Invitation to Ruin (3 page)

“Will you and your brother be staying with Lady Sudbury long? She is your cousin, is she not?”

She tried to concentrate on his words, but he’d pulled her tight into his embrace in order to avoid another couple. She felt warm and delicate against him, her head barely reaching his chest.
Answer him, you fool
. “I am unsure of how long we will be here. Cassandra is sponsoring me for the Season.”

“You wish to marry?”

She bit her bottom lip and lowered her gaze from his, too scared in case he saw the truth. “If I found the right man, then of course I want to marry. A home and children, isn’t that something everyone wants?”

He stiffened at her words and remained silent. She raised her eyes to his. They appeared even more shielded.

“I assume your brother has someone picked out for you?”

It was her turn to stiffen in his arms. “I do my own choosing, my lord.”

He smiled wryly. “Is that so?”

“I’m sure you’d not let anyone else make the most important decision of your life, why should I?”

He inclined his head, somewhat amused at her words. “I don’t envy your brother.”

How did she tell a peer of the realm, a man who’d likely marry for land, titles, or money that she would not marry except for love?

All her life she’d been treated as an afterthought. She was a very late child, eight years younger than Christopher. Her parents, both dead, never really wanted her. They had their son and heir, and that was all that mattered. Of course, their opinion changed when they needed looking after. Until their deaths, she’d dutifully seen to their every need. That was why, at her ripe age of one and twenty, this was her first Season and her first visit to London.

Upon her parents’ deaths, she’d vowed she would never
again let herself be someone’s obligation, a burden to bear, a person of no interest. She would never marry, not unless the man needed her, wanted her, and loved her.

With the dance finished, Anthony escorted her back to the place he’d found her, ensuring another glass of champagne found its way back into her hand, and with a bow excused himself. His eyes were already riveted back on Cassandra.

Melissa took a long sip from her glass.

If she were alone, she would close her eyes and twirl, pretend he still held her in his arm. She’d dreamed of him asking her to dance again, and more—a nightly fantasy she dare not fool herself into believing would come true.

Lord Wickham was not called the Lord of Wicked for nothing. As much as she mooned over him, she could never let herself fall in love with such a man, a rake of the first order. When she gave her heart, it would be to a man who wanted her beyond measure, a man who loved with all his heart and soul. A man who would cherish her forever.

Melissa stood on the edge of the ballroom, drinking more champagne. The alcohol kept her senses heightened and gave her courage. Was she brave enough to engage him in further conversation?

Melissa watched him from across the room. He did look a little frightening. Yet his crisp white shirt and immaculately tied cravat lessened the severity of his attire—to the point that Melissa decided he was, quite simply, the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

Her body still trembled as if she’d just returned from an afternoon fox hunt. Her heart raced with excitement, and her legs wobbled like custard. Lord Wickham was a heady mixture, especially coupled with the multiple glasses of champagne she’d drunk …

A movement to her left captured her attention. Christopher. She turned, stumbled a bit, but managed to catch her balance. How many glasses of champagne had she drunk? Four—five? Focusing on every step, she aimed for the library—away from her fast-approaching brother.

Lord Christopher Goodly, Baron Norrington, reached her seconds before her hand clasped the latch.
More like “barren.” You’ve spent and lost everything we own
, she murmured under her breath.

“You will not run from me.” His brandy fumes assaulted her nose.

Perfect. He was drunk as usual. A small giggle escaped. For once, she, too, was a little worse for drink. However, she needed the alcohol for courage, not to escape the mess she’d made of her life, as was her brother’s crime.

“I was not running. I need some air.”

“In the library?” His hand clamped down on her shoulder and swung her to face him. “I don’t think so. Lord Wickham danced with you—danced the waltz with you. You are the only unmarried woman at the ball tonight to receive such an honor.”

She kept quiet. It would do her no good to explain that the only reason the Earl danced with her was so he could keep an eye on Cassandra. A stab of envy hit her squarely below her left breast.

She removed her brother’s hand from her shoulder before his sweaty palms stained her dress. They didn’t have enough money to buy another. “That does not signify anything, Christopher. Go back to your drinking and leave me be.”

He leaned in close and tried to smile. His face distorted, and he looked like an old man pained from gout instead of a man just under thirty. He poked her shoulder with his finger. “We are nearing the end of the Season. You will marry, and marry soon. Either you will accept Lord Carthors, or you will ensure Lord Wickham maintains his interest.”

She drew a steadying breath and gripped the dresser beside her. Damn the champagne. “Lord Carthors is close to seventy and would likely die in my arms upon the wedding bed.”

“Precisely. Then we’d be rich.”

“No. I’d be rich.”

Her brother growled. “Don’t play with me.”

She tried to push past him, to escape the conversation. But
his arm rose to cage her in. She was trapped by the door at her back, Christopher’s arm and the large dresser on her right. “I will not marry a decrepit old man to save your skin.”

He laughed in her face and sneered. “Not just my skin. Yours, too. If not for Cassandra’s generosity, we would be in the poorhouse. Let’s see how long your principles last when the men running such establishments start pawing you.”

She kept her face blank, refusing to show how his threat affected her, but her stomach churned at the thought of what lay ahead of them if either she or Christopher did not marry well.

“Miss Trentworth is here tonight. If you are so worried about our position in Society, line your pockets by marrying her. Her father is rich. The Textile King they call him. Mr. Trentworth is after a title for his daughter.”

He stood up straight. “I’m not going to marry any girl with a face like a horse’s arse. It is my duty to see my young sister married first. At one and twenty you’ll be left on the shelf if you are not careful.” He hesitated, and his demeanor altered. “Come now. If Carthors is not to your liking, surely Lord Wickham is. He is handsome, rich, and in his prime.”

She stamped her foot. “Don’t be ridiculous. Even if I did—admire his lordship—the Earl is legendary in his abhorrence for the state of matrimony. He wants Cassandra as his mistress, and I’m sure she’s willing to oblige. Why would he be interested in me?”

“You look exactly like Cassandra. He could take her as his mistress and you as his wife. His mother is determined he marry this Season. They need an heir. Wickham’s father has been dead ten years. Wickham is in his midthirties. It’s time.”

Melissa’s hands fisted in the sides of her dress to stop herself slapping her brother’s face. How could he be so indifferent to his own flesh and blood? He wouldn’t marry a woman not to his liking, yet he was quite willing to barter her off, giving her away to be used as a brood mare, so long as his debts were paid. Well, she had other ideas.

Seeing the determined look in her brother’s bloodshot
eyes, she tried another tack. “What would Cassandra say if I tried to woo the Earl? Perhaps she wishes to marry him. If she becomes annoyed, we will be flung into the streets. I can’t see the Earl or any other man wanting to marry me then.”

His face paled at her words. Distracted by his thoughts, Melissa reached behind her and turned the latch. It released with a loud snap. Before she could escape, her brother grabbed her arm. “Then it will be Carthors. By the end of the Season you will become engaged, either to a man of your own choosing or Carthors. Am I clear?”

Melissa fought the tears filling her eyes at his painful hold. “Let me go.” She tugged her arm free; the sound of the material ripping startled them both. “Perfect. Now look what you have done,” she snapped. Anger propelled her to defy him. “I won’t marry Lord Carthors. You’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming in front of the vicar to ever get me to marry that old leech.”

He simply smiled. “Not if I give you a few drops of laudanum. That would subdue you. You’d be pliant all the way to the altar.” Christopher crowded her against the door frame. “Don’t underestimate me, Melissa. Come the end of the Season you will be married. To whom is your choice. If you don’t want Carthors, then pick someone else—as long as they are rich.”

Melissa stepped into the library and slammed the door in her brother’s face.

   Christopher swayed his way back across the ballroom, failing to notice the man stepping out of the shadows from the other side of the large oak dresser.

Richard had heard every word of the siblings’ conversation, and it was as he thought. The plan he’d set in motion would be welcomed by all concerned—except his brother. He could live with that. Eventually, he felt sure, Anthony would come to thank him for his deception.

D
amn her brother. Melissa stumbled her way up the stairs.

At the top of the landing, she steadied herself. Bracing a hand against the wall, she headed for her room, alcohol and seething anger blinding her way. Once again, Christopher had ruined her night. She couldn’t go back downstairs to Cassandra’s ball, not with a torn dress.

She’d not be able to converse with the Earl again this night. He’d be all Cassandra’s now.

Even so, Melissa was grateful to her cousin. The ball was being held to relaunch Cassandra back into Society, her mourning period at an end. But it also helped Melissa since it gave her a chance to see and be seen. From the beginning of the Season, Melissa’s hope was to find a man who would love her, for her. Simply the way she was—with no dowry and no obvious benefits.

Cassandra introduced her to Society and grudgingly gave Christopher and her refuge in her home. Due to Christopher’s debts—they had lost the Goodly family estate and the only home Melissa had ever known.

Melissa hesitated at the door to her room. She vowed she’d not let the disgrace of her brother’s gambling distract her from the joy of her night. She had waltzed with him—the Lord of Wicked.

She twirled about her bedchamber with arms outstretched, only to have the room spin so much she fell back onto the
bed laughing. Her heart soared, and she giggled with pure happiness.

He had danced with her, this time for real, not just a fantasy.

In her dreams she belonged to him. Lord Wickham had owned her dreams since the start of the Season when she had caught a glimpse of him at Lord Moning’s ball.

She’d heard all the gossip about how handsome he was and also about his black soul. Lord Wickham’s late father had been persona
non
grata within the
ton
—something to do with his business practices. Dark and dangerous the Earl may be, but she had to admire his strong business acumen. He’d turned the family’s situation around.

Of course, he’d hardly noticed her. This evening he seemed consumed with pursuing her cousin. That didn’t stop Melissa from wishing, just once, he would turn his devastating charm her way.

And he had. Never in her life had she been so thankful for champagne. She’d never have remained so composed without the added inducement of alcohol.

Melissa hugged herself tightly and waited while Cassandra’s maid helped her undress. She didn’t want to relive the night until she was alone.

In fact, over the past few weeks, she’d spent a great deal of time fantasizing about the wicked Earl. Tonight she had consumed more champagne than was respectable, not deliberately, but it enabled her to relax and have discourse with the one man who set her heart a-flutter, yet who must never know she had feelings for him. No one could know.

Melissa and her brother needed to be in Cassie’s good graces to survive. If Cassie knew her thoughts, knew she desired Lord Wickham, they would be out on their ears. No, until she or her brother made a marriage contract that would inflate the family’s coffers, she must do nothing to upset her cousin. Stealing Cassie’s man would most likely destroy her begrudging kindness to them.

Melissa scoffed at her thoughts. Stealing Cassie’s man?

What man would ever prefer her over Cassie’s legendary beauty? Next to her cousin, she was the ugly duckling.

But Cassandra couldn’t touch her dreams. In Melissa’s dreams, the handsome Earl was besotted with her. She belonged to the Lord of Wicked.

To her disappointment, the anticipated dreams never arrived, and she quickly fell asleep. So Melissa was quite pleased when a while later she slipped into that space somewhere between waking and sleeping.

Her sensual dreams flooded her being. Lord Wickham’s hands were not just holding her, as was her normal dream. They were roaming quite freely and fervently over her breasts, stomach, and scandalously between her thighs. The sensations his hands evoked were so satisfying she could not hold back her enjoyment. The sounds from her lips seemed to encourage him to explore further.

If too much champagne could do this, she would sneak a glass or two each night before bed. She didn’t want to open her eyes, didn’t want this dream to end … ever. Pleasure. Her body hummed with it, hungered for something more—a satisfaction she did not know how to reach.

Her body ached. She pictured Lord Wickham’s strong arms holding her while her pleasure built, an agony she didn’t want to escape, but her body felt like it would explode if she did not.

Lying on her side with one knee bent in front of her, the heat continued to escalate. Her nightgown rode up around her chest. She felt something hard and unyielding between her thighs, and she could not seem to roll onto her back, a wall of strength kept her on her side.