquid over Iain’s greatcoat, which was open, revealing his kilt and sporran. Black’s dark brows rose in question, and Iain gave a foul hand gesture that should have made him feel better, but only made him realize he was verging on pathetic.

Christ, he hoped he’d die tonight and save himself the mortification of living another day to lock eyes with Elizabeth York, the haughty spinster of Sussex. The angel of your very sinful dreams …

The Sussex Angel, she had been called then, the year of her come-out. She had been, too. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d wanted her. Part of him wished to bask in her goodness, her innocence. The other part had wanted to corrupt her, to drag her from the light and immerse her in sin.

She was still a damned angel, even approaching thirty. How could she still possess those beautiful, artless grey eyes and that pure, pale flesh? She was fair and perfect. He was black and corrupted. And damn him, every thought in his head kept coming back to her tonight, and the realization that he had finally allowed himself to admit to something that she spurned. That she no longer desired. That would not fucking die!

“What the devil are you doing here, besides irritating me?” he demanded in a churlish tone. “Thought you’d be ensconced in your chambers, enjoying the virtue of your marriage bed with your lovely wife.”

“Don’t,” Black growled, “mock what I have with my wife. You will never understand the sanctity to be found in bed with a woman who is the other half of your soul.”

He wanted another drink, and to tell the pompous Black to go to hell, but he sneered instead. “No, in fact, I will not. I don’t have a soul, ergo there is no other half wandering about, waiting for me to get into bed. No arms waiting to hold me when I arrive home.”

“And whose fault is that?” his friend demanded.

“I’m done with this conversation. Why are you here, and not Sussex?”

Folding his arms across his chest, Black watched him through the dim shadows of the carriage’s interior. “Sussex sent a missive around. It was terse and to the point. He stated he couldn’t make it, and requested that I come to be your second.”

With Lucy Ashton. That’s where His Grace was tonight. Trying to get a hand up the beauty’s skirt. Thrown over for a woman and a toss, Iain thought, and grunted in amusement. Although he couldn’t reasonably think such a thing. Sussex wanted the lovely Lucy Ashton with a blind, consuming need. It left a bad taste in Iain’s mouth, knowing the determined duke would one day have her, and he himself would be forced to sit amongst those two couples and watch them, their sickening love cloying the air with an unfashionable and most disagreeable completeness. Especially when he knew he’d still be tupping whores, and longing for Elizabeth in the darkest, loneliest hours of the night.

“As your second,” Black continued, allowing his gaze to rove across Iain’s drunken form, “I must make it clear that you are in no shape whatsoever to meet Lord Larabie on the field of honour.”

“Honour?” he snorted, aware how disgust dripped like venom in his voice. “There is no honour in this match. I slept with his wife in the attempt to find out information about our enemy. There is no honour in bedding another man’s wife.”

“And yet you do it with alarming frequency.”

“I never pursue them,” Iain growled, focusing his gaze outside the window. “They come to me.”

“And that makes it all right?”

He shrugged. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

Leaning back, Black settled himself on the bench, stretching his long legs out before him. “I know why you do it.”

That caught Iain’s attention, as did the conviction he heard. “Like hell,” he growled, but Black only shrugged, then met his gaze through the moonlit shadows.

“You want to punish them. The wives, for pursuing you, for so readily forsaking their vows. And you want to hurt the cuckolded husbands by showing them how poor their choice in wife was. In a way, it’s a sense of honour for you, an absolution, if you will. Those that participate with you in the carnal act, in your opinion, deserve what they get, because they have been so dishonourable as to break their marriage vows in the first place. In your own way, you have a code of honour, and while you would never admit to it, you hold the vows of marriage as something sacred. I am correct, aren’t I?”

“You just said I would never admit it, so why bother to ask?” he grunted.

His friend grinned, making Alynwick want to plant his fist in his face.

“This bargain you have with Larabie’s wife is eating at your soul.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I do doubt that you realize what the cost of this endeavour will be.”

“I suppose my mortal soul and all that rot. God, Black, you’ve become an irritating pontificate since your short marriage. Sod off, and pass me my Scotch and the pistol.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“If you don’t hand me that blasted duelling pistol, I’ll put the bullet in you!”

With a sigh of reluctance, Black reached for the wooden case. Iain couldn’t help but notice his friend had not agreed to the other request. The decanter remained out of reach, unless Iain was inclined to spring from the bench and sprawl overtop Black to reach for it. He’d rather be hung naked in the middle of Piccadilly than lower himself before his friend and fellow Brethren Guardian.

Grunting, he accepted the pistol. “It’s not loaded.”

“I know. I have visions of you tripping down the carriage steps, falling to the ground and triggering the blasted thing before we can get you to walk your paces.”

Iain glared at him. “I do believe I would have done better with some scoundrel from the East End as a second.”

“Then you should have procured one. As it’s one minute before the designated meeting time, I will have to do.”

“Bloody hell,” he growled as he stood to leave the coach, “what could make this night worse?”

The carriage door suddenly flew open, to reveal the glinting end of a pistol and a set of dark eyes blazing with hatred. Both were aimed at him.

“Oh, good evening, Larabie,” Iain drawled. “I see your wife is correct. You do have a habit of firing off early.”

Behind him, Black groaned. Alynwick grinned. If he was going to die, then damn it, he was going out with a bang, not as a self-pitying weakling.

“You think you are so amusing, Alynwick,” Larabie snarled, “but I will make you regret what you have done to me. I will take great delight in blowing you away.”

Alynwick flashed a wicked smile. “Now you really do sound like your wife. She said the very same thing to me last night.”

“NOW, THEN, YOU’VE GOT wind in those sails.”

Elizabeth paused on the landing of the curved staircase, her hand on her companion’s arm. Her fingers were trembling, and Lizzie knew it was not from exertion—she was bloody quaking with fury. “And what does that mean, Maggie?” she enquired coolly, which only made her longtime friend laugh.

“Oh, you’ve got his bluster, all right. Your father used to storm around like a ship in a hurricane. You look just like him, I vow.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t meant to be in such a foul mood upon entering the house. She thought she’d rid herself of the insolence and anger that had ruled her on the carriage ride home. Poor Lucy had been forced to sit in the carriage in complete silence while Lizzy brooded and her brother tackled his own thoughts.

And they both had the Marquis of Alynwick to thank for that.

“Come now, let’s go on up and you can tell me all about it. It can’t be that bad.”

Yes, it could. And it would only get worse, because Elizabeth knew she could not confide in Maggie. This was her secret. Her own scandal to bear.

All those years ago she could have confided in her companion, but hadn’t; she’d been too embarrassed at being so easily taken in by the marquis. So she had chosen to hide her shame, and to not think of how foolish she’d been.

In the ensuing years, she had been rather successful at forgetting her stupidity, her gullibility. But that had changed tonight, when Alynwick had cornered her, towered over her and turned her into a melting pot of heated flesh.

So much for the mature, controlled woman she had always believed herself to be!

“Now, then, what’s got you blustering?”

“Nothing,” she murmured as Maggie ushered her into her bedchamber. “I am just not used to Society, that is all.”

“Was it a trial, then?”

“That would be too banal a description. I felt …” Elizabeth struggled for the right word. “An outsider, I guess.”

“It will come,” Maggie said as she pulled the pins from Elizabeth’s heavy hair. “You’ve been gone from it too long, is all.”

“Apparently not long enough,” she found herself muttering, thinking of her run-in with the marquis.

“Perhaps if you shared your worries, that might help soothe them.”

Lizzy laughed despite herself. “Believe me, Maggie, there is nothing anyone could say to make me feel better. I never want to think on the matter again.”

“Well, then, there is no sense brooding over something you don’t wish to share. I can’t help you if you don’t want it. Now step out of that gown if you please, the buttons are already undone.”

Practical, strong Maggie. She knew how to get what she wanted from her charge, and it was not with cajoling. Normally, Lizzy might have indulged her companion’s curiosity, and even solicited her sage advice. But not in this. This matter must never come to light.

Stepping out of the gown, which pooled around her legs, Elizabeth reached for the bedpost she knew was directly before her, and held on. She was growing calm, as she always did in her room, where everything was as it should be. Where she could move about with freedom, knowing she would not trip over something and hurt herself, or worse, destroy some priceless family relic. In her room, she was not disabled. She was not an invalid. She was just plain Elizabeth York.

A thumping sound followed by a little whimper greeted her, and she smiled, closed her eyes and allowed the warm tongue awaiting her to brush against her cheek.

“Little mouse,” she whispered as she buried her face in her spaniel’s soft fur. “Still up?”

Rosie, her pregnant springer spaniel, whimpered as Elizabeth spoke nonsense into her long floppy ears. Adrian had bred her with another springer in the hopes that her offspring might prove as useful as Rosie herself. It was amazing, but true, that Rosie very often acted as Elizabeth’s eyes, guiding her away from furniture and objects in the way. It was Adrian’s hope that he could train the pups to help others like Elizabeth.

“That dog has been waiting for you on the bed for hours now,” Maggie said as she unlaced Elizabeth’s corset. “Poor lamb, she’s as big as a house and couldn’t manage the jump up by herself.”

“So you helped her, even though you think it’s sacrilege for an animal to be on a bed.”

“Or the settees, or that grand leather chair of His Grace’s,” Maggie reminded her. “Aye, I helped her. I couldn’t resist when she looked at me with those sad eyes of hers.”

“She is the most adorable and loving creature, isn’t she?” Elizabeth murmured as she released her hold on the bedpost and snuggled against her beloved pet. “Yes,” she murmured, “I love you, too, sweet.”

“I wouldn’t let her lick my face,” Maggie muttered, and Elizabeth could almost see her lips curled in distaste.

“Well, they’re the only kisses I am liable to receive, so I shall take them,” she teased, but Maggie merely grunted as she pulled the corset from Elizabeth’s breasts and tossed the silk-and-steel garment onto the bed. Her companion liked to claim that Rosie was a nuisance, but Lizzy knew she had a soft spot for the dog, regardless of what she wanted people to believe. Maggie might give the impression of being a commander, but inside, she had a very kind heart and a rather romantic soul. But she’d given it all up to stay and live with Lizzy. More than her lady’s maid and her eyes, she had been a substitute mother, a nurse and was now a treasured friend. Lizzy could not have gained any measure of independence if it had not been for her. People thought it a testament to Lizzy’s own courage and drive that she had accomplished so much despite her blindness, but really, it was because of Maggie’s strength, her untiring nature and unrelenting belief that Lizzy could succeed. She owed much of what she was to her companion, who had been with her since Lizzy was fifteen and Maggie barely eighteen. They could have been sisters, and despite the difference in their social status, got on as if they were family. At some point, Lizzy was going to have to once more bring up the topic of her friend living her own life. The trouble was, Maggie was every bit as stubborn as she, and would hear none of it.

“Now, then, you’re down to your chemise. Why don’t you sit at the dressing table and I’ll brush out your hair?”

With one last nuzzle, Elizabeth left the dog and turned, making her way across the room without assistance. She found her way to the table and slowly lowered herself onto the waiting chair.

“I met a gentleman tonight,” she said, trying to keep her thoughts away from Alynwick and what had transpired between them at the musicale.

“Did you now? Must be a handsome gent for just the mention of him put those roses in your cheeks.”

Smiling, Elizabeth flicked her hair over her shoulders. “I’ve blushed more tonight than I did when it was actually acceptable for me to blush.”

“Nonsense, ‘tis a woman’s right to blush whenever the spirit moves her. Nothing to do with age or steadfast sensibilities.”

“I allow it was rather nice,” she said, recalling how it felt to walk beside a man who was not her brother, or her brother’s friends. “Lady Lucy assures me that he is most handsome—and tanned.”

“Tanned?” Maggie mumbled. She had hairpins in her mouth again, Lizzy could tell. “What proper English gentleman allows his flesh to get tanned?”

“A perfectly improper one, I think,” Elizabeth answered, chuckling when Maggie gasped in surprise.

“And you, an innocent speaking like a coquette!”

How she wished she could see Maggie’s expression. In her heart she knew her companion was not shocked by her frank speaking, but was actually smiling. Maggie was not an old matron. She was in the prime of her life, and must occasionally think of the opposite sex.

“I am nearly thirty, Maggie. Coquettes are young women who flirt and flit about. I am the furthest thing from one.”

“What would you know of improper gentlemen?” Maggie asked, and Elizabeth lowered her sightless gaze to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. Quite a bit, actually, was her first response, but she bit it back, knowing Maggie would be standing behind her, watching her face in the dressing-table mirror.

“Nothing, other than they can be rather enticing, don’t you think?”

“I cannot say,” Maggie scoffed. “Myself, I think I would prefer a nice gentleman to a rogue that made me blush.”

Elizabeth laughed. “You’re a terrible liar, Miss Maggie Farley. You’d throw over a nice ‘gennleman’ any day for a rogue. Do not bother to deny it. I can hear the excitement in your voice. You’re enticed by the very image.”

Maggie tsked. “This is proper talk for two respectable ladies?”

“No, it isn’t, is it? But just once I think it might be all right to be completely unrespectable, don’t you?”

“Indeed, I do not.”

“Oh, Maggie, you will not give an inch, will you?”

“Only an inch, mind,” she allowed as she pulled the brush through Elizabeth’s long, thick hair. “I will admit I hope you invited him to call. I would like to get a glimpse of this tanned improper gentleman. And I shall give you a good accounting of him. Not that I doubt for a second that the mischievous Lady Lucy did not do so!”

Lizzy smiled at the memory of Lucy’s hushed descriptions. “She did indeed. But I would like to see him through your eyes.”

“I confess I am eager to relate my accounting.”

“And you shall. I expect him to call any day.”

The brush was replaced on the table and Maggie’s strong hand gently wrapped around Elizabeth’s upper arm. “Well, then, to bed, Beauty, if your prince is calling.”

“I didn’t say it would be tomorrow.”

“He’d be a fool to let any length of time pass till he next saw you. You are much too beautiful to risk losing. Why, there might have been other gentlemen present who desire to call upon you.”

Just one, and he was the most improper man of all. Alynwick took no notice of the rules of their world. He cared about nothing, no one, other than himself. Elizabeth would not fool herself into believing that the scoundrel wished to call upon her. He observed none of the proprieties. No, what Alynwick had been about was ruining her evening with Lord Sheldon. For what reason, she could not fathom, other than he had always enjoyed making sport of her. And she had allowed it—for a time. What Alynwick did not realize was that she would no longer tolerate his interference in her life, her friendships or indeed, any possible courtships.

He could go hang for all she cared.

“‘Night, miss,” Maggie murmured as Elizabeth settled back against the fluffed-up pillows.

“Maggie,” she found herself whispering, “what is the time?”

“Nearly two, miss.”

“And dawn?” she asked quietly as she turned to face the window she could not see out of. “What time does it arrive, now that we are in the midst of November?”

“Thinking of your gentleman caller, by chance?” her companion teased.

“Perhaps.” But she wasn’t. For some ungodly reason she was thinking of a mist-shrouded field and tendrils of early morning light flickering off gunmetal.

“Dawn will arrive by six. There is no need to fret. I will wake you with plenty of time to help you prepare.”

Maggie’s departure was silent, with only the click of the closing door alerting Elizabeth to the fact her companion had departed. Gathering Rosie close to her, she ran her hands through the spaniel’s long, silky coat.

“I won’t sleep tonight,” she whispered to the dog. “Damn him, he’s robbed me of another perfectly decent night’s sleep.”

Rosie made a little growling sound as she struggled to get comfortable. Despite the blackness that shrouded her, Lizzy turned to face her bedroom window. Beyond the glass, she could see in her mind’s eye the black, sooty grime of London. The town houses and the spire of churches and the dome of Saint Paul’s—all memories from when she’d possessed sight.

She saw a field covered with a thick white blanket of frost, and tendrils of mist hovering over the ground. In the breeze, wool greatcoats flapped, and she heard pistols fire, the shots cracking through the silent air, leaving grey smoke twirling upwards from the barrels.

She imagined the scene a hundred different times in those long hours she lay silently in bed, but it was always the same. The colour of blood had swum before her eyes, and the prone body of a man was revealed with the parting of the crimson.

It was Alynwick. And despite her attempts to deny it, her heart ached at the very thought.

Unable to withstand the images she saw in her head, she felt around her nightstand, searching for the drawer pull. Finding it, she opened the drawer and lifted out the little leather journal that lay hidden inside.

Opening the cover, she allowed her fingers to trace over the brittle vellum page. She had found the diary of her notorious ancestor Sinjin York years ago, while playing in the attic of her family’s country house. She hadn’t understood what it was until she was older.

Once she discovered that it was a very detailed account of Sinjin’s illicit affair with an unknown woman whom he called “My Veiled Lady,” Elizabeth had been on a quest to discover the woman’s identity.

She had lost her sight before she could, and now she was left with only the memories of passages she could no longer read.

But tonight, for some reason, she took comfort in the feel of the familiar brittle pages, which she knew held Sinjin’s flowing script. And words that had captured not only her imagination, but aroused her womanly needs—needs she had always imagined sharing with one person.

4th May, 1147—Carpathians.

I have taken up the cross for my kingdom in the fight to protect Jerusalem and all of Christendom. My army is amassed, and a truce, however tenuous, has been reached between myself and the French king, Louis VII, whose army has joined with mine. We will march to Bucharest, where we will meet with the German emperor. Then on to Byzantium, where I pray we will be allowed a peaceful crossing. I have received a missive from the Byzantine emperor, Manuel I Comnenus, who will guarantee our safe passage.

We leave on the morn, the 6th of May, the feast day of Saint George. The priest that travels with me will not hear of crossing the woods and mountains on the eve of Saint George. For at nightfall on this day it is believed that all things evil have full sway. The priest is old and superstitious, but I relent for the peace of my men, who are swayed by the tales of village peasants and gypsies, who fill their minds with talk of unnatural creatures that roam unseen around us.

I must remind myself that the Carpathians are a wild and untamed place, far removed from my beloved England. If I close my eyes I can still see the rocky coastline of Yorkshire, smell the brine of the North Sea and taste the salt on my tongue.

My memory turns to Isolde, whom I treasure above all things on earth. She was fearful of my leaving; however I allayed my lover’s fears by telling her to remember me—my voice—for it will comfort her in the months ahead when she is alone. I assured my beloved Isolde that God will not forsake me on the field of glory, for which I fight for in His name. I shall return to her, the Crusades won, my heart still beating for her. I cannot help but wonder what she is doing, if she is sitting beneath the night sky thinking of me, as I am thinking of her….

Elizabeth had memorized that passage, just as she had all the other thrilling pages that followed. At first she had thought the diary merely an account of Sinjin’s travels from England to Jerusalem, and the events of the Crusades. And perhaps in the beginning that was the intention. But she had no sooner turned the page and read the next entry, than she’d been drawn into Sinjin’s private world of love, lust, obsession and sin….

17th May, 1147

Entered Constantinople. Reached an amicable arrangement with the Seljuk Turks. The men are nervous, fearing an attack from the Seljuks, who have been known to make alliances with the infidels. Spirits are low, especially now that it seems our priest has gone mad, possessed by some unseen thing, rambling about an unholy aura that follows us. He claims he sees that aura hovering over me—a warning, he claims, of temptation and sin. The man is mad, and I have dispatched him with four men to Sighisoara, where he will embark on a journey back to England.

The men believe the priest’s ramblings, and it is more and more difficult, what with the constant fatigue and heat and very great thirst, to appeal to their rational minds.

Tomorrow we leave for Edessa, where we will rest for a few days and regain our strength. Then I shall follow my Templar brothers, who will bring us to the Holy City and our fate—the fight to keep Jerusalem in Christian hands.

—Addendum; early dawn. I dreamed of a woman. Not Isolde, but a temptress, covered in jewels and a veil. She whispered to me, beckoned to me in my sleep to a land of exotic pleasures. I awoke with the memory of the priest’s wild eyes as he gave his dire warnings to me. Some sinful temptation was following me, and it would be my ruination.

My brethren must never find out about Isolde, nor must they ever discover my dreams of the woman, for I have taken my Templar vows of chastity. But I am only a man. Man was not made to be celibate. The Dukes of Sussex were born to love women, to pleasure them with bodies honed by fighting. And I have my fair share of desires. Even now, my body is hard and aching, with images clouding my judgement. Not images of beautiful Isolde, but the mysterious woman of my dreams.

I cannot help but think that this journey to the Holy City will change everything I have ever known—everything I am. I suspect it will not be the war we wage that does so, but instead, the woman of my dreams, whom I know awaits me in Jerusalem. Perhaps I am cursed as the mad priest claims, but no curse could prevent me from moving heaven and hell to find her.

No power on earth to prevent him from moving heaven and hell to find his beloved … Elizabeth wished she could find a man who felt that way about her. Silly, naïve dream, she thought as she clutched the diary to her breasts and allowed herself to slip into sleep. She owed it to Sinjin to discover this Veiled Lady. To reward his passion and devotion by learning their story, and perhaps one day recounting it to her nieces and nephews. For she did not dare think of her own children. She would not have a story like Sinjin and his lover. She had long ago given up that dream.

Move heaven and hell … She thought of that, heard it whispered in a dark, velvety, caressing voice, and saw the eyes of the devil himself. If only he had thought that way all those years ago.

CHAPTER FOUR

“NOW, LARABIE,” Black growled as he came to his feet behind Alynwick. “This is uncalled for. Allow us to emerge from the carriage, and your second and myself will commence with officiating this duel—utilizing the proper rules.”

“Why should I?” Larabie snarled as he kept the barrel of the pistol raised to the spot between Alynwick’s eyes. “The bastard has never played by the rules before. Defiling a man’s wife,” he grunted. “I should shoot off your bollocks instead of your head.”

“Larabie,” Alynwick drawled, “let us see if you’re man enough. Pull the damn trigger.”

“I wouldn’t,” Larabie’s second advised. “At that range, you’ll have the bastard’s brains splattered on your coat.”

Larabie’s slow smile was downright chilling. “Good. I’ll have my wife wash her lover’s blood and guts from the wool. Would serve the bitch right for what she’s done to me.”

“Gentlemen …” Black’s voice sounded much too resigned, and dare Iain say it, bored. “At this close range, we shall all be sprayed with Alynwick’s grey matter, considering he has some, of course.”

If Iain hadn’t been watching Larabie’s trembling hand, and the softly bobbing barrel of the duelling pistol aimed at his head, he would have turned and sent his friend a glare.

“Let us be reasonable,” Black murmured as he carefully shifted his tall body forward, filling up the door space of the coach. “A few paces out into the pasture, and then we may commence.”

Larabie suddenly whirled, warning Black away. That was when Iain saw his chance and took it, wrestling the pistol from his opponent. He had not expected it to be loaded—and he had certainly not expected to hear the ear-shattering crack of a bullet blast in the silence of the night.

Time seemed to shift, to stall, as Larabie’s jowled face grew white. With a smile born of arrogance, Alynwick waited to watch the earl’s expression turn from shock, to pain, to terror. It didn’t. Instead, Iain felt the burn of his own skin being torn apart. Then the heat of his blood seeping out, onto his shirt. The force of the bullet threw him back against Black, who caught him, covering his body with his own.

“You ass,” Iain rasped as he clutched the sleeve of Black’s coat. “Isabella will hang me by my bollocks if you get hurt.”

“Shut up,” Black muttered as he efficiently placed Iain on the damp ground. “The doctor!” he ordered, and Iain saw the tips of Larabie’s boots and those of his second move back, making way for the physician.

His body burned, the pain was substantial, and he suddenly was thankful that he had sat in his carriage for hours, drinking himself into a stupor. It had numbed the pain somewhat, and made it so he had not cried out, either in surprise or discomfort. He would not give that fat, fucking Larabie the pleasure of his weakness.

“I trust you are satisfied,” he said, trying to breathe as normally as possible.

“Honour was met,” Larabie’s second announced, and Black all but flew between the small space that set them apart, confronting the man with his fist knotted in his cravat.

“Honour was not met,” he snarled. “Larabie shot him in cold blood. None of the rules were adhered to. It wasn’t a fair duel.”

“It wasn’t fair of him to bed my wife!” Larabie roared, and Iain, not wanting to hear the earl’s pompous voice a second longer, rasped and waved his friend back over.

“Let it go,” he murmured as Black knelt down beside him. “I don’t think it’s fatal, anyway. Besides, I plan on playing this up to the lady. Surely she will see to it that I am well compensated for this business.”

“Damn you, this plan of yours is going to hell.”

Iain shrugged and winced in pain as a tearing burn made its way down his left arm. “Shoulder, I think. Bloody bastard is lucky it’s my left.”

“Make way, gentlemen,” the physician ordered. He set his black bag down on the damp grass beside Iain’s head. Alynwick’s coachman had taken a carriage lamp and was holding it over them, allowing its soft glow to illuminate the scene. Above him, Iain could see Larabie’s jowls quivering. To his left stood Black, his expression the colour of his name. The doctor pulled at Iain’s coat, revealing the soaked shirt beneath.

“Well, will the bastard live, or shall I make plans to leave for the continent tonight?” Larabie muttered.

“Shoulder wound,” the physician announced. “There’s no need to flee the scene, my lord.”

“Lucky bastard. Like a cat, he is. But one day, Alynwick, you’ll use up those nine lives, and I hope that when you are on the ninth and final one, it is my bullet that sends you straight to hell. Come along, Sheridan,” the earl ordered. “It is time to return home to deal with my wife.”

“Into the carriage, my lord,” the physician instructed. “I shall follow in mine. The bullet must be removed and the wound cleansed.”

“I thank you,” Iain growled as Black hefted him up from the wet grass, and none too gently, either. “My man will see to it.”

“You keep a surgeon at the ready, do you?” the physician said with offended hauteur.

Iain laughed at the thought. Sutherland was no doctor. He was barely a valet. But he was a hell of a villain, when Iain found himself in need of one.

“Well, then,” the doctor muttered with a snap of his leather satchel. “I shall bid you good-night.”

“You shouldn’t have ordered him away,” Black snarled as he all but dragged Iain up the carriage stairs. “Your injury is extensive. What if Sutherland can’t manage it?”

“Then I should think that butler of yours,” he gasped as he fell onto the carriage bench, “would do nicely.”

“Billings is at home with my wife, keeping her safe. I am not having him removed to tend you and your stupidity.”

“Fine, then,” Iain said as he let his head fall back against the squabs. Dawn was slowly rising in the distance, and he closed his eyes as blood continued to pump from his shoulder. “Take me to Sussex House,” he said, his voice sounding distant to his ears.

“Sussex House?” Black enquired. “What for? Patch yourself up first before we descend upon Sussex.”

“Damn you, man!” Iain roared. “Honour a man’s dying wish. Take me to Sussex House, to Elizabeth,” he heard himself murmur. Thankfully, he passed out before he could hear Black’s response.

ON THE EDGE OF Grantham Field, amongst the trees and the fog, stood a town coach with four gleaming black stallions. No one saw it, for he did not want them to. He was not ready for them yet. But soon … Soon the Brethren would be his.

“Did you expect this?” his companion asked as she smoothed her delicate hand up the length of his thigh.

Indeed, he had not. Alynwick was always the wild card in the troika that made up the Brethren Guardians. A hotheaded Scot, and a man who barely had any control over his base desires and his animal rage.

He had thought the marquis would simply blow the earl away, but instead, Alynwick had been wounded.

A measure of glee swam inside him. Alynwick was wounded—considerably so. It would make things that much easier with Alynwick out of the picture, even temporarily.

Patience, he told himself as the placket of his trousers fell open, and he was gripped by a knowing, skilled hand. Patience always paid off in the end. He had waited a long, long time for this. And soon, he would be rewarded.

Soon, the Brethren would belong to him—to Orpheus.

“Take me,” she whispered, and he rapped his walking stick against the carriage, sending the vehicle lurching forward.

“Soon, pet,” he mumbled. “I have something to do first. A little surprise for His Grace.”

“It’s not like you to be so kind,” she murmured as her lips worked their way down his neck.

“I’m in the giving mood,” he mumbled, thinking of what he would do. “And Sussex will be the benefactor.”

IN THE END, Black ignored his request, which was so typical of him. The bastard always did whatever he wanted. Instead of taking him to Sussex House, Black carried him, half-conscious, from the carriage and into Iain’s own town house, past his shocked butler, whose harsh, indrawn breath echoed off the fourteen-foot-high ceiling, and all the way up the ornately carved, curving staircase to Iain’s bedroom, where he dropped Iain onto the bed as though he were a sack of grain. Only then did Black rouse Sutherland.

Shortly after, his valet stumbled into the room, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “And what scrape have ye gotten yourself into this time, my lord?”

“What does it look like?” he growled. “I’m bleeding onto the sheets.”

Sutherland grunted when he saw the extent of the wound he was expected to work on. “Won’t be a pretty sight after I’m done, my lord.”

“He’s too pretty now,” Iain heard Black state in his characteristic sombre voice. “A little mark to remind him of his arrogance should be his reward for this night’s business. Patch him up, Sutherland.”

“The ladies will only find the scar more endearing, I’m afraid.”

“Yes. Peculiar how many ladies find something of merit in Alynwick.”

“I’m awake and can hear every damn word you’re both saying.”

“Good,” Sutherland muttered as he tore the blood-soaked shirt from Iain’s chest. “Then you know I’ll make a botch of this shoulder. But you’ll live.”

“Scotch,” he demanded, before saying, “I don’t give a damn what it looks like, just stop the bleeding.”

“You won’t be saying that once you have a look at my handiwork, I’ll wager.”

“For Christ’s sake, Sutherland, I’m not a vain man.”

“I wonder if you’d be claiming that if it was your face I was to work on.”

“Well, then I’d look like the devil on the outside, just as I am on the inside, wouldn’t I?”

Sutherland quirked a thick auburn brow. “Yer in one of those moods tonight, I see.”

“Get on with it, or I’ll drag myself out of this bed and find someone more inclined to work, instead of prattling like a maid.”

The sound of the crystal stopper popping out of the decanter was music to his ears. However, the roar he let out when Black poured a good measure of the liquid gold onto his shoulder was not.

“Like bloody hellfire,” he gasped between gritted teeth, stiffening under the burning onslaught. “And there’s cheaper stuff to be used for medicinal purposes. That’s a twenty-five-year aged single malt, Black, and you’ve pissed it away for no good reason.”

“I assumed saving your hide from a stinking purulence would be reason enough.”

“The inferior brands can do that as well as any of them.”

Black merely raised one laconic brow as he peered down at him from the side of the bed. “I’ll leave you to your duties, Sutherland. Nothing more to drink for his lordship, no matter what he says or threatens you with. I’m tired of lugging him about tonight. I want him to walk into Sussex House on his own two feet.”

“Right, my lord.”

Iain glared at the door as it slammed behind Black, then turned to give his valet a wrathful glare. “Cease coddling the damn wound and sew it shut. Or better yet, heat the poker and singe it closed.”

It would match the brand on his chest, the one that had been seared upon his flesh when he had been anointed as a Brethren Guardian. Iain had stoically endured the pain, making his father press the glowing brand harder into his skin, trying to break him. But Iain had always been as stubborn as a mule and had refused to do anything but look up into the spiteful eyes of his father and dare him to do his worst. He had suffered silently beneath his initiation. He could withstand the same now.

“I will not burn you,” Sutherland said with disgust. “Barbaric thought. I’ll sew you up good and tight and hope for the best.”

“Much more expedient with the poker. Use it.”

Sutherland ignored him as usual. And unable to provoke a fight to give himself something to fix upon other than the pain, Iain thought of pleasure. His thoughts drifted back to the hours before—at the Sumners’, when he had clutched Elizabeth’s voluptuous curves to his hard body.

A man could make a meal out of her. He certainly wanted to. An image took hold, and he barely felt the straight needle prick him, diving under skin and tissue, grabbing more flesh before being pulled tight, tugging the ragged edges of his wound together.

Closing his eyes, he thought of Elizabeth, her long, sable hair unbound, spilling in velvet waves upon a glistening mahogany dining table. Naked, pale, full curves outlined against shining veneer, beneath the delicate glow of a chandelier. She was surrounded by wine goblets and tiered plates of grapes and strawberries.

He sat at the end of the table, sipping a dark merlot, studying the landscape of her body, the way it arched and curved before him. He would wait—would make her wait—as he watched her. He would talk to her, suggest wicked, lascivious things he wanted to watch her do. She would respond to his voice, would be helpless to stop the movement of her body along the table. Her lips would move and part, her breasts … He groaned, not in pain, but pleasure, as he thought of the way her breasts would bounce and sway. He’d have her on her knees, palms planted on the table as she crawled to him, amidst rolling grapes spilling from overturned silver dishes, and streaming rivulets of red wine snaking from toppled goblets. He would watch her, unable to take his gaze off her breasts, the turgid nipples, the way her shining hair moulded to the sway of her full, rounded hips.

“Lower” he would command, and she would respond, as she had once responded so beautifully to his voiced commands. In this fantasy, it was no less true. Lower … And she would raise her hips, lower her breasts till they just scraped the table with their pointed tips. He’d watch the red wine cover her nipples as she crawled, and the wine drip from them.

Licking his dry lips, Iain watched his fantasy play out in his heated mind, the drops of crimson wine slipping from elongated nipples, the slow, seductive crawl on her knees to him, the feel of his cock, so hard, so throbbing, released from his trousers, his hand fisting it…. Then the movement of his body, the lowering of his head, his lips beneath her breast—so close, waiting for the next drop of wine to slip effortlessly onto his tongue. Her sigh when he drew her into his mouth and suckled, as he pleasured himself … He could come just imagining it.

“I believe, my lord, that we are all finished.”

Reluctantly, Alynwick pulled himself from the fantasy to see his shoulder bandaged in white cloth. One glance down the length of his body to his tented kilt made him close his eyes with a groan.

“Whatever you were thinking about, my lord,” Sutherland said knowingly, “it worked. You didn’t flinch once.”

TWO HOURS LATER, Alynwick sat in a large chair before the Duke of Sussex, with yet another tent in his kilt as he thought of the images that had flowed through his vivid, fevered imaginings while Sutherland worked over him.

How easy it was to conjure the image of a fair Elizabeth, naked, crawling toward him, red wine staining her body. In his mind he had been seated like a sultan before a harem girl, studying her—his possession. He loved to watch, and there was no woman he found more fascinating than Elizabeth York, with her exterior of innocence, and the eagerness of a harlot. He’d once watched her in the grass, watched the undulations of her body beneath his roving hand as he made her come with slow, knowing caresses and whispered words that were far too indecent for any well-bred young lady’s ears.

She had been younger then, less full than she was now. She’d been beautiful to his eyes, but now … Now he’d give what remained of his soul to see her body, all full, voluptuous curves and soft planes, with secret places for his hand to touch, his lips to caress. He’d had only a glimpse of it last evening, and he wanted more. So much more. To say he was hungry for her was an amusing understatement. He was starved for her.

He groaned, wiped his palm along his unshaved face. He was damn hard, sitting before Sussex while thinking lurid thoughts of the duke’s sister. He really was an unrepentant rake to debase the innocent sister of his friend with his lascivious dreams and erotic wishes.

“What’s with you?” Black demanded of the silent duke. “Are you ill?”

For the first time, Iain took in Sussex’s haggard appearance, and felt some measure of pleasure. His Grace looked nearly as worn as he did this morning.

When he and Black had barged into Sussex’s study not more than ten minutes before, they had roused the duke from his sleep on the couch. Sussex had nothing to grumble about; he had not been shot in the shoulder. It was then that Alynwick recalled he had some unfinished business with his friend.

“What the devil d’ye think ye were doing, fobbing me off at Grantham Field?” he asked indignantly, his anger getting the better of him and allowing him to slip into his brogue. “Ye were supposed ta be me second!”

“No,” Sussex growled impatiently, “one of us was supposed to be your second, and because you showed up at the Sumners’ musicale drunk and itching for a fight, I had to bodily remove you from said musicale. Ergo, I was not able to perform as your second, since I wanted to shoot you my goddamn self!”

“I wasna drunk,” Alynwick grumbled, wishing he could forget about the scene he’d created at the Sumners’. “Itchin’ fer a fight, aye, but no’ drunk.”

“Careful,” Black said with some amusement, “your cultured English accent is giving way to your heathen Highland one.”

Black was hardly helping. And the bastard seemed to be taking an extraordinary amount of enjoyment out of it all. Iain rarely allowed himself to fall victim to his brogue. All the more evidence that something was ruling him, and it was not the coldhearted calculations he was notorious for.

Sussex’s steel-grey eyes settled on him once more. “Surely you did not believe that it was the thing to do to be your second after the stir you caused at the Sumners’? Everyone saw what happened, and how I had to remove your arm from Sheldon’s throat!”

“Get at yer point, ye windbag,” he snapped, hating the earl’s name being mentioned. Iain had purposely tried to forget that Elizabeth had been in that room hanging on to the arm of another man. And by the looks of things, bloody well enjoying herself.

“My point, you infuriating brute, is this. We are not supposed to be friends, or even acquaintances, in the eyes of the polite world. We’re to pretend that our own private circles do not cross, so no one will suspect that we are acquainted—in ways we have all vowed never to reveal. And then you stroll in and force my hand, making my sister the object of ridicule and gossip, and you wonder why I didn’t come and perform as your second? The reason, you Highland ninny, is simple—because no one would believe it! No one would think it plausible that we were out for a pint, met up and I just merrily agreed to travel at dawn to some godforsaken farmer’s field to aid you in putting a bullet hole in someone, when not four hours before you were importuning my sister and nearly killing the Earl of Sheldon!”

Black’s gaze volleyed between them, then he groaned as the truth of Sussex’s revelations sank in. “Alynwick, you didn’t. Good God, you did, didn’t you?”

Iain was not chastised, and more to the point, he was ready to fight again. “You didn’t force me away from anything,” he sneered. “I allowed you to tear me off that piece of trash.”

“And how do you know anything about Sheldon,” Sussex growled, “when your face is constantly gazing into the bottom of a whisky decanter?”

Iain lunged over the desk, ready to tear his friend apart, but Black caught him by the coat and hauled him back. “None of that, now,” he grunted as he tossed Alynwick into the chair. “Stay!” he shouted, pointing at Iain as if he were a biddable canine when he tried to stand up again.

“I’m no’ a bloody mongrel to heed yer commands.”

“Really?” Black straightened his waistcoat and resumed his seat. “You look like something that’s been roaming the street for weeks. Where did you go after I left you in Sutherland’s care?”

He’d gone to find Lady Larabie, that’s where. But he’d been too deep in thought to do anything but regale the lady with the gossip of his fight with her husband. Contrary to Larabie’s boasts, the man had not returned home to deal with his wife, but instead made his way to his club in St. James’s. That had left the lady free to dally, but dallying had been the last thing on Iain’s mind. In a strange mood, he had sought out Georgiana for something else entirely. Comfort perhaps. Solace. She’d provided nothing of the sort—only petulance that he did not seem inclined to pleasure her. He was literally sickened by it, sitting in her overly ornate little parlor fending off her roving hands, when all he really wanted was to lay his head in her lap and feel her feminine fingers run through his hair while he pretended he was with Elizabeth. But it had all been to no avail. The lady was not capable of solace, and he had left, disgusted with himself for desiring such a thing. Iain Sinclair did not need anything from anyone—most especially sanctuary in a woman’s arms.

With a sigh, he answered, “You doona want t’ know where I was.”

“By the stench of you, I think I already do.”

Iain sent Black a glare, aware that he appeared debauched. But he wasn’t. He was restless, mindless. There was a sickness ruling his thoughts, and if he had the courage to look through the darkness inside him, he’d be able to name the illness. He was heartsick, his soul crying out for the one remedy that could cure his illness. Elizabeth.

But she did not want him, or the love that he could no longer deny.

Sliding deeper into the chair, Iain allowed his hands to riffle through his hair. He wanted his bed, the cool, crisp sheets, and he wanted the images of Elizabeth burning his brain. In his fantasies he could have anything. Even Elizabeth back again.

“Good God, Alynwick, what the devil were you thinking, coming to the Sumners’ and stirring up that scene?” Sussex continued, his considerable arrogance pricked. “It’ll be in all the gossip rags this morning, and we don’t need that kind of exposure. Damn you!”

Sulking, Iain stared out the window, thinking of last night and the scene that had greeted him. A smiling—glowing—Elizabeth standing beside a man who was looking down upon her with far too much interest. “A provocation, I believe.” He was under control now, his brogue banished. “I was never good at resisting taunts.”

“Taunts?” Black asked quizzically as he looked from Alynwick to Sussex. The duke shrugged.

“I told you,” Alynwick growled with quiet menace, “to leave her out of this.”

“We’re afraid, old boy, that neither of us understands a damned thing coming out of your mouth,” Black drawled.

“Yes, whom are you referring to, and what was this taunt?”

“Elizabeth!” Iain said it with such a snarl that Sussex sat back in his chair. “Damn you both, don’t you know the trouble she can get into? It could make matters worse for us. She has no place in this affair. She should be at home, beneath a wool blanket, sitting by the fire, where nothing and no one can touch her!”

Black and Sussex stared at one another, confusion written all over their expressions, but Iain didn’t give a damn. So be it if they discovered that he was unable to think of anything other than Elizabeth this morning.

“Dear me,” said a sweetly feminine voice from the doorway. “All this roaring and fighting has awakened the entire house.”

Iain stiffened at the sound, but kept his gaze focused on the grey streaks of daylight breaking through the rain clouds. He was not yet ready to see her, to feel the onslaught of emotions when he looked into her lovely and haunting grey eyes.

“Elizabeth, do come in,” Sussex ordered.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” Iain muttered, while he rose.

“Really, Alynwick, don’t be so childish. Do you think I am naive? I know exactly what you think of me, my infirmity and my limited skill in aiding your cause. You don’t have to go slinking off because I’ve overheard you talking about me.”

It was like a knife to his heart. He never wanted to hurt her. Never again. “My apolo—”

“I don’t require that, either,” she said. “Because it’s a lie. You aren’t sorry. It’s what you feel. Don’t bother to deny it.”

“You have no idea what I fe—”

With a slight wave of her hand, she effectively cut him dead, and he knew the expression on his face was one of shock and outrage.

“Do carry on,” Elizabeth ordered. “I only came for a cup of tea. Mrs. Hammond claims to have brought you a tray, and I don’t want to wait for another tray to be sent up.”

Black did the honours pouring, and Iain watched as his friend carefully passed her the cup and saucer. Her morning gown, a crème-colored silk-and-lace confection with long, fluttering sleeves, was at once prim and proper, yet so damn enticing. It made him want to slowly pull the tie of her wrapper loose to discover what wicked thing she wore beneath.

“Now, then, keep it down, if you please, or the servants will be privy to everything. I heard two maids giggling as I approached the study. No doubt they were spying. As an aside, Lucy and I will be meeting today. It’s likely she’ll come here, so I hope the three of you will make yourselves scarce, because I plan on quizzing her about matters.”

“What matters?” Iain demanded. He hated how Sussex allowed her take to part in any Brethren discussions. It wasn’t safe.

“That, my lord, is none of your concern. Seek your own clues to this case, and I will seek mine. Now, then, come along, Rosie,” she said regally. And obeying her ladyship, Elizabeth’s spaniel nudged her in the right direction, away from anything that might impede her regal exit.

“Damned female,” Iain grunted bitterly. “A curse and a pox on headstrong women who won’t be led by a man.”

“I daresay you’ll have half the women of London sporting pox marks and curses, Alynwick.”

Iain scowled at Black, but continued to watch as Elizabeth disappeared through the door. The thought of her being hurt while trying to aid them in the search for Orpheus sent fear through him. Iain Sinclair, Marquis of Alynwick, feared nothing—except losing Elizabeth. Even though she did not belong to him, and likely never would, Iain took comfort in the fact that he could see her, listen to her, stand back and quietly watch her, and think of the impossible—all the things he would do and say to her if she was his to possess. If he couldn’t see her, if she were taken and no longer a part of his world, he wouldn’t survive. His stolen looks and dreams of her sustained him.

No, Elizabeth must not be allowed to be part of this mystery that surrounded them. The danger was too real, and the thought of losing her much too painful. But before he could speak his mind, and protest her involvement, Black interjected.

“Now, then, gentlemen, if you please,” the earl murmured as he sat in the chair opposite Sussex’s desk, sipping at his tea as though he were a damned prince. “The task of the duel is done, the objective reached and our mission can commence,” he said smoothly. “I acted as second, performed a credible act, and now it is all water under the bridge.”

“Oh, go to hell, Black,” Alynwick muttered as he sank farther into the matching chair. “You’re being a self-righteous bastard, and I’d love to shove my fist into that smug face of yers.”

Black’s black brows rose over the rim of his teacup, and Sussex groaned, closing his eyes.

“Be that as it may, we need to go forward from here. What is our next move? Sussex, have you learned any more about the coins, or Orpheus?”

“As a matter of fact I have, just last night—”

“Your pardon, Your Grace,” his butler said from the doorway.

“What is it now?” Sussex groaned, sending the butler, Hastings, scurrying behind the wooden panel, only to peer around it.

“You have a caller.”

“What?”

“A caller. A visitor,” Hastings clarified.

“Now? At this hour?”

“Your Grace?” the butler discreetly cleared his throat. “Shall I send her on her way?”

Before Sussex could answer, a flurry in emerald-green velvet trimmed in black satin swam through the door, causing Sussex’s butler to grow white with horror.

“And what is the meaning of this?”

Iain watched as Lucy Ashton stormed into the room, cornering Sussex in his domain.

“I do not,” she spat, “respond to this sort of blackmail. Oh, good day, Lord Black, Lord Alynwick.” She dropped a quick but polite curtsey, then turned once more to face Sussex, before either of them had a chance to rise from his chair. Iain watched her slamming a folded piece of paper on the desk, wondering where her ire sprang from.

“You, Your Grace, may offer me an explanation.”

Sussex waved his hand, silently telling them to bugger off, but Iain was not inclined to honour his wishes. At the duke’s lethal glare, he and Black reluctantly started to leave.

They were strolling across the study when Mrs. Hammond, the Sussex housekeeper, screamed with such a bloodcurdling howl that they all went running into the hall.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hammond shouted. “Oh, good God in heaven! Your Grace! You must come!”

They found the plump housekeeper, her white linen cap askew, running breathlessly down the hall from the kitchen, her arms flailing.

“What is it, Mrs. Hammond?” Sussex enquired, catching the woman by the shoulders.

“There now, lass,” Iain murmured. “Take a deep breath and tell us. It canna be as bad as all this.”

The housekeeper’s brown eyes were wild with fear. Shaking her head, she looked from Iain to the duke. “It can, your lordships. It can be worse. Oh,” she cried into her apron. “It’s over there, Your Grace, at the door to the kitchen gardens. A dead body—oh, I shall never recover!”

CHAPTER FIVE

SUSSEX WAS FIRST TO REACH the kitchen, with Iain hard on his heels. Alynwick had the very unsettling image of Elizabeth lying crumpled in the back garden, her body twisted in an unnatural position. It made him want to run to find her, to knock Sussex out of the way out of fear and desperation. Iain’s throat was dry, his breathing ragged, and in his mind he frantically called her name. Beth …!

The garden door was open wide, and a wheelbarrow heaped with dried leaves and twigs sat on the flagstone path.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sussex growled, his boots ringing shrilly as he ran. When he reached the barrow he stopped, frozen. Blue satin spilled from it, rippling in the early morning wind. Iain closed his eyes and whispered a prayer of gratitude. It was not Elizabeth.

Sussex brushed the leaves away, and the face of a woman was revealed, pasty white and bruised, and unfortunately, dead. “Anastasia,” he whispered.

Iain heard Lucy gasp behind him. Saw over his shoulder that Elizabeth, still wearing her morning gown and wrapper, was hastily making her way down the hall with her pregnant spaniel waddling beside her, guiding her mistress away from a rosewood table. On top was an enormous bouquet of hothouse flowers and a silver salver filled with correspondence that sat precariously near the corner of the table, where it might catch on Elizabeth’s sleeve. Stepping back, Iain went to her and took her arm none too gently. He was trembling, still thinking of the vision of her lying dead on the flagstones. Her damnable independent streak would be the ruin of her, not to mention the ruination of his sanity. “Unhand me, Alynwick!”

“How did you know it was me?” he asked incredulously, unnerved, and more than curious about how she was able to discern it was him from all the others present.

“I can smell you, if you must know!”

Something primal and visceral ran through him as the intimacy of her words hit him. “You know my scent?”

He hadn’t meant for his voice to be almost a growl, nor had he meant to pull her roughly to a stop. But now that he had her, her elbows cupped in his palms, her lace wrapper smashed up against his chest, he wasn’t going to apologize.

Looking down at her upturned face, he saw surprise and wariness in her gaze. How long it had been since he’d allowed himself to look deeply into her eyes? They were perfect, a stormy grey, the black pupils large, the left one a bit larger than the right. A lush sweep of curved black lashes blinked slowly. He could see himself reflected in her eyes, and selfishly was relieved that she could not see his lovelorn expression—the hope that something more than animosity might grow between them.

“How do I smell?” he asked, his voice quiet and a bit hoarse. She softened, yielding the slightest fraction, and he bit his lip at the way her breasts pressed against him. Resisted the urge to wrap his arm around her waist and slip his free hand beneath her wrapper to cup her, to pull at her nipple, preparing to draw it into his mouth.

“Like the woods,” she said, her voice not at all steady and sure, “at twilight. Musky, earthy, with the taste of cedar and the crispness of night.”

Twilight had always been her favourite time of the day. When she had started losing her sight, the glare of the sun had always diminished her vision. But come night, and the dark blues, grays and mauves of evening, Elizabeth saw everything clearer, sharper. He had purposely made love to her for the first time at twilight so that she might see everything he did to her.

It had been in the woods, on the Sinclair plaid, that he had taken her. Had watched the night fall upon her naked body, which glowed pure and innocent beneath the silvery moonlight and his large hands. How he wanted that back—to have her once again beneath him!

Frowning, she tried to pull away, but he held her tight.

“Stay.” One word, said with the hope of a man struggling to hold on.

“No.”

She pulled away, but he reached for her again, forced her to accept his arm. As they walked out into the early morning sun, he took in the scene, described what he saw to Elizabeth, who suddenly seemed to be holding on to him, not the other way around.

“Good God, a woman? Dead?” she gasped.

“Yes,” he whispered. Sussex was speaking.

“Who is it? Good Lord, how did she come to be here, in our kitchen garden?” Elizabeth demanded.

“Shh, let’s listen,” Iain whispered. “Your brother is investigating the body now. I see recognition in his eyes. Sussex,” he called out. “Who the devil is she?”

The duke didn’t answer.

“She’s still warm,” Lucy whispered beside them, and Iain watched as she crossed herself, shuddering. “And look.” Lucy pulled a folded letter from the woman’s lax fingers. Iain read the missive over Sussex’s shoulder, then reached for Elizabeth, unconsciously wrapping a protective arm around her waist.

It might have been the redhead. We crossed paths, but I thought I’d give you one final warning. Send another spy to my club, and the redhead will suffer a fate far more painful than this one.

It could very well have been Elizabeth, Iain thought, and despite her resistance, he lifted her into his arms and carried her back into the house, for fear the madman might be still lurking in the garden, might see her and fix his murdering gaze upon her. This had gone too far. It was much too dangerous for her to be allowed out of sight. She needed protecting.

“You will not aid Sussex anymore in our search for Orpheus, do you understand?” Iain demanded as he carried her deeper into the house, away from the horrible crime on the kitchen step.

“You will not tell me what I can and cannot do, my lord.”

“I can and I am. You will cease meddling.”

“Meddling? Your arrogance is not to be borne!”

“Nor is your reckless disregard for your safety!”

“Reckless disregard? Oooh!” She seethed, struggling in his hold. “How dare you, sir? I’ll have you know that I am extraordinarily careful….”

She trailed off, and out of curiosity he glanced down at her and saw a loathsome expression cross her face. “It’s not that you are worried about my safety, is it? The truth of the matter is you don’t believe I can be any help at all because of my blindness. You think me an inconvenience. A hindrance.”

“That is not it.”

“Put me down. At once!”

He obeyed her. Not because he wanted to, but because there was something in the way she said it that gave him pause.

She turned to him, signaled for Rosie to come to her, then tilted her chin in defiance. “I do not need your protection or your protestations. I don’t need you. I never needed you.”

And then she turned away, haughty and beautiful, and begging to be picked up and carried off to her room and ravished until her words were not refusals, but entreaties.

“I will protect you, regardless of what you say or how you feel,” he quietly vowed. He had said that once before, and he had failed miserably. But this time he meant it. He would protect Elizabeth even if it killed him.

“LIZZY, WHAT BRINGS YOU here?” Sussex asked sleepily.

With arms outstretched, Elizabeth waved them in front of her, trying to search for any obstacles in her way.

“Your valet said you had a headache. I wanted to check on you.”

“No, keep going straight, otherwise you’re going to crash headlong into the bedpost.”

She was relieved that Adrian had not bothered to stir himself from the bed to help her. She’d had her fill of overprotective men who sought to stifle her with help, reminding her of how she was nothing but a disabled nuisance.

“There. If I plop down here will it be on a chair or a stool?”

“Dressing chair.”

Lowering herself, Elizabeth felt around with her hands for the rounded edges of the seat. “There,” she said, while she artfully arranged her skirts, hoping she appeared appropriate sitting there, wondering what she was wearing this morning. She had been too irate over Alynwick’s demands that she keep her nose out of Brethren business to enquire about the colour of her dress. It was taffeta, she knew, just by the way it sounded as she arranged the long skirts. A grosgrain taffeta; she could feel the nap beneath her sensitive fingertips. Other than that, she had no clue what Maggie had dressed her in.

“You look lovely in that shade of yellow.”

“Thank you. I was wondering what color this gown was.”

“The hue reminds me of a summer day.”

“Good heavens, brother, I do believe that Lady Lucy’s penchant for description is rubbing off on you.”

“Do you? I had rather hoped that it would be the other way around—that I might be rubbing off on her.”

“And what makes you think you are not?”

“Because she made it known, in no uncertain terms, that she finds me rather loathsome.”

“Posh,” Lizzy said, waving away her brother’s worry. “Lucy is confused, is all. She feels for you, Adrian. I can sense it. She doesn’t loathe you at all. She is merely trying to understand what it is you do to her. Besides, we had a chat over tea this morning, after that horrible business was concluded, and she asked me a few questions about you.”

“Really?” The covers rustled, as though he was sitting up. “What questions?”

“I am not at liberty to share our discourse, but suffice it to say that I think you have captivated her, despite her best intentions not to notice you.”

“And when did you become an expert in affairs of the heart?”

“After the stacks of penny dreadfuls Isabella and Lucy have been reading to me these past weeks.”

“Ah,” he said, laughing. “Advice from overwrought literature. You are indeed an expert.”

“Mark my words, Adrian. Lucy will be your wife, and will fall head over heels in love with you. Every bit as much, if not more, than you love her.”

She was met with silence, and she listened for the sounds in the room. Nothing. Adrian must be lying there, hands folded behind his head, studying her. Drat the man, he was too observant. She never could hide much from him.

“Lizzy?” he murmured, and she heard the silent question in his voice.

“I only came to find you, to see if you might need anything.”

“Well, here you are,” her brother drawled, sounding amused. “Risking life and limb to check on me and my aching head. Isn’t that what you claimed?”

“Indeed. How is your head?”

“I took a sulphur tonic and it is much improved.”

Curling her lips, she said, “I thought I smelt something foul upon entering this room, but felt it was impolite and far too personal to point it out.”

Adrian laughed again and she heard him settling back onto his pillows. “And what of the other questions, Lizzy?”

She never could fool Adrian. There was a time, when she was much younger, that Adrian had been nothing but a thorn in her side. He’d been mean, taunting, but then he had grown quite ill, and was whisked away by their father to a remote estate. It had taken months for him to heal from his ailment, and when she had next seen him, he had been a changed man. Kind and thoughtful. Protective without being overbearing, and so very, very understanding of her needs. She had been completely blind upon his return, and she frequently lamented the fact that she could not see his face. See the man he had become.

“Let’s have the real reason, Lizzy. Out with it.”

Shrugging, she fidgeted with her hands. “I came to ask about Lucy. I wondered, with the events of the morning, how she was. She seemed rather determined to avoid the topic with me.”

He sighed. “I sent her home with a footman to protect her. I read the note to you, so you know the bastard might have just as easily killed her—the redhead in the note, no doubt—as opposed to Anastasia. And the thought of it chills me to the core.”

“Yes, Anastasia,” Lizzy murmured, thinking of the lady who had been murdered and presented to them in the back garden. “Imagine, Lucy crossing paths with that monster.”

“I’d rather not. I’ve barely slept thinking of it, and how it might have been her, her red hair spilling from the wheelbarrow, the bruises on her lovely neck.”

“She is safe, and I have no doubt she will remain thus. She seemed unnerved to me. I doubt she will go searching for trouble, or any of those occult meetings and séances she has been dabbling in.”

“I shall have to find a way to believe as you do. But, Lizzy, I’m terrified. I have only you to confess it to, but I’m frightened to the marrow of my bones that this man we hunt might strike again before we find him. He knows so much about us—the Brethrens, our father….”

“As to that, I have questions, Adrian.”

“I knew you would.”

“What did you tell the servants about Anastasia?”

“I lied, of course. Said that she was an actress from the opera who took an unnatural fixation with me. She killed herself because I would not have her. Seems a bit vain and sanctimonious, but the staff knows that I am nothing if not a stickler for proprieties. They believed my reluctance to begin an affair with an opera dancer. They accepted what I told them, and will carry on in their service, and silence, as they always have.”

“But you were saddened by the tale. I hear it in your voice even now.”

“I wish I did not have to malign her reputation after death. Seemed such a cruel, unforgiving thing to do, to claim her to be something she was not, just to save my reputation.”

“Not only your reputation, but the knowledge of the Guardians. She would understand, I think, Adrian.”

“Yes. She would. She was that sort of woman. I only regret that she knew such suffering in her life.”

“She was Father’s mistress?” she guessed. The woman would have known no kindness, no softness from their father. No man was more cold, more unforgiving than him.

“I heard your gasp when I announced her name. I thought perhaps you knew her, or of her.”

“No, I didn’t. I guess it was merely a sound of shock. Father never struck me as the sort to keep a woman. How did she bear it, do you think, suffering and enduring him?”

“Theirs was a strange relationship. She loved him. And in his own way, I think he … cared for her. His style of caring, anyway.”

“I never knew. Never saw her, or heard him speak of her.”

“Wives and daughters are not supposed to learn of a man’s mistress, Lizzy.”

“You did.”

“That was … different.” His voice was quieter, more mysterious now. “Circumstances beyond my control, I’m afraid. I shielded the secret from you because I knew it would hurt you, cause you pain when you thought of your—our mother being betrayed.”

“I never knew, yet somehow, whoever killed this woman put a connection together between you and her.”

“To Father, and by extension me. God only knows how he discovered Ana’s connection to the house of York. Because of it, I’ve added extra security within the house, and outside. I won’t leave you vulnerable, Lizzy, while I am trying to solve this mystery.”

“Yes, of course. Very unnerving to discover what happened this morning, and on our own doorstep. Poor Anastasia, I hope she’s at peace and did not suffer much.”

“You seem to be bearing up rather well, considering the circumstances.”

Lizzy shrugged. She was hiding it well, she supposed. But it was rather unnerving to be blind. How would she tell if anything was out of place? How would she know if an intruder had gained entrance into her home, or loomed over her while she was asleep, with a knife pressed to her throat?

“Lizzy, what is really on your mind?”

Frowning, she tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “She was helping you, wasn’t she—with this Guardian business? You allowed Anastasia to assist you.”

“I didn’t ask her to, Lizzy,” Adrian said softly. “She wanted to and would brook no refusal. She informed me that she had a direct entrance into the club, that her lover knew Orpheus. I agreed to it because it’s been the closest we’ve gotten to him, except for Alynwick’s—” Her brother coughed, stopping midsentence.

“Alynwick’s what?” she demanded.

“He has, er, a connection to someone who frequents the club.”

“Some notorious tart, I’d wager,” Lizzy said haughtily, but the bitterness in her voice betrayed her true feelings. Damn Iain for making her still feel anything for him. “It must be Lady Larabie, then.”

“What? How can you know of that?”

“Oh, come, brother, I am blind, not stupid or hard of hearing. I heard the gossip about him and the newly wed Lady Larabie. I also learned there was to be a duel. From the sounds of him this morning, he must have escaped it unscathed.”

“Lizzy.”

“No matter. Alynwick’s life and what debauchery he makes of it is none of my concern. What do I care if he is killed for his adulterous deeds? Good riddance, I would say. The scroll he keeps as part of the Guardians’ treasure could easily be given to you or Black, and instead of three Brethren there could be two perfectly capable souls.”

“What is it with you two? If it isn’t him demanding that I keep you out of matters, it’s you voicing your distaste for the fellow. What happened to make you notice one another, when you have never bothered with each other before now?”

Elizabeth felt herself stiffen. Adrian was coming too close to the truth.

“Alynwick said I was to stay out of Brethren business. In fact he demanded it. I won’t have it, Adrian. Who is he to demand anything of me?”

There, she’d said it, the real reason for her visit. Heaving a sigh, she waited for her brother’s answer.

“Normally, I would say he is an ass and order you to ignore him, but in this case, I have to agree. It’s become personal, and whoever this Orpheus is, he knows of Lucy and my feelings for her. I’m distracted, Lizzy, and I can’t be worrying over both you and Lucy. Seeing Anastasia this morning … Well, I couldn’t survive if it were you or Lucy.”

“I’m not an invalid, Adrian, to be coddled and cosseted.”

“I didn’t say you were, and I’m not treating you as one.”

“He is.”

“He, who?” Elizabeth could hear annoyance in her brother’s voice.

“Alynwick.”

“Well, he is being a royal pain, what with the scene he created last night.”

She didn’t want to think of last night and how he had humiliated her. She had enough anger ruling her now, without more fat added to the fire. “He is purposely leaving me out. He practically shoved me from the salon this morning when all of you were discussing the murder and what was to be done. As a consequence I didn’t hear what my role was to be.”

“You don’t have one, Lizzy.”

The blow was instantaneous, and it hurt. “You’re listening to him! I can’t believe it! Alynwick of all people? Adrian, you traitor!”

“For once he has a valid point. Lizzy.” Her brother sighed. “We cannot avoid the obvious. You’re at a disadvantage and it makes you extremely vulnerable.”

Jumping up, Elizabeth fisted her hands at her sides. “I’ll hinder you, is that it?”

“Of course not.”

“While you and Black and Alynwick are out searching for the monster who killed Anastasia, you want me home, where you don’t have to worry about your blind sister tripping into danger. Well, Adrian York, I am not completely useless,” she snapped, storming off.

“Lizzy, get back here.”

“I only thought to help,” she said, hating the sadness in her voice. “What else is left to me? I have no husband or children to occupy my time. I can’t see to paint or embroider, or read, or decorate. I can’t even shop without another set of eyes escorting me. I have nothing, Adrian. Nothing!”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, do not lie to yourself, thinking you are making me feel better. Lies only make me feel worse, for I know they are spoken out of pity. The truth is, I have never complained about my blindness or bemoaned my fate. I always had the Brethren Guardians to make me feel worthwhile and capable. I had you and Black to talk to, and I was involved in discussions, in the history of our ancestors. I was a part of the group, and it kept me happy. Now you are denying me the one thing that made my life worth anything.”

Whether she was intended to hear his sigh, Elizabeth did not know. But when her brother spoke, it was with a sense of resignation.

“Black and Alynwick have left to bury Anastasia’s body, and then they are to search her dwelling. They’ll be back this afternoon. Perhaps you might sit with us and hear what they’ve discovered.”

“I might as well be a dog you are throwing a bone to. It’s an appeasement.”

“It’s a compromise, Lizzy.”

“No, thank you. I shall be busy this afternoon, entertaining Lord Sheldon at tea.”

“He’s calling, is he? I knew he would. I will speak to you tonight, then, and tell you what I have learned about the murder. But that is all, Lizzy. I won’t allow you to do more than that. Witnessing what this fiend is capable of, I won’t throw you into danger—even if you did possess sight. I won’t risk it. You can rail and scream, and the answer will remain the same. You are not getting directly involved.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “I suppose this is all I can hope for, isn’t it—bits and scraps of information you wish to share with me?”

“For now, Lizzy.”

“Stay safe, Adrian. And do protect Lucy.”

He groaned. “She’ll be the death of me.”

“But it will be a pleasant death, won’t it?”

“Aye, it will.”

Elizabeth laughed at the smile she heard in his voice.

“Lizzy,” he called as she made her slow progression across the room. “It’s out of love that I said it, you know. I want you safe, and it’s hard enough for me to keep everyone I love safe.”

“I would be selfish not to acknowledge how grateful I am that everyone cares about my well-being. However, hoyden that I am, I bristle at being protected. I might have to accept your decision to keep me apart from Brethren business, but I don’t have to like it.”

“Lizzy, you have always been a part of the Guardians, and accepted as one of us. But that was before, when it was just talk, and secrets, and keeping the relics safe. There was no real, tangible danger. But now there is, and it’s a nasty business. It’s real, Elizabeth. Life and death, and not one of us is willing to risk your safety. Whatever you may think, Black keeps Isabella far away from danger, and any discussion of the Guardians. I plan to do the same with Lucy, if she ever consents to be my wife. You should not feel singled out, or abandoned.”

She felt like weeping. Strange how she hadn’t felt so hopeless and helpless since the summer her eyesight had left her. Lizzy experienced those same feelings, searching and struggling, wondering how to go on and where she might fit in. She understood Adrian’s concern, really, she did, but her brother didn’t realize that it was quite easy for Isabella and Lucy to be kept sheltered. They had not been born into a Guardian family. It was not their birthright. And more importantly, they had other things to keep their minds occupied. Isabella had a home and a husband, and one day children, and Lucy had the potential. Lizzy herself had none of that to offer comfort or stimulation. She was alone, and being with the Guardians, discussing it all, taking part, had been like a family to her. She was not alone then. Not incapable.

“You are always a part of this, Lizzy,” her brother said quietly. “I hope you know that. That you will always have a place with me.”

Yes. A thought that was comforting, yet bittersweet. Adrian would always take care of her, and she would always be protected, the blind sister, the blind aunt, living amongst the family he would have.

There would be nothing of her own. No life to lead apart from that of sister, sister-in-law and loving aunt. It made her absolutely miserable, and guilty for thinking this way, when there were women out there who would give up their souls for the kind of life she had.

“Good morning, brother,” she replied, hoping he didn’t hear the sadness in her voice. “I hope your head feels better.”

“And enjoy your tea—but not too much, Lizzy. The only hasty nuptials I am eager to announce are my own.”

“Silly man,” she said, smiling. “It’s just tea.”

“A lot can happen over tea and crumpets, Lizzy. Believe me.”

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