Invitation to Ruin (2 page)

Anthony looked at his twin with a cynical smirk. Richard was correct about one thing—Cassie had made him work harder than any other woman.

Richard looked at him with all the innocence of a man who had just strangled his wife and issued a challenge. “Care to make a game of it, brother?”

Anthony feigned boredom as his gaze swept the dancing guests. “Game?” His blood raced with the challenge. “What do I get if I win, besides Lady Cassie’s delights, of course?” He flicked a spot of lint from the arm of his jacket.

Richard thought on it for a few moments. “I shall agree to allow you the first choice of any woman we meet over the course of the next year, and I promise not to seduce them first.”

Anthony laughed. “That’s not even worth considering. The female sex prefers the bad boy—and you, dear brother, are too angelic looking by far.”

“Isn’t that what we are about to put to the test? What are you scared of? Losing?”

“You’ll lose. I have it on good authority that Lady Cassie will invite me to her bedchamber tonight.” Anthony leaned back on the ballroom wall. “In fact, you just missed her issuing me a personal invitation.”

Richard’s handsome features, so different from his own, crinkled into a grin. “Well, that still leaves me a few hours. I don’t need a bed. If I win, if I tup her before you bed her, I get Dark Knight.”

Dark Knight was Anthony’s prized stallion, and he would hate to lose him. He shook his head. Lose? Richard might be his twin brother, but they were nothing alike. Anthony always won their wagers because, when it came down to it, Richard simply was not ruthless enough.

Richard was the family cherub, full of goodness and light. Fair haired and blue eyed, he took after their mother in terms of facial features. He stood a few inches shorter than Anthony with a much leaner build, but well muscled. Anthony was the complete opposite, large, dark haired, with dark eyes and looked like his late father—brutish.

He was the dark-brooding twin, the wicked devil.

Anthony tipped his glass to his mouth and drank with relish; he had earned his reputation.

For the past ten years, the Craven twins had been inseparable. At thirty-three, their lives were spent fighting over women, brawling together, drinking themselves into stupors, and they were rumored to have seduced more women than all the rest of the nobility combined. Alarmed mothers of Society warned their daughters of the dangers of the notorious Craven twins.

A cunning plan formed in Anthony’s head. He smiled at Richard. “If I win, you will marry within a month and sire a son. The son who will become the next Earl of Wickham.”

Richard gasped.

Anthony stared at his brother without blinking, before raising an eyebrow, “What? Is the wager too rich for your blood, brother dear?”

“You are really determined to thwart Father. Not that I
blame you,” Richard added hurriedly. “But you are the right and proper heir, and as such it should be your son who inherits, not mine.”

“A half hour is all that separates us. It was chance I was born first. Society thinks I am lucky for it, but we both know differently. You know damn well I will never father a legitimate child, nor will I ever marry. I’ll ensure Father’s plans for me come to nothing. I won’t ever let Father win.”

Richard thumped the wall. “The only man who will lose is you. Think of your life. If you insist on this plan of self-exile, Father wins. And for what? Father is dead. Let it go. Get on with your life.”

Anthony raised his hand and traced the scar that ran down his left cheek. “That man, long may he rot in hell, should never have been born …”

“I know he was tough on you … but you cannot let our sire continue to dictate your life from the grave.”

Anthony turned away from Richard’s prying eyes. Tough? His father had regularly beaten him until he was almost unconscious. His father had starved him into submission—all in the name of creating a strong heir-apparent, someone ruthless enough to carry on the Wickham empire. He would never let his father’s legacy live on through him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, Anthony. I know my childhood was a bed of roses compared to yours. I just don’t want to see you isolate yourself from all life has to offer.”

Anthony gave a harsh laugh. “I would hardly call pursuing my next mistress as isolating myself. My father wanted me cold, devoid of human feelings, and totally focused on nothing but making money.” He gave a wicked grin. “Tonight, money is furthest from my mind.”

Richard took another sip of wine. “You’re nothing like Father. So give up this pretense that you are. You’ve done more to improve the lot of your tenants than Father ever did in his lifetime.”

Anthony looked at his brother, suppressing the shudder that racked his body. He was exactly like his father. Richard
had no idea the lengths his twin went to in order to ensure his dark inner demons never surfaced. Anthony couldn’t let down his guard for one moment. The memory of his father’s evil and the part he had played in it had almost destroyed him.

His past was tarnished with evil. They were too much alike, father and son. Dark, deadly, and dangerous.

When Anthony was young, it had taken weeks to submerge the malevolence back into his soul. It still screamed to get out. Another slip and he might never recover; the wickedness buried deep within would rise up and take him over.

“If I did not know you better, Richard, I would think you were trying to distract me from our wager.” Anthony turned to scan the crowded ballroom for Lady Cassie. There she was, just to his right, at the edge of the dance floor. He started to take a step forward, but his eyes narrowed; that wasn’t her—not unless she’d changed dresses.

Richard pointed. “I see you’ve spotted Miss Melissa Goodly, Lady Cassandra’s cousin. Almost a doppelganger for her, is she not? The two women look more alike than you and I.”

Miss Goodly had black hair, too, but not as glowing. Her eyes were a pretty shade of hazel, maybe green in a certain light, but not as dazzling. Her skin was alabaster, but not as alluring, and she curved in all the right places, just not as temptingly.

She was definitely not mistress material. She was too much like wife material—absolutely not what he was looking for.

“Although,” Richard added, “if I were you, I would stay away from Miss Goodly. Lady Cassandra does not like the comparison. I’ve heard the two women cannot abide each other.”

As Miss Goodly placed an empty glass of champagne on a tray proffered by a servant, and helped herself to another full one, Anthony could see why. The younger woman was still an arresting sight, and those men not fortunate enough to have gained Lady Cassandra’s attentions stood with gazes riveted on Miss Goodly.

She wore a gown of sea green, trimmed in gold, worn off
her shoulders in the current style. Her hair was artfully twisted, held in place by a pearl-encrusted comb. A pair of small pearls dressed her lobes, and a single pearl on a gold pendant rested above the swell of her pert bosom.

Miss Goodly was rather pretty but lacked the depth of beauty radiating from Lady Cassie. The young cousin reminded him of a copy of a Rembrandt, not quite as aesthetically pleasing as the original but still a magnificent work of art. The fact she was young and unmarried likely clouded his judgment.

Then Miss Goodly smiled, and the air rushed from his lungs. Her smile was breathtaking, and she suddenly appeared to be illuminated.

No. Miss Goodly was forbidden territory. Why risk the parson’s noose when Lady Cassie was equally, if not more beautiful—and experienced?

He raised an eyebrow in his brother’s direction. “Perhaps there is a way we would both be satisfied. As the eldest I get Lady Cassandra, but I won’t stop you from taking the cousin.”

Richard choked on his wine. “Miss Goodly? Do you think me stupid? She is one and twenty, an unmarried sister of a Baron. If I dally with her I’d be married before I could yell ‘save me,’ and that would be too convenient for you.” Richard shook his head. “No, my original wager stands. If you do not bed Lady Cassandra before me, I get Dark Knight. I have plenty of time.” He grinned at Anthony. “I’ll wager you don’t even know where Lady Cassandra’s bedchamber is? You wouldn’t want to stumble into the wrong room. Think of the scandal.”

Anthony’s jaw tightened. Damn. He’d forgotten to ask Cassandra for directions. The house was huge, and it could take all night to find her room. He would prefer to spend all night on the pleasure, not on the seeking.

His brother quietly chuckled. “I will give you a fighting chance. Her room is in the west wing, the fourth door along the corridor on the right.”

“And how would you know that?” Anthony asked suspiciously.

Richard held out his arm and studied his immaculately groomed fingernails. “Where do you think I planned to stay tonight? If I have my way I still will. After all, it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”

“You will accept my terms, then? You will marry and have a child if I bed Lady Cassandra before you?”

“Of course. You have my word as a gentleman.”

Anthony scoffed and permitted himself a cold smile.

Richard put a hand to his heart. “I am mortally wounded at your lowly opinion of my honor.” He grinned. “I won’t lose, and I want Dark Knight.”

Anthony couldn’t still the prickle of distrust making its way up his spine. Richard was agreeing to his terms too readily. Had Richard already planned to meet her earlier in the library? He would have to keep his eye on his prize until the ball was over.

Feigning indifference, Anthony pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time. “I accept the wager. The longer I keep you here the easier it will be for me. In fact, I feel so sure of winning I’m going to stir the pot. I shall ask Miss Goodly to dance. That should have Cassie burning to distract me from her cousin.”

With that final gloat, Anthony tugged on his gloves and moved deliberately toward Miss Melissa Goodly, who, he noted, had just finished her glass of champagne. His body surged with adrenaline. The chase was on. If it took his last breath he would never let his brother win. Tonight he would bed his new mistress and move one step closer to ensuring his twin provided the much-required heir.

   “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Goodly? That is, if your dance card is not already full.”

His deep, rich voice—rough with a bite yet thoroughly intoxicating—made her giddier than the cheap champagne she was drinking. She swung toward the tower of masculinity encapsulating
her in his shadow, sending the bubbles splashing over the side of her glass.

The Lord of Wicked wished to dance with her. With her!

It was hard to remain composed with champagne dripping from her gloved fingers. “I don’t believe we have been formally introduced, my lord.” She tried to shake the drops off her gloves before she had to give him her hand.

Anthony’s wolfish smile made her grip the glass harder. “My brother, mother, and I are Lady Sudbury’s houseguests, as you well know. You were here when we arrived this afternoon. She’s kindly taken us in while my house is uninhabitable.” He raised a dark eyebrow. “You have heard about the fire?”

All she could do was nod. Her tongue felt like dried bread.

“I saw you peering down over the banister when we arrived. No one but ourselves will know we have not been properly introduced.” His wicked smile widened. “It shall be our little secret.”

Melissa’s face heated as she stared at the large hand he held out to her. She gripped the champagne glass, looking around for somewhere to put her drink. She wouldn’t miss this dance for the world.

“Shall I take that for you?” Without waiting for a reply he pried the glass from her hand and beckoned a servant. Glass dispensed with, he turned his full attention on her. “Shall we?” and he offered his arm.

The crowd of guests turned to vapor. All Melissa could see, feel, hear, and sense was him.

She was blind to the glittering candles and immune to the music filling the ballroom. She simply let him guide her, his arms holding her gently in the waltz. His scent filled her being—sandalwood, whiskey, and masculinity. Masculinity. He oozed it from every pore.

They twirled around the floor, unrespectable in their closeness. Melissa didn’t care. His lean hardness thrilled her. The cut of his evening coat accentuated his broad shoulders. His breeches fitted like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Melissa had a wonderful imagination.

His hulking frame and dark, brooding looks, together with his rakish reputation, made most of the young ladies terrified of him … But up close, his arresting features held her spellbound.

His black hair fell in thick waves almost to his shoulders, his fringe hanging low on his forehead like a silk curtain shielding his eyes. In the candlelight, his eyes flickered from silver-gray to dark charcoal, so appropriate for such a renowned devil.

She couldn’t pull her gaze away. His eyes were disconcertingly direct and totally hypnotizing. The decidedly aristocratic nose, firm mouth, and chin declared that here was a man used to dominating his world, while the scar that marred the left side of his face contributed to the air of danger surrounding him.

The effect was like a mild stomachache, enough to make her tummy churn but not enough to make her faint.

She racked her brain for something intelligent to say, but his nearness made her brain turn to mush. “Was your house badly damaged?”

“Um … what was that?”

His attention seemed to be on another couple dancing across the floor. Melissa turned her head. Cassandra. Cassandra and Lord Spencer. Disappointment flooded her being. That’s why he’d asked her to dance. So he could keep an eye on Cassandra.

Everyone knew Lord Wickham was pursuing Cassandra to be his next mistress.

Irritation sharpened her words. “The fire, my lord. Was there a lot of damage?”

His eyes flashed with amusement at her tone. “Luckily only smoke damage. We should be able to move back to Craven House in a few days’ time, once the house has been properly aired.”

This time he kept his dark gaze on her, the attention making her heart pound. His eyes roamed her features and slid
down over her breasts, where they lingered indecently. She felt the flush heating her cheeks. His lips curled in a rakish smile of recognition.