A Kiss of Lies (2 page)

Christian flinched under the low blow. He was not like his cowardly father. He’d proved it on the battlefield. Blood was not thicker than water. He would never hit or hurt a woman. Or would he?

He thought of the French woman who’d so casually set fire to the cart he had been trapped under, happy to watch his skin burn, and he knew, to his horror, this was no longer true.

To survive, he would. He’d do anything.

But could he have done such a vile act now that he was safe and the war was over? His mouth dried even further. In one of his blackouts, perhaps he would.

Fear, stinking fear, slid over his nakedness.

It seemed illogical that he’d been set up. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why anyone would go to such elaborate lengths to discredit him. He was nothing, a nobody. His injuries had made him a recluse from society. He was the decorated war hero everyone pitied and no one wanted to look at. They admired his sacrifice for mother England, but they did not want the constant reminder of it.

His stomach churned. He hated the pity. The flinching when people saw his face he could take. He flinched at himself too, hence his aversion to mirrors. But pity …

Simon voiced the question swirling in Christian’s mind. “Would you have us believe
someone has impersonated you? Why would this occur? Stop denying the changes in you since Waterloo, and do the honorable thing. Leave England, or I cannot say what my father will do to you.”

Simon was right. Christian had no enemies that he knew of, and prior to the war he’d been one of the popular, lovable group of rogues known as the Libertine Scholars.

He and five of his friends had attended Eton together, and they’d taken to books and learning, drawn together by a desire to use their brains for more than just sport and whoring—not that they hadn’t partaken of their fair share of those, and then some more. So much so, they’d earned the nickname of the Libertine Scholars, sin and learning being a wickedly exuberant combination.

Those happy and enjoyable days now seemed a distant memory.

Christian ran a hand through his hair and licked his cracked lips. “Could you pass me the water jug—please?” he asked, stalling for time so that he could try to make sense of what he was hearing.

“Bloody cheek,” said the Duke, but Simon passed him a glass of water.

“I’d never do this.” He stared hard into Simon’s eyes and saw a shadow of doubt flickering in their uneasy depths. “I’d never hurt your sister. I abhorred my father’s behavior. I am nothing like him.”

“Perhaps you committed this terrible atrocity because of everything you’ve suffered. Perhaps it has unhinged your mind.” Simon could not hold his gaze. “I think it best if you leave England. And don’t ever come back.”

“I’m not running. I did not—I could not have done this.” But his voice lacked conviction.

“You know you have not been yourself since Waterloo. Grayson—Lord Blackwood—tells me the blackouts have been getting worse. Can you honestly tell me you remember everything about last night?”

Grayson. Grayson was the only reason Christian was still alive.

Damaged, but alive. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

He shook his head. “No. On my honor, I cannot categorically state I remember everything about last evening. But surely the ladies of the house will vouch for me.”

“We cannot find a woman among them who shared your bed last night. The madam didn’t even know you were here.”

This was getting ridiculous. Christian ran a hand over his face. God, he was tired. Since Waterloo he couldn’t remember when he’d last had a proper night’s sleep. His nightmares made sleeping next to impossible.

Every time he closed his eyes he felt the searing heat melting his skin and the horrifying smell of his impending death. The unbearable pain …

He sucked a steadying breath deep into his lungs.

The madam
did
know he was here. Christian was the Honey Pot’s most consistent customer. What woman in her right mind would want to touch him unless paid to do so?

Christian stood and began pulling on his breeches. “I paid for a woman to come to my bed—I do remember that. Something is amiss. I remember that the woman seemed very cheap. Usually I have to pay over the odds.”

Simon had the gall to look at him with pity. “You don’t remember bringing Harriet here?”

“God damn it, I did not bring your sister here. I walked here. I remember because I noticed the chill.” Christian suddenly halted in his dressing. “Maybe this has something to do with Harriet. Maybe someone is trying to discredit her, not me.” He swallowed. “If that is the case and I have been used as a tool for vengeance, then I will of course do the honorable thing and offer my hand in marriage to save her reputation.”

The room fell silent, and the Duke’s fists clenched by his side, his face flaring red with rage.

Holy hell, he’d said the wrong thing.

“So that’s what this has been about. You can’t get any gently bred woman to marry you, so you resort to dishonor in order to trap my only daughter.” The sword was back at his throat. “I should slit your throat from ear to ear.”

Christian looked toward Simon for understanding, but the coldness had returned to Simon’s eyes.

“You think I’d let Harriet marry you now? She’s so traumatized she can’t even say your name without shuddering.
You
marry her? Why, I’d sooner marry her to a leper.” The sword pressed into Christian’s neck. “No. I have a more fitting punishment in mind for you. With you out of the way, this incident never occurred. I’ll protect my daughter from disgrace and ensure Harriet marries a man befitting her station.”

Christian’s muscles tensed; the Duke wanted him dead. But he hadn’t survived months of agony to die at the end of a sword held by one of his own countrymen. Through lowered eyelids he appraised his chances of making it to the door. He’d learned that when the odds were stacked against him, it was far wiser to retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day.

He assessed the room, and a plan began to emerge in his mind. If Simon would just move away from the door, toward the windows, he could make it past the Duke. He might be scarred, but he was healthy and strong, something that many of his contemporaries overlooked.

He feigned a move toward the window, and Simon, seeing that his father’s sword had the door covered, moved to block that avenue of escape—perfect!

Christian made for the door before the Duke even had time to blink, although the Duke’s sword sliced Christian’s neck on the way past.

Hell, what was one more scar?

His bare feet hardly touched the floor as he ran for the back stairs. For once, he didn’t care that his twisted and marked body was on display.

He’d only just taken a couple of steps down when he scented danger in the form of floor polish—but it was too late. His feet slid out from under him, and he went down headfirst, tumbling down the narrow staircase. Tucking himself into a ball, he tried to protect his head.

He thought for one moment he might survive the fall unscathed, but when the iron doorstop came into view at the bottom of the stairs, dread set in. He knew he was going to hit it. He desperately clawed at thin air, trying to ensure he found the open doorway, but his actions were in vain.

I hate it when I’m right
, was his last thought before his head collided with the iron doorstop. Then pain seared through his brain until, mercifully, everything went dark.

York, Canada, March 1816

Mrs. Sarah Cooper, although ushered into Lord Markham’s study by invitation, immediately felt the waves of animosity rolling off him. Gone was the fun-loving, handsome, and jovial rake she remembered spying on in her youth. Instead, she found a man whose love for life seemed as snuffed out as last night’s candle.

She couldn’t miss his scars, and saw that life had hurt him, marked him … as indeed it had her. He was badly burned over the right side of his face.

His once sensual lips appeared to curl at the corner as if he were permanently sneering. Lord Markham had let his hair grow longer than was fashionable and allowed it to hang about his face, probably in an attempt to hide the worst of his scars. As he swung round to greet her, she glimpsed his puckered cheek. The skin was pulled so taut, surely it must hurt to talk or eat. However, God had been slightly merciful, because his eye had not been damaged, nor much of the skin around it, he even had part of his eyebrow. She’d always loved the green of his eyes, as warm and welcoming as a summer meadow.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been free to run through tall grass. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been free, period.

Life hadn’t transpired as she’d thought or hoped.

They had that in common.

Even though she’d heard of his injuries, when she saw them her feet tripped in shock. His burns made her think of pain. Her heart welled with pity as she took in his scars. Gone was the smile that had had women forgetting everything, including propriety. Instead, the scars spoke of excruciating pain.

With her newfound inner strength, she steeled herself not to show any emotion. Besides, life on a slave plantation had introduced her to worse injuries.

Lord Markham, she was sure, would not appreciate pity. She needed to hide the fact that she’d seen him when he still looked like every woman’s fantasy. If he thought she recognized
him, it might prompt his memory, and she needed to remain anonymous. She’d never been formally introduced to the Earl, and therefore felt a modicum of safety.

Since she was pretending to be a governess, normally they should never have crossed paths. For in which world would a governess ever mix with a bachelor earl? Nowhere respectable, certainly, and this position called for respectability. She’d seen the type of women he’d been interviewing before her, and seen them being shown the door.

Sarah prayed that the battle-scarred war hero sitting behind the imposing desk would remain unaware of how desperately she needed this position. Lord Markham—“Devil Scarface,” as the local Yorkers cruelly named him—was not renowned for his sweet temperament. If he saw through her deception, there was no telling what he might do.

In the ordinary course of events, it should’ve been Lily Pearson’s mother interviewing her for the position of governess, but since both Lily’s parents had died recently, the task was left to Lord Markham, the girl’s guardian.

Unlike most of York, she felt no fear in Devil Scarface’s presence. She remembered the honorable, intelligent rake from her past, who was welcomed with open arms within the
ton
. Surely there was still a smidgen of the man he’d once been hidden beneath his scars.

In fact, her heart had obviously recognized something within the man across from her, for to her consternation, she felt an altogether inappropriate emotion as she gazed upon the Earl’s stern features.

Regardless of who or what he had become, Sarah not only contemplated the position of governess to Lily Pearson but coveted the role. She had never expected to be a widow at twenty-two, and certainly not in these circumstances. The idea of hiding in Canada for the rest of her life was too awful to bear. No, a governess on a large estate in Dorset would be preferable.

“Perhaps you could detail your previous experience, Mrs. Cooper. You appear to be rather young to be an experienced governess.”

His voice was comforting—rich and smooth. For a man of his size, she’d expected him to sound otherwise.

The Earl watched her intently, with eyes as rich as the emeralds she’d had to sell in order to reach Canada. Her escape from Virginia had been perilous, and in the colonies she’d been unable to rely on anyone to help a lady in distress merely out of honor. Yet it was amazing how the goodness of people’s hearts overflowed once payment was offered.

She cleared her throat and answered in her haughtiest voice, hoping to sound mature and knowledgeable while maintaining her disguise. It had been two years since she’d left England, and Lord Markham had been away fighting Napoleon for six months before she left. It was unlikely he’d remember her. The Libertine Scholars avoided debutantes, very much in the manner of cunning foxes avoiding being torn apart by hounds.

“I’m skilled in all facets of a lady’s education. I am also fluent in Latin, French, and German, with a sprinkling of Russian. I am rather good with numbers, and botany and anatomy are particular interests of mine.” That sounded sufficiently bluestocking and appropriate for a governess.

She watched with growing horror as Lord Markham’s lips twitched at her boast.

“I’m not sure these are the skills my young ward will require in order to find an appropriate husband when she comes of age.”

The teasing in his voice transported her back to when she had been a young girl of fifteen. For a few seconds, Lord Markham’s disfiguring burns dissolved, and she was once again staring at the features of an Adonis, with lustrous thick hair shining as black as a starless night. Then the reality of the cruel scars invaded her vision once more, distorting the aristocratic handsomeness of his face.

He’d been a beautiful man once. A dark-haired, virile Greek god sent to walk among mere mortals. His injuries were a sacrilege. War had a lot to answer for.

He’d obviously read her thoughts and seen the fleeting look of pity race across her expression, because his mouth curled briefly at the corner. “The rewards of war.” He added dryly, “No matter. I assure you even I flinch at my reflection.”

His voice had become brittle, and she heard the note of pained cynicism underlying it.

He cleared his throat. “I believe you were going to assure me of your suitability for the role.”

Belatedly, she recalled where she was and why she was there. “Education is important—even for a woman.”

“Is that so?” he asked.

“I did hope that one of the infamous Libertine Scholars might see the value in a woman having a well-equipped brain.” She gazed into his eyes. “After all, beauty is unreliable. It fades with time—or is snatched away by God’s will. A match of the mind would make for a happier
life.”