One Wicked Night (12 page)
Authors: Shelley Bradley
“I’ve no wish to hear another apology, damn it. I want to know why you let me bed you.”
She looked down at her hands wringing one another in a nervous, white-knuckled grip. Her voice shook. “I did not intend that at all. Once you rescued me, and then when you . . . touched me, I simply could not resist.”
With a fierce grip on her chin, he forced her gaze upward. “Is that your attempt to flatter me out of my anger, Your Grace?”
“No, I—”
He released her abruptly. “Save the denials. I’ve no wish to hear them.”
“But I am telling you the truth!”
“A woman always is.” The biting edge of his sarcasm told her she had confessed her greatest sin in vain.
He paused, sliding spread fingers through his hair. Stray locks fanned out across his forehead rakishly. The implacable line of his jaw made her too aware of him as a man, and she damned herself for thinking carnal thoughts in the face of her guilt and his rage. But damning did not help. Her eyes strayed to his mouth, firm and oh so capable. Her knees melted in remembrance. She felt every inch like her mother.
“I already divorced a traitorous witch like you,” he continued. “I have no desire to consort with another who practices deceit as easily as she breathes. And you, sweetheart, fall into that category.
Never
come near me again.”
He whirled for the door.
“Listen, please!” She raced after him. “I did not mean to deceive you.”
Lucien didn’t even pause. He exited the library—and her life—with a slam of the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Serena dreamed of him in color.
Lucien kissed her face, his mouth making a teasing foray around her lips. She clasped her arms about his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. The strains of an orchestra played deep in the background, as the gentle splatter of warm rain on her body saturated her sheer chemise. Then came the hot caress of Lucien’s tongue against her own, swirling, entreating—utterly arousing.
Gently, he laid her back in the summertime grass. Its damp, earthy scent, along with the soft blades against her bare back, roused her as he lifted the soft chemise from her body.
Flowers stood high all around them, sequestering them in privacy. He reached for one, a spectacular white orchid just opening its petals to the world. Plucking it between his fingers, he circled her nipple with the bud. Under the guidance of his fingers, the delicate flower drifted downward, touching the sensitive skin of her abdomen. His mouth followed, bestowing one pleasurable kiss after another upon her flesh.
He parted her legs, and she felt the whisper-soft touch of the flower there, where she was most sensitive. When his fingers followed, teasing, tormenting, titillating, she gasped.
“Please,” she gasped. “Now.”
He chuckled and rose above her, now looming. She noticed then he was still fully clothed, despite her nakedness.
“Please?” he repeated, as if testing the word.
The smile on his mouth died. He grabbed her shoulders and wrenched her from the grass.
“Please what?” he growled. “Bed you again so you can cuckold your husband? So you can use me once more?”
No, she answered silently. Yet, she felt his hands on her body, remembered their pleasure-giving abilities. She yearned for another kiss, like the kiss they shared moments ago. Yes . . . She did want him, couldn’t stop wanting him—
The abrupt, all too realistic slam of a door rent her dream.
Serena gasped, opening her sleepy eyes in disorientation. Cognizant of the perspiration moistening her nightgown—and the damp ache in her body—she looked about her semi-dark bedroom. Light streamed in from behind the blue velvet of her curtains.
No rain, no flowers . . . no Lucien. She closed her eyes, trying desperately to banish the vision, to understand why the dream haunted her with frightening regularity. Was this how Mama had felt with a new lover?
“Here we go, milady,” Caffey piped suddenly from across the room. “Your mornin’ chocolate. I brought ye a muffin, too.”
Food? Even the thought of it made her stomach protest. “Take it away, Caffey, please.”
“Milady, ye must eat. Ye didn’t eat yesterday mornin’ either. Is somethin’ wrong?”
Besides her gnawing guilt? “I’ve simply no time this morning. Is my husband breakfasting?”
“Aye, milady. Just sat down a few minutes ago.”
“Good. Help me dress.”
Within half an hour, Serena descended the stairs in search of Cyrus. Today, she decided firmly, she would tell him everything. Perhaps then the dreams would stop. Maybe she would no longer hear the echo of Lucien’s contemptuous voice in her head as she had for the last week.
What games are you playing, you little witch?
Serena reached the dining room, but found it empty.
With an urgent stride, she ventured to Cyrus’s office. Knocking discreetly on the closed door, she sighed with relief when he bade her to enter a moment later.
Biting her lip nervously, she stepped into the familiar room and found her husband seated behind his corner desk. His secretary, a middle-aged, bespectacled man, sat on a chair beside him.
“I’ve no wish to interrupt. Forgive me,” she said softly. “I shall come back later.”
“Actually, darling, we were just finishing. Good work, Clemson,” Cyrus said to his secretary. “If you learn anything else, let me know.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the man replied. He cast Serena a contemplative glance that baffled her, then left the room.
“Did you need something, my dear?” Cyrus inquired.
He stared at her, his expression unfamiliar, a look both speculative and knowing. A chill of foreboding crept through her.
She retreated a step. “No. I just came to say good morning. I will see you later this evening.”
“Serena, I want to speak with you before you go.”
What if he knew?
Oh mercy, what do I say? How do I explain my sinful behavior?
“About what?” She forced a casual note into her voice.
“The night of June eighteenth, my dear. Would you like to tell me where you were?”
The night she had spent with Lucien. His words ripped the breath from her lungs, tripling the dread and nausea in her stomach.
She looked down, trying to concentrate on the bronze and black design in the carpet. “Melanie and I went to Vauxhall.”
“Yes. I remember the two of you leaving here when Lord Highbridge arrived. What happened after that?”
“During the rope dancer’s performance, we became separated.” She paused to moisten her suddenly dry lips. “As I told you, a man robbed me of my jewelry. A-a stranger saved me.”
“I see,” he replied, rising to his feet. “And Lord Daneridge was that stranger?”
She swallowed, not daring to take her gaze from the carpet. “Yes.”
Cyrus cupped his hands about her shoulders. “My dear, I ask you, not so you can feel guiltier than I know you have been, but to be certain my information is correct.”
In surprise, she lifted her gaze to Cyrus’s. “Information?”
“Yes. I had Lord Daneridge’s situation looked into after I overheard you two talking at the Raddingtons’ last week.”
Her heart pounded into her throat. “You’ve known all this time and didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted to investigate him before I spoke with you. Quite frankly, I knew very little about the man. And this kind of tryst is so frequent, I could not understand his anger over your marital status.”
“He felt that I deceived him purposefully.” Her words shook as much as her fingers.
“Yes. I received the report from the investigator this morning. In fact, Clemson was briefing me on it when you knocked.”
Serena closed her eyes to endure the jolt of shock and guilt. The hired help knew. Dear Lord, how long before the rumor was all over town? How long before Cyrus was ashamed to call her his wife?
“Oh,” she managed the half-whisper.
“The report is quite interesting.” Cyrus went on easily, as if discussing nothing odder than the weather. “It explains his behavior at the Raddingtons’ thoroughly.”
She shook her head. “Cyrus, he won’t speak to me again, ever. I cannot see the point in listening—”
“Because someday, perhaps soon, I’m going to die. I will not have you left alone. I’ve stolen years of your youth. I’ve told you I realize how selfish I was to seek this marriage. I’m terribly sorry my . . . condition has led you to this.” He patted her back. “I know your tryst with Daneridge never would have happened had I been a healthy man. And when I am gone, I will rest easier if I know you are happily remarried to a man capable of giving you children.”
She raised imploring hands. Remarried? “You’re healthy, Cyrus. You will not die soon. Do not even say that.”
“I am fifty-four and I have gout. I cannot live forever.”
Wringing her hands, Serena sat silently, absorbing the truth of his words.
“I investigated Lord Daneridge because, in light of your association, I thought he might be the most suitable choice of a husband.”
“Now that we know he is not, must we discuss this?”
“On the contrary. He’s of impeccable family. He is wealthy, well-educated, respected by his peers. His divorce is hardly the latest scandal anymore. I think he is an excellent choice.”
She couldn’t understand why Cyrus was intent on pushing her toward a man who despised her. Or why was he behaving as though he were already in his grave.
“This is lunacy!” Serena insisted. “He is not at all right for me.”
“Once you hear what’s in this report, I think you will see the matter differently.”
She gaped at her husband. “How could I? Cyrus, the man drinks and swears. He is divorced—”
“I am aware of all that. In fact, his divorce is the heart of the issue.”
Unwillingly curious, Serena asked, “What do you mean?”
Cyrus rose and began to pace, an action he usually reserved for the delivery of his most persuasive arguments to the Lords. Serena felt a distinct prickle of alarm.
“He married a beautiful girl, Ravenna Stansworth, during her first season,” Cyrus began. “Clayborne himself was about twenty-five. Several years later, rumors about town indicated Lady Daneridge was indulging in frequent trysts with several of her footmen. Of course, those were rumors, but one member of the marquess’s household staff verified it. He also told the investigator that Clayborne himself discovered his wife with one of the servants.”
Understanding dawned with vulgar clarity, painting a warped picture of the woman Lucien must imagine her to be. “Oh, Cyrus. He must think I’m exactly like his former wife.”
“Precisely,” Cyrus said. “Even worse, Lady Daneridge began a liaison with one of Clayborne’s best friends, Lord Wayland. It was an affair of the most embarrassing magnitude. In fact, I recall snatches of the gossip, and you know I rarely listen to much of it. Lady Daneridge wrote Wayland daily. Her pages hounded the man constantly. She followed him at any social gathering where they chanced to meet, and indulged in the most indecent theatrics.”
Serena shook her head. Ravenna Clayborne and Mama had been made from the same mold. “Oh, no.”
“Yes. And according to the people my investigator spoke with, Clayborne picked Lady Ravenna, and her father agreed to the match. Clayborne wasn’t Lady Ravenna’s choice of a mate, though, and I suspect she wanted to make Clayborne regret his choice.
“Then,” Cyrus continued, “Lord Daneridge received the final insult just over a year ago. He had finally called Wayland out. They had appointed their seconds, who arranged the time and place. Wayland never put in an appearance. Instead, he and Lady Daneridge fled to Italy. Rumor had it she was
enceinte
. The following week, Clayborne began divorce proceedings.”
Nausea rolled in her stomach. What kind of a depraved woman would lay with her footmen or allow herself to be seduced by her husband’s friend? And what kind of wife with a husband as capable as Lucien would want another man’s bastard?
She hung her head. What kind of woman allowed a stranger the liberties her caring husband could not partake of? The possibility that she shared her mother’s wantonness grew stronger each day, eating at her.
She did not have to wonder what Lucien thought of her; she knew he believed she and Ravenna Stansworth to be cut from the same cloth.
“Cyrus, I’ve hurt him terribly. I see now why he is so angry.”
“I thought you might. I’ve also learned something of his upbringing, his education, and his military service. Clayborne is a decorated soldier, and even spent some time in Portugal as a spy until he sustained a leg injury.”
“Yes,” she whispered absently. “His left knee.”
“I believe you’re right,” Cyrus answered. “He has also suffered a terrible loss recently.”
“Yes. We’ve spoken of it,” Serena said numbly, mind whirling.
“I see. Well, you do understand, then.”
Yes, she understood grief, that strong, needful emotion that had drawn her tender heart to him and his sad eyes—and led ultimately to her moral downfall.
