Invitation to Ruin (5 page)

Standing in the middle of the room, naked except for his robe, he fought to bring his temper under control. His hands fisted at his sides and tremors wracked his body. He needed a drink. He moved to the table in the middle of the room and grabbed the bottle of whiskey as if it were a lifeline. He poured himself a large measure and drank. The smooth alcohol soothed the coldness seeping into his bones.

Damn, damn, damn. God damn his brother to hell.

Black spots danced before his eyes. His brother’s betrayal made the contents of his stomach begin to crawl up into his throat. Richard was one of only a few he’d allowed close since his father died. He’d opened up and let Richard in, and now his brother, his friend—his own flesh and blood—had betrayed him.

The door opened behind him. Anthony didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know who dared to enter. He spun to face his betrayer and snarled, “You are either suicidal or stupid to enter my room after what you have engineered.”

Richard held up both hands defensively, but his tone remained belligerent. “It was for your own good.”

“More like protecting your own position.” Anthony gritted
his teeth. “How could you do this to me after everything I’ve endured? If you weren’t my brother, I’d beat you within an inch of your life.” He refilled his glass and swallowed the fiery liquid in one gulp. “But that would be a typical Earl of Wickham response. Too much like Father.”

“You are nothing like our father. I mean to make you finally see the truth of it.”

Anthony took a threatening step toward him.

His brother’s eyes flared with a sliver of alarm before masking the fear behind calm indifference. “A woman like Melissa Goodly is perfect for you. She is not a simpering young nincompoop. She is sensible, kind, generous to a fault, and above all else, a woman who is so filled with goodness, it would eventually rub off on you. For Christ’s sake, her name is Goodly. What more can I say?”

Anthony turned away in disgust. What could he say? His brother had no idea the things his father had done to him or the things he’d made Anthony do, all in the pursuit of making the perfect ruthless, coldhearted tyrant.

His father had almost succeeded. Anthony knew he wasn’t nearly as evil as his late father, only because he’d trained his dark soul to stay hidden. Yet, deep inside, he knew he was the product of his upbringing.

He was a man not good enough for Melissa Goodly. He did not have the capacity to really care for anyone. Melissa deserved a man who would cherish her and hopefully love her. That is what she’d said she wanted. He doubted he could love at all.

Anthony sank down into the chair by the fire and rubbed his temples. What a mess. He raised his eyes to his brother’s concerned face and hardened his voice, going in for the kill. “I will never forgive you for what you have done to me this night. We are no longer brothers. I hope acquiring Dark Knight was worth it. Now get out.”

“I did not do this to acquire Dark Knight, and you know it.” Richard could not hold his steely gaze. He turned and
moved to the door. He hesitated with his hand on the door latch. “One day you will thank me.”

Anthony took a swig of whiskey directly from the bottle.

“I see as usual, your answer is to drink yourself into oblivion.” Before Anthony could reply, Richard left the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Anthony’s whole body shook with suppressed rage. Thank him! He never wanted to see his brother again. If he did, he wasn’t sure he would not pound Richard into pulp.

Everyone thought the brothers were close because they were twins. Anthony leaned his head against the high back of the chair and sighed. They were only close because Richard looked nothing like him or his father.

Anthony, being the first born, had been named after his father. Tony, as he disparagingly thought of his father, was the reason Anthony never let anyone shorten his name.

Swapping the near empty bottle for his glass, he gulped back the rest of his drink and poured himself another.

His late father, Tony, was a contemptible bully. He was a tyrant who leaned toward misogyny. To all intents and purposes, Tony had the
ton
completely fooled. No one outside the immediate family and servants knew the true nature of his father’s business, or the cruelty he had heaped on Anthony, his oldest son and heir.

Richard. Anthony knew he shouldn’t, but he blamed Richard for his father’s ability to fool Society for so long. His father’s other son, Anthony’s twin, was the perfect picture of a happy child.

The
ton
‘s opinion changed very quickly once Anthony came of age and made it known what “business” his father was in—the slave trade. While still perfectly legal, Society viewed the trade as distasteful.

Anthony’s earliest childhood memories were now only flashes filled with violent images. His nurse cowering as his father whipped her for giving him a cuddle, his father’s black groomsman beaten for condoning one of Anthony’s childish pranks. Being young, Anthony had tried to stop his father,
only to be backhanded across the yard and whipped with him.

With glass still in hand, but once more half empty, he let his fingers creep toward his face, hesitating before tracing his scar. The thick welt was a constant reminder of his torturous upbringing by a man not fit to own animals, yet alone sire children.

Anthony dropped his fingers from his face and took a long swig of whiskey. Even with his eyes wide open he couldn’t stop the vivid memories of being beaten, starved, and worse by his own demented father. It had taken him to near adulthood to perfect the art of masking his feelings. He closed his eyes and swallowed down the bile at the remembrance of his fourteenth birthday. By his early teens Anthony thought his wall of practiced indifference was impenetrable.

When he was fourteen, his father had proved Anthony very wrong.

Tony showed Anthony that he had not conquered the soft side of himself. Anthony still cared too much. Tony had made Anthony hurt someone, lest Tony would hurt them more. The young girl’s face haunted him even now. What he had done to her, and the disgusting knowledge that he had physically enjoyed it, still made his stomach clench and bile ride up in his throat.

From that moment on, Anthony realized he was evil. Capable of hurting someone, and worse, he was able to enjoy it. Now he could never relax his guard. One slip, one moment of weakness, and he would unleash the monster within. He would become like his father.

His father’s “gift” had chased away any warmth in Anthony’s soul, and he learned that if he felt nothing for anyone or anything, then his father would not be able to hurt him. His father would not be able to use anyone’s pain against him—ever again.

He drained his drink hoping to wash the acrid taste from his mouth. He’d learned no amount of alcohol could ever dim his disgust at his own behavior.

As he’d grown older, Tony became incensed that he could no longer affect Anthony with his masochistic tendencies, so he turned to threatening the people Anthony cared about.

Eventually, unable to take the degradation anymore, he surrendered. Anthony told his father he’d won. Told him to do his worst to those he loved because Anthony no longer cared what happened to them.

His father had given him a smile so filled with evil it had chilled Anthony’s soul, and said, “Finally, you are truly my son.”

He had put Anthony through all this pain and agony, all in the name of producing a son capable of carrying on the family business—trading in human flesh.

Slavery—his stomach heaved. The whiskey threatened to come up the way it had gone down, burning his throat. Images of the things he had done while under the influence of his father simply reinforced his desire to ensure an evil like that never walked the earth again. He felt a shudder of disgust ripple through his soul. He alone could not be held responsible for procreating; he might produce another Tony Craven.

He poured himself another drink and tried to analyze the best possible outcome of the dilemma he faced. He must now think of Melissa. She was the one who was in for a life of misery. She would become a wife in name only, for he would never give her a child. He would never bed her again. He remembered her body eagerly enjoying his foreplay. Melissa did not know it, but for a woman who had been clearly enjoying his attentions, that was going to be a prison sentence.

A sentence because he would not permit her to take lovers. He of course would continue to take his pleasures when and where he wanted; he was a man after all. He wanted a Wickham heir—just not his own. Richard’s son would inherit the title. Richard took after their mother and didn’t have an evil bone in his body.

Melissa could not be allowed to bear another man’s child and jeopardize the true Wickham succession.

He would hurt her, of this he was certain. But there was no other way. She was ruined. He had to offer her the protection of his name. He would give her a comfortable life, nice homes, and a position in Society.

His body unfurled, his muscles flexing, the tension draining from him. For the first time since making this dreadful mistake he knew what he had to do. He would strive to make Melissa’s life as full as possible. Just not full of passion or love. He hoped the material things he could provide for her would be enough. Remembering the way her body sang at his touch he somehow doubted it.

   The next morning Melissa was amazed her brother waited until nearly lunchtime to arrive in her bedchamber. She’d been sure he’d come to her room at sunrise, to check if last night had not been a drunken dream. From the look on his face, he was obviously pleased at the developing situation. You’d think he’d had a windfall at the gaming tables rather than having seen his sister compromised, but then he’d never really cared for her.

“I could kiss you, little sister,” he said as he took the only chair in her bedchamber, not worried that she’d have to stand. “For once you’ve proved yourself useful.”

“I have always tried to be useful. I looked after our elderly parents for instance.”

“I meant useful to me.”

She clasped her hands loosely in front of her. “And of course I have lived my life to be useful to you.”

He scoffed. “Useful.” He completely missed the fact she was being facetious. “This is the first useful thing you’ve ever done. You’ve finally taken my advice. Trapping Lord Wickham into marriage was genius.”

She gritted her teeth. “I did not trap him.”

“I don’t care how it happened. All I care about is that you’ve saved this family.”

“Family? Since when have we ever been a family? Don’t you mean saved you? You paid me no attention until I came
of age. Until it was time to parade me around the marriage pool, waiting for a shark to bite.”

His gaze hardened. “It is my duty as your brother to make an appropriate match for you.”

Society knew the precarious state of her brother’s finances. She was not without her own appeal, regardless of her lack of a sizable dowry. Her brother hoped to attract a man desperate enough to pay for the privilege of wedding her—or rather bedding her.

“You’ve thwarted all my previous attempts at finding you a suitable husband. You won’t defy me now.”

She held in the flash of anger coursing through her body, and her spine stiffened. “That is because your view of ‘suitable’ and mine differ greatly. I would like a husband who is likely to live out the first year of our marriage.”

He gave her a cold smile and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Then for once we should be in accord. The Earl of Wickham is a man in his prime, robust and healthy. He should meet your long list of requirements. I challenge you to state otherwise.”

Melissa paced across her room to the window. The view of the damp back garden did nothing to improve her mood. For once her brother was right. She couldn’t deny that the Earl would make any woman a fine husband, just not her.

She did not wish to wed Lord Wickham. Not like this. If she thought for one minute that he could conceivably come to care for her, she might at least think something could be salvaged from this dreadful situation.

But the Earl had not wanted her; he’d wanted her cousin, Cassandra.

She sighed. Christopher fully expected Lord Wickham to ensure the family’s survival. In truth, a forced marriage to the Earl would be nothing but beneficial to him.

However, not to her. When had anyone ever considered what was best for her?

Melissa frowned. She was not at all sure her brother’s plan would work anyway. Why would a man of Wickham’s ilk, a
man who did not wish to marry, a man who did exactly as he pleased, whenever he pleased, with whomever he pleased, settle Christopher’s debts? If anything Lord Wickham would want to see her brother rot for forcing him to wed.

“I don’t wish to marry Lord Wickham.” She had kept her voice calm, but as she turned to face her brother, her shoulders tensed in preparation of the backlash.

He did not disappoint.

A sound like a starter’s gun echoed around the room as he surged to his feet, the chair tipping backward and crashing to the floor. “You will not defy me again. I will not have our good family’s name thrown in the gutter because of your disgraceful behavior.” He moved toward her, but she refused to back away. Her brother had threatened her before, but she’d learned if she stayed composed, his snarl was worse than a fox’s bite. He gripped her chin, and his eyes narrowed to angry slits. “My patience is at an end. You will marry him, even if I have to force you.”

Her face heated with shame. Everyone would think she had done this on purpose, trapped Lord Wickham into marriage. Yet she was in fact the innocent party—well, not so innocent anymore.

Her skin felt clammy, and a chill swept through her. Her worst nightmare was coming to pass. A man was being forced to marry her. A man for whom she brought nothing to this union, nothing he valued and nothing he truly desired.

Yet last night, Melissa conceded, she acknowledged a profound truth. She was excited at the thought of marrying the Earl. He aroused strong feelings in her. Her stomach did little flips, and her heart raced whenever he was near. After seeing his naked body and having felt the masculine strength of him, having to share a bed with the Lord of Wicked would not be a hardship. In fact, she looked forward to it. Did that make her as wicked as him? Perhaps they
were
well suited.