One Night Of Scandal (3 page)

Ned peered into the gloomy study just behind him. "I can't bear the thought of you entombed in this rented mausoleum on your last night in civilization. At least let me send over some small bit of comfort to warm you."

"That won't be necessary. The cook left a nice fat quail on the stove and a bottle of Madeira. That will be all the comfort I require." Hayden swept open the front door.

Ned didn't waste time taking offense or pretending to misunderstand. But he did pause and turn on the stoop, a speculative gleam lighting his eye. "You really shouldn't be so hasty to dismiss my offer. Even the juiciest of quails can benefit from a dash of spice."

Hayden watched Ned stroll to his carriage, troubled by the spark of mischief in his friend's eyes. At Eton, that look had always meant trouble, usually of the female variety.

Shaking his head at his own fancies, he firmly shut the door, dismissing both the night and its ghosts.

* * *

Lottie picked her way through the shadows cast by the overhanging tree branches, thankful that she hadn't allowed Harriet to accompany her. Harriet had never been any good at sneaking. She had an unfortunate tendency to clump about like a plow horse, no matter how soft the turf or how delicate her slippers.

Tendrils of mist rose from the damp earth, glowing ghostly pale beneath a wan scythe of moon. As she emerged from the shadows, Lottie drew up the mantle's hood to shield her hair from the moonlight.

The narrow, three-story house towered over her, dark and forbidding. Had it not been for the maid-servants' gossip, Lottie would have sworn the house was deserted.

She studied the darkened row of third-story windows, wondering which one hid the marquess's bedchamber. It was only too easy to picture him sprawled atop a satin coverlet, a snifter of brandy cupped in his long, aristocratic fingers, a sardonic glint in his eye and a cynical sneer curving his lips.

Before wooing and wedding his now deceasedwife eleven years ago, Hayden St. Clair, the marquess of Oakleigh, was purported to have been one of the most eligible young bucks in all of England. The announcement of his engagement to the youngest daughter of a minor French viscount was said to have been greeted with hysterical fits of vapors and brokenhearted sobs. Although his marriage to the girl had ended in tragedy, fond recollections of their whirlwind romance could still bring a wistful sigh to the lips of even the most prudish of matrons. Despite his rather spectacular fall from society's grace, Lottie had no doubt that those same matrons would still welcome him into their drawing rooms today, if only out of morbid curiosity.

But he had chosen instead to exile himself to the wilds of Cornwall. His brief and infrequent visits to London were shrouded in secrecy. Ironically enough, his attempts to escape notice had only whetted society's curiosity and kept the scandal sheets churning out their lurid speculations.

Lottie waited for several minutes, bouncing up and down on her toes with impatience, but there were still no signs of life from the darkened house. Perhaps the marquess wasn't the recluse everyone believed him to be. Perhaps he was even now at some gentleman's club or gambling hell, indulging himself in some of the city's seamier pleasures.

She was turning away, prepared to make the arduous climb over the wall and back up to the sitting-room window, when a flicker of light drifted past the French windows at the far corner of the house.

Her heart skipped into an uneven cadence. It was probably only a maid or a footman, she told herself, securing the doors for the night. But she moved forward anyway, skirting the shadows along the wall. By the time she reached the corner of the stucco terrace, the light was gone.

Lottie glanced toward her aunt's house. The rattle of carriage wheels was growing more frequent, the whine of the violins more insistent. She didn't dare linger much longer. Her brother-in-law might adore her, but the
ton
hadn't christened him the "Devil of Devonbrooke" for naught. If she missed the first dance of her debut, there would be hell to pay.

The light appeared again, a faint wink too tantalizing to ignore, then simply vanished. Lottie tiptoed across the terrace, promising herself she'd allow only one quick peek into the marquess's lair before she fully surrendered herself to virtue's chaste embrace. Lifting one hand to block out the glare of the moonlight, she sidled closer to the glass.

The adjoining window flew open. A masculine hand shot out, caught her wrist in its powerful grip, and dragged her into the house. Too startled to scream, she found herself gazing mutely up into the face of the Murderous Marquess himself.

Chapter 2

His face was both terrible and irresistible, its dark beauty reflecting the blackness of his soul…

A
LTHOUGH THE CANDLELIGHT CLOAKED HIS
face in shadows, there was no mistaking her captor for a manservant. Above his scuffed Hessians, he wore only a form-fitting pair of black trousers, an unbuttoned waistcoat, and a cream-colored lawn shirt, collarless and open at the throat. Only a gentleman would dare to be so careless in his dress. The rich aroma of bayberry wafted from his skin, mingling with the intoxicating warmth of the wine on his breath. He stood nearly a foot taller than Lottie, his broad shoulders blocking the moonlight.

"Damn that Ned anyway! I suppose this is his idea of discretion — sending you around the back of the house to skulk about the bushes like a burglar." His voice was silky, yet gruff, managing to soothe and incite her rioting senses in a single stroke. "Thank God I gave the servants the evening off."

"Y-y-you did?" she stammered, keenly aware that she'd never been alone with any man who wasn't a servant or relation. Nor had any man dared to handle her with such shocking familiarity. Although his grip had gentled, he showed no sign of relinquishing her wrist.

His thumb grazed her madly skittering pulse. "At least there won't be any witnesses."

"There w-w-won't?" Lottie echoed, beginning to feel like her aunt Diana's parrot.

Her prolific imagination immediately began to conjure up several dark scenarios for which a man would prefer there be no witnesses. Most of them involved strangulation and Harriet weeping over her mottled corpse.

His fingers weren't long and aristocratic, as she'd imagined, but blunt, powerful, and lightly dusted with calluses. As he chafed her icy hands between them, she tried not to envision them fixed around her throat.

"You're shivering. You shouldn't have lingered so long in the damp, you silly little fool."

Normally, Lottie would have taken loud vocal exception to her intelligence being questioned, but at the moment, she was questioning it herself.

"I didn't see a carriage out front. I suppose Ned left you stranded here?" When she didn't respond, he shook his head. "I knew he was up to no good. And to think, that meddling rapscallion had the nerve to accuse me of having no manners. Well, there's no help for it, is there? You might as well come with me. There's a fire laid in the study."

He secured the window with brisk efficiency, then retrieved a silver candlestick from a cherrywood occasional table. Lottie recognized the elusive flame she'd seen bobbing past the windows. As he started from the room, she hesitated, knowing this might be her last chance to bolt. But it might also be her last chance to taste adventure before settling down to a steady diet of tedium. If she stayed, what a tale she would have to tell Harriet! Provided she survived, of course.

As he disappeared around a corner, she found herself following, drawn forward by the inexorable tide of his will. He didn't seem the sort of man who was accustomed to being defied.

As she followed him deeper into the heart of the house, she peered about, straining to see. She wouldn't be able to tell Harriet much about his lair. The fluttering candlelight did little more than deepen the murky shadows. White sheets draped every stick of furniture, giving the deserted rooms a ghostly ambience. The hollow echo of their footsteps against the polished oak floor was the only sound.

He cast a curious glance over his shoulder. "Not much of a chatterbox, are you?"

Lottie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. If only George could have heard that! Her brother had always sworn that she only paused for breath between utterances because blue didn't suit her fair complexion.

"Perhaps it's just as well. I'm not much of a conversationalist myself these days. In truth, I'm barely fit for my own company." He stole another glance at her. "It's certainly rare to find a woman who knows when to hold her tongue."

Lottie's mouth fell open. She quickly snapped it shut, refusing to be goaded into a retort.

As her host ushered her through an arched doorway, her shoulder brushed his chest. She drew in a sharp breath, unprepared for the sweet sting of awareness that brought a flush to her cheeks.

Although the heavy mahogany furniture was un-shrouded, the study was no more welcoming than the rest of the house. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the back wall were empty of all but a thick layer of dust. He rested the candlestick on the desk, sending light flickering over the small leather trunk that sat open on the blotter. Following the direction of Lottie's gaze, he quickly moved to close and latch it, his features guarded. The protective gesture only multiplied her curiosity. What could he be so eager to hide? The freshly inked pages of a juicy memoir where he confessed all of his dastardly deeds? His latest victim's severed head?

Lottie remained frozen into place by her own misgivings while he crossed to the hearth and crouched to ignite the fire that had been laid there. His efforts with tinderbox, kindling, and poker soon had a fire crackling on the grate, creating a cozy oasis of light in the gloom of the house.

The fire cast his broad shoulders and narrow hips into silhouette. It wasn't until he moved to light the lamp on the desk that she caught her first clear look at him.

Between her guardian, her brother, and her uncle Thane, Lottie had spent so much of her life surrounded by handsome men that if one passed her on the street, she rarely spared him a second glance. But if she had caught a glimpse of this man as he strolled past, she would have walked into the nearest lamppost. His face wasn't so much handsome as it was utterly arresting. For once, her imagination had failed her. Although he looked even more wary than she felt, there was no sardonic glint in his eye, no cynical sneer to his lips. He was far younger than she'd envisioned. The deep grooves bracketing his mouth had been carved by wear, not time. He'd grown out of a baby face and into a creased brow and strong jaw. A rakish hint of beard-shadow defined its rugged arc. His tousled hair was such a deep, velvety brown that she nearly mistook it for black. He was in bad want of a haircut. Lottie's fingers tingled with the irrational urge to brush a rebellious lock from his brow.

His smoky green eyes beneath their thick, dark brows were his most compelling feature. Their luminous depths seem to shift from flame to frost, then back again, based upon the fickle whims of the firelight.

Lottie's head reeled.
This
was the Murderous Marquess?
This
was the vile villain who had dispatched both best friend and wife to early graves?

He cleared his throat and gestured to a pedestaltable where a half-eaten quail and a half-empty bottle of wine spoke of a lonely supper. "My coachman may not return for a very long while. Would you care for something to eat? A glass of Madeira to take the edge off your chill?"

Lottie shook her head, still afraid to speak, for fear of revealing herself.

He looked a bit nonplussed. Perhaps the wine was poisoned. "Then at least allow me to take your mantle."

Before she could deny him again, he closed the distance between them. With surprising gentleness, he smoothed the hood away from her hair.

Lottie squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for him to realize she wasn't whomever he had been expecting. Her family probably wouldn't even be able to hear her screams over the wailing of the violins.

His hand lingered against her hair. She dared to open her eyes. He was fingering one of the bright strands that had escaped her topknot, gazing down at it as if mesmerized.

A musing note softened the gruff timbre of his voice. "At least Ned had the good sense not to send me a brunette." His gaze shifted to her face. "So where did he find you? Are you a cousin of Fanny Wilson's? Or did he pay a visit to Mrs. McGowan's?"

The names struck an off-key chord in Lottie's memory, but with his touch playing havoc with her senses, she could barely remember her own name.

He shifted his hand from her hair to the curve of her cheek. His thumb caressed the softness he foundthere, straying dangerously near to her lips. "Who would have thought a devil like Ned could have found an angel like you?"

Lottie had been called a hellion, an imp, and a mischievous fiend. After setting off a Roman candle in his potting shed, she'd even been called a "wee divil" by Jeremiah Dower, the cranky, but beloved, old gardener at their country house in Hertfordshire. But she'd never once been mistaken for divine.

"I can promise you, sir, that I'm no angel," she murmured, blinking up at him.

He slipped his hand beneath the stray curls at her nape, his warm fingers settling against the vulnerable skin as if they belonged there. "You may not be an angel, but I'd wager you could give a man a little taste of heaven."

As their eyes met, he jerked himself away from her, an oath exploding from his lips. He strode back to the hearth, running a hand through his hair. "Sweet Christ, what am I doing? I knew I should have never let you in the house." He stood in profile, utterly still except for the rhythmic clenching of a muscle in his jaw. "I'm afraid you are owed an apology, miss, as well as whatever coin you were promised. It seems that you and I have been the victims of a tasteless jest."

Lottie was nearly as shaken by his withdrawal as she'd been by his touch. "You don't seem particularly amused," she noted.

Fisting one hand against the mantel, he stared into the leaping flames. "Oh, I have no doubt that Ned convinced himself he had only my best interests at heart. He still fancies himself my friend and he knows that I don't dare visit certain establishments with those vultures from the scandal sheets dogging my every footstep. Sending me some nameless, faceless woman could only be a kindness." He slanted her a glance, the smoldering regard in his eyes warming every inch of her exposed skin. "But that doesn't explain why in the bloody hell he sent you."