One Night of Sin (3 page)

Strathmore was best for Lizzie. Alec had accepted that. The pair were perfectly suited and very much in love; the viscount was prepared to love her in a way that Alec had barely dared contemplate. He had not liked losing to his rival, but he had, of course, behaved like a gentleman in the end. How could he do otherwise? Deep down, he knew he was not good for Lizzie. He suspected he was not good for any woman, since he seemed much too capable of driving them insane.

He preferred not to think about it. He only knew that, ever since their wedding, the newlyweds’ bliss only seemed to underscore his deep-seated ennui; their irritating joy somehow made the hard glitter of his high life look like fool’s gold.

Resting his cheek on his hand, he stared out into the jet-black night when he suddenly spotted two figures on horseback in the rain. He perked up slightly with his usual dangerous curiosity.

The riders were coming up Oxford Street from the opposite direction, and he took note of them because they were the only other people he had seen about in this foul weather and at this late hour.

As the carriage approached, passing the riders near one of the brilliant gas streetlamps, Alec got a fair glimpse of the two uniformed men. Fierce-looking fellows, heavily armed.
Probably looking for whores, as well,
he thought cynically. Indeed, they appeared to be looking for someone, peering down every alley and byway as they rode slowly down the street, scanning the shadows.

Odd,
he mused, but marking the odd shape of their tall, brimmed helmets, he understood.
Foreigners,
he realized belatedly as the carriage passed them by.
Probably lost.
The metropolis had been crawling with foreign princes, generals, and dignitaries and their entourages ever since the close of the war. All of Britain’s former allies against Napoleon were wildly popular in London society these days.

He considered halting the carriage to offer directions, but the foreign soldiers had vanished into the rainy darkness again before Alec could even determine if they were Germans, Russians, or Austrians.

“Something wrong?” Drax inquired.

“Oh—no.” Alec shook his head and put the trifling mystery out of his mind, determined to renew his interest in the night’s revelries. “Pass me the brandy.”

Before long the coach rolled into Hanover Square and halted before the large, darkened town house on the corner. Drax’s town mansion was a stately redbrick affair of four stories and three window bays, distinguished from all the other houses on the square by its covered portico over the entrance.

As soon as the carriage stopped, the gentlemen jumped out without waiting for the groom to get the door.

Indeed, while the coachman up on the box set the brake, rain coursing off the brim of his top hat, the liveried groom posted in the rear barely had time to take the hanging lantern off its hook before jumping down off the gleaming wet coach and hurrying to light the walkway for the young earl and his stylish guests.

Drax brushed the servant off, taking the lantern from him. “Never mind us, see to my horses,” he ordered as he reached into his waistcoat for his house key.

“Aye, milord.”

Drax held up the light, ushering his guests ahead of him.

The rain-slicked pavement diffused the lantern’s glow like polished ebony as they hurried up to the covered porch. With the lamp’s flickering glow behind him, the shadows were deep; Alec strode in the lead, as usual, and so it was he who nearly tripped over the prostrate form of a sleeping female on the ground.

“Good God!” He put his hands out quickly at his sides, preventing his friends from doing the same as they ducked out of the rain and crowded under the portico’s shelter.

“I say!” Rush exclaimed, before quickly recovering from his surprise. “Well, there you are, old boy. A gift from the gods. Go to it.”

“Shh!” Fort whispered with a wicked glimmer in his eye. “She’s sleeping!”

Alec turned to Drax with a frown. “Do you know her?”

“Never seen her before in my life.” Pushing the others aside, the earl lowered himself gracefully to one knee beside her and held the lantern nearer so they could better see their delicate-featured foundling. “What a beauty,” he murmured.

Alec relinquished his place at the front without comment as the other two bent down on either side of Drax, Rush sweeping his ebony cloak back over one shoulder and crouching down beside the girl, Fort leaning down slowly to brace his hands on his thighs. He tilted his head a bit, studying her.

“Nice-looking girl,” Fort remarked with his usual gift for understatement.

Alec hung back, on his guard.
Perfect. Another whore.

She was sound asleep, breathing sweetly, like some enchanted fairy-tale princess awaiting her true love’s kiss—except for the smudge of dirt on her cheek.

Instead of a glass coffin for a bed, she had naught but the cold, hard ground. The sight of such a fair young creature reduced to such conditions caused a strange, tender pain in his heart. The thought of his nights with Lady Campion brought a twinge of guilt, like a clothing thread catching on the scab of a barely healed wound.

No, they were not so different, he and the sleeping girl on the ground. Perhaps it was that realization that made him keep his distance, a reluctant and unwanted sense of kinship. While his friends crowded around her, Alec leaned back against the opposite pillar, folding his arms across his chest. “She’s a little young, don’t you think?”

They ignored him, warming to their sport.

“The abbess must have sent her over for the party,” Drax whispered.

“She’s early.”

Rush flashed a satyric grin. “Maybe she was eager to get started.”

“So, Alec, old boy.” Fort looked askance at him over his shoulder. “How do you feel about brunettes?”

He snorted, eyeing her uncertainly. The wench was lovely, no point denying that. Her skin was like cream, her lashes black velvet. Her slim figure was wrapped in a knee-length olive-drab pelisse as she lay on her side on the damp flagstones, her head resting on her arm, her dark chocolate hair pooled around her.

“Slumber of the innocents,” Rush purred.

“Right,” Alec drawled.

Fort frowned at the angle of her neck. “That can’t be comfortable.”

Alec supposed not. He surveyed her slowly, from her tangled tresses to the couple of inches of black-stockinged calf visible between the top of her battered half-boots and the mud-spattered skirts of her plain, light blue walking dress. Cynicism flickered in his eyes at the deceptive air of innocence wafting around her like the scent of roses.

Nobody was truly innocent in this world, so why should he give a damn if his friends ogled her as though she were an object, a thing?

He rolled his eyes, losing patience with them—and himself. “Are one of you going to wake the chit or are we going to stand here gawking at her all night?”

“He’s right. We must get her inside. I shall thrash my butler for making this sweet creature wait out here,” Drax clipped out. “Let’s pray she hasn’t caught her death.”

“That would be a waste,” Rush agreed. “Luscious little thing, ain’t she?”

“Hard to tell beneath the grime,” Alec muttered.

Rush sent him a wily grin. “Perhaps we should give her a bath.”

“Burn her clothes while you’re at it. Quite disgraceful,” Drax said, wrinkling his long straight nose.

“Yes. We’ll wrap her up in satin sheets.” Rush reached down to touch her hair, and something in Alec stirred violently.

He scowled. “Why don’t you give her some room?”

They all turned, looking startled at his sharp tone.

“You’re going to scare her if she wakes up and finds you breathing all over her like that,” he said matter-of-factly.

“We’re not going to scare the chit,” Rush scoffed.

“Alec’s always right about women,” Fort reminded them in a murmur.

“Yes, best leave this to me, Rushie, old boy. Bloody damned bull in a china shop, you are.” Gingerly, Drax touched her fragile shoulder. “Miss? I say, miss?” He shook her gently. “Wake up, my dear. Hullo?”

Alec watched her awakening in spite of himself.
Entrancing creature.
Yes, he’d give her that.

There was something so vulnerable in the way her sooty lashes fluttered drowsily. Her head lolled a bit, her lips parted slightly; then her eyes flicked open—luminous violet, jewellike in the lamp’s glow.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Rush greeted her softly.

Her beautiful eyes widened.

Finding his friends crowded around her, the girl sat up abruptly with a frightened gasp, visibly dazed and disoriented with slumber. At once, she scrambled back against the wall, panic flashing across her lovely face.

The three of them laughed, but Alec could tell that she was frightened, still half asleep and not sure what was going on. He knew he should speak out, but he didn’t want to get involved. Not when the pitiful sight of her caused a pained, muddled tenderness to stir and churn in the region of his solar plexus. He wanted to look away in boredom—but he found he couldn’t do that, either. Instead, he watched her in brooding hunger and mentally counted the days since he’d last had a woman. He let out a low exhalation of starved need.

So much for his recent efforts to be good.

As her sleep-blurred vision cleared, Becky found herself surrounded by three large, strange men looming over her in the darkness, their handsome faces distorted into lecherous, leering gargoyle masks by the twisting shadows from the lantern’s flame.

They smelled of liquor, and though their voices were cultured, she was frightened by their hard, aggressive stares and speculative smiles. She knew in an instant what they wanted. She had seen that look before—in Mikhail’s cold, gray eyes.

With her cousin’s threat of force still ringing in her ears, and fragments of dark, violent dreams still lingering in her head, she pressed her back to the wall, her heart pounding. “L-Leave me alone. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Of course you haven’t, my dear,” purred the cool, lean gentleman in front of her. He had ice-blue eyes and a thatch of short, flaxen hair with a tinge of red in it. “Don’t be alarmed. I am Lord Draxinger and these are my friends.” He offered her an elegant, pale hand. “I believe you wish to come inside?”

She eyed him warily, not trusting his show of gentlemanly polish nor his offer of hospitality. Not by a mile.

“Don’t be shy, love.” The big, raven-haired fellow to his right moved forward, reaching for her as though he meant to scoop her up in his arms. “Let me help you.”

“Stay back!” she cried, warding him off.

He knitted his thick, black eyebrows in surprise, taking pause at her warning. “My dear girl, I am Lord Rushford—you’ve probably heard of me. Now, come inside,” he commanded with a managing smile. “We’re going to get you nice and warm—”

“Don’t—touch me,” she ordered him through gritted teeth.

The two lords exchanged a startled look, and then laughed.

“There, there, my dear. Don’t be afraid,” the third fellow interjected soothingly. He had leonine features and thick, wavy hair the color of mahogany. “They’re just trying to be friendly.”

“Can’t you blackguards see you’re scaring her? Give the girl some room.”

Only now, when he spoke, did Becky realize there was a fourth man with them.

Surrounded by lusty-eyed devils, she lifted her gaze and spied the golden-haired angel lurking in the background, outlined by silvery rain.

Fallen angel.

She drew in her breath, caught off guard by the vision of unearthly male beauty. Good God, in all her days, she had never beheld his equal.

An elegant creature of dark radiance, formally dressed, he was leaning with one shoulder against the other pillar several feet away, his arms folded across his chest. He kept his distance, as though wary of her, or aloof, or as if he merely found her beneath his concern.

Yet pinned in his celestial-blue gaze, she felt a strange tingle run through her body.

Tall and muscular, he had the lean, sculpted build of an athlete: an air of quick, restless energy behind his outward languor. His finely chiseled face was square-jawed, high-cheekboned, intense—a flawless composition of severe male perfection.

Perhaps she was still dreaming, but with the glow of heaven still upon him, she half expected to see mighty wings sprouting from his broad shoulders. But, no, she realized, her pulse quickening with unsettled awe as she looked into his otherworldly eyes and read the taut need in his stare; the devil himself had begun as the first among angels. Blissful sin personified.

Temptation in the flesh.

“Come inside with us, my dear,” Lord Draxinger spoke up, startling her out of her trance.

“Yes, have a drink,” Lord Rushford murmured, reaching out again to cup her cheek.

She knocked his hand away with a savage motion and shot to her feet. “Don’t touch me!”

The third man laughed at her fierce show of spirit. Becky glared at him.

“You know, I think she fancies me,” Lord Rushford rumbled, staring at her.

When he stood up slowly from his crouched position, rising to his full height, Becky had to tilt her head back to meet his fiery gaze. She felt the blood drain from her face.

Lord Rushford pressed closer; she shrank back against the wall. He planted his hands aggressively on the bricks and lowered his head. “Tell me your name, you impertinent vixen.”

“Easy, Rush. You’ve had a bit too much to drink,” said the cool-eyed angel in the corner, but the black-haired man was fixed on her.

“Get the door,” Rushford ordered the other one as he took her arm.

She felt cornered. Her heart thumped like that of a trapped rabbit. “Please.” She swallowed hard. “Let me go.”

“No, no, my dear. You must come inside and have a drink with us,” Lord Rushford said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I insist.” His grip was not rough, but it was unyielding.

Country girl or not, common sense told her she was doomed if she let these men take her inside. Staring at her towering captor, all of the strain and terror of the past week swirled in her mind, pounded in her blood, funneled down into a fierce point of rage.