One Wicked Night (22 page)

Lucien halted at the side of the bed. She lay on her back with her hair braided primly. The coil, as thick as his wrist, rested on her pillow. The weak morning sun highlighted the white-gold strands, so different from Ravenna’s ebony.

He curled tense fingers into a fist. True, his new wife did not seem to want him any more than the last one had. She had only wanted him when cuckolding Warrington. Nor should he want her. After all, he had suffered no further desire after discovering Ravenna’s true nature. He could not explain why, knowing Serena’s adulterous tendencies, he had been unable to think of little else but divesting Serena of her clothes and burying himself deep inside her.

The whys of his desire hardly mattered. England’s laws gave him the right to exercise his husbandly privileges. After much thought, he saw no reason to pursue any other avenue. They were wed until death, and he intended this marriage to last that long. He would not endure another divorce, nor would Serena become tangled in another adulterous scandal.

He planned to make absolutely certain of that.

Still, she looked like an angel, even lying amidst the red satin linens. His eyes traveled over the short, gathered sleeves of her lace-trimmed undergarment, the delicacy of her rounded cheek, the honey of her skin. The desire she always roused soared to a driving urge to bare her, mount her, pleasure her. And he would. Soon.

Unconsciously, his eyes wandered up a red wall to Ravenna’s portrait a lá Venus. No doubt, she was among the most beautiful, carnal creatures God had ever created. During her come-out, some had called her the Devil’s Daughter. Her silky raven hair, fair skin, and opulent red mouth had added to an image enhanced by entrancing dark eyes that seemed to peer into a man’s soul and read his darkest sexual desires.

From the moment he had set eyes on Ravenna Stansworth in his Aunt Elizabeth’s drawing room, Lucien had been driven to possess her. And he had, for a short time. But Ravenna had resented the fact her parents had chosen him as her husband simply because he had been the wealthiest of her suitors.

He could hear Ravenna now, lamenting to anyone who would listen that she had been forced to marry a cripple. And she had never enjoyed sex, until she had realized she could have it with other men—younger and unscarred. Pretty boys who hadn’t fought a bloody war against Napoleon on the Continent.

He turned away from the portrait and the memories it evoked. Instead, he focused on his current wife.

Marriage would be different this time. Before, shock, fury, and pride had kept him from intervening in Ravenna’s liaisons. Not with this one. He had learned the depth of deceit of which women were capable. Experience had prepared him to defend his right. The trick was to keep Serena too sated to seek another.

Lucien vowed she would know satisfaction again and again in his bed—every damn morning and night, if need be—to keep her from another’s arms.

Her trembling tone held both fright and uncertainty. Slowly, he turned to face her once more, and found her sitting upright in Ravenna’s brothel-red bed, looking strangely out of place. She clutched the covers to her chin like a child who had suffered a nightmare. Against his will, something within him softened.

“Nothing,” he assured. “I wanted to see if you were well.”

Through the golden rays of weak morning sun, he watched her face cloud with suspicion. “Or that I had not fled, more to the point.” Her voice was edged with sarcasm. “Now that you’ve seen I’m indeed
well,
I want you out of this room.”

Her insistence he leave lit the match to his short fuse. “It is my right to be here, dear
wife
.” He stepped closer. “Why do you want me gone so badly? Are you afraid I will jump into your bed and seduce you again?”

Her pink-cheeked face reflected guilty surprise as she pulled the covers up higher. “I have no notion what you would do, nor do I want to know. I simply want you to leave.”

“Liar,” he accused softly. “That is exactly what you fear.”

He stepped closer. She inched back in the bed, hanging on to the covers as if her very life were at stake. He wondered if she was really afraid of him or of her own response. The question planted a devilish idea in his head.

Lucien stalked closer still then inched onto the mattress, watching her back away, wide-eyed.

He reached for her, pulling her beneath him in the damp heat of the September morn. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Long moments passed. He did nothing more than stare. He wished to God he could read her thoughts.

Her tongue peeked out to wet her lips in a gesture that betrayed her nervousness. He swallowed, watching her with hungry eyes, craving the taste of her lips. Desire spiraled within him, swelling and impatient. Her body, stiff but warm beneath him, was a heady aphrodisiac. The feel of her came coupled with potent recollections of his most explosive night in memory.

She was
his
, legally and physically. His to taste and drink of, to touch and arouse and satisfy. He smiled.

With the feel of her beneath him, her sultry gardenia scent driving him, Lucien bent his head and seized her lips.

At the first brush, she hesitated, neither pushing him away nor responding in kind. Lucien prepared himself for her refusal. Faintly, he heard her shallow breathing over the roar of his heart. But she made no protest.

He drank from her lips again. A small whimper sounded from the back of her throat. Triumph spiked through him as he kissed her again. She molded her lips softly beneath his, opening slowly, almost shyly. He dipped into her mouth, savored her taste. Her mouth turned warm and yielding and responsive.

Pleasure erupted. His cock turned hard, demanding. Needing more of her, Lucien cupped her face in his palms and cradled her cheeks. She answered with a gasp, then thrilled him by circling her arms about his neck.

Trying to hold back a groan, he parted her lips even more. She responded, opened, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Her tongue rose to swirl about his with the sensuality of a gypsy girl’s body dancing by firelight. His consciousness receded as the rhythm of their kiss escalated to something needy and urgent.

Lucien fitted one hand beneath her hips, elated to find her pliant as he molded her to his aching arousal. He closed his eyes, the feel of her soft flesh rippling through him with a tidal wave of sheer pleasure. A groan tore from his chest as he threw his head back in need.

His other hand rose to envelop one of her full breasts. He’d dreamed of touching them again, his thumb sliding across an erect nipple. His palm gloried in the feel of her flesh in his hands, tingling with ecstasy.

“Happened?” she finished his question for him. “I shall tell you what happened. Exactly what I feared would if I let you in my chamber. Out!”

“This is my right,” he growled. “I’m your—”

“We agreed to certain terms of marriage before we exchanged vows,” she interrupted. “You had your fun last night with strong drink and, most likely, light-skirts, as well. I expect you to keep your end of the bargain and not seek further amusement here.” She gave him a final shove before she jerked the blankets between them again like a barrier. “Until I’ve recovered from this birth, you will not step foot in here again.”

Suppressing the urge to seduce her and prove her wrong, Lucien rose. “I’ll step more than a foot in here, Serena. I’ll claim every inch of you. You delude yourself to think otherwise.”

“You promised!”

“I changed my mind.” His smile was chilly. “This morning, however, I will take my leave for sleep. Tonight, expect me.”

With that, he turned and entered his own chamber, closing the adjoining door behind him. He smiled wolfishly when, seconds later, he heard Serena lock the door from her side.

****

Completely disregarding the decorum she had been taught since childhood, Serena rushed between the iron fencing and through the Ionic columns buttressing her grandmother’s St. James Square residence. She raised her fist and pounded on the door, instead of gently knocking, as a lady should.

The bewildered butler answered, his elderly arm drawing back the portal so slowly, Serena thought she would scream with impatience. She held her tongue.

“Good morning, Your Grace. I shall inform her ladyship you’ve arrived.”

Cyrus’s two spaniels, now entrusted into her grandmother’s care, swarmed at her feet, barking in greeting. Serena nearly succumbed to tears at their familiar sounds.

“No need for that formality,” Serena’s grandmother called from the top of the stairs. “I hoped you would come round. I should like to ask you about a bit in this morning’s
Times
.”

Serena frowned in impatience. “Grandy, I’ve no time for the newspaper this morning. I must speak with you immediately.”

Her grandmother nodded, then led her to the morning room. Grandy had barely closed the doors behind them when she said, “Did you come here to tell me you’ve married Lord Daneridge?”

Serena eyes widened with shock. “How did you know?”

“The
Times
.” Her grandmother sat, meticulously adjusting the folds of her gray morning dress. “Serena, I know you realize you’ve done a terribly scandalous thing. The damage . . .” She threw up her wrinkled hands with a sigh. “I know you had a grand passion for the man—”

“Wait. The announcement of our marriage is in the
Times
?”

Her grandmother handed her the morning’s edition with a nod. The pit of dread in Serena’s stomach grew to a gaping hole.

Folded to the correct page and before her in black and white glared the announcement that she and Lord Daneridge had married yesterday evening at his house by special license.

How dare that man!
A scandal like this would ruin her forever, and he hadn’t even consulted her.

Serena did, giving her grandmother a brief account of her pregnancy, Lucien’s threats, and Alastair’s sinister shadow. Through it all, Grandy said nothing, merely nodding at the appropriate times and trying to suppress a smile at Serena’s announcement of impending motherhood.

When Serena finished her tale, Grandy replied, “You’re married and the announcement is out. Nothing will change that. What you need to consider now is the best way to live with the situation.”

“Live with it?” Serena exclaimed. “When what I would really like to do is kill the arrogant knave?”

“Of course you would like to kill him upon occasion. He is a man, after all, and as such, is subject to notions you would surely like to strangle him for.” She patted Serena’s hand. “That aside, he is your husband now, and he is a young man, who will most likely live for some years, as will you. You must ask yourself what you plan to make of this marriage.”

“A civilized separation as soon as possible,” Serena snapped.

Grandy shook her head. “You mustn’t be so headstrong as to waste your youth on pride. It will hardly keep you warm, as a man’s love will.”

Serena sighed. “Grandy, do you hear me? I despise him! He tricked me. He manipulated me. Thanks to him, everyone will think me just like Mama. Why would I want his love?”

“He had his own reasons for forcing the issue.” She shrugged. “Even if he did not, you must realize that an unhappy marriage will most likely lead to an unhappy life.” She smiled in self-deprecation. “Believe me, I know.”

When Serena would have argued, Grandy raised her hands. “A good marriage consists of love, respect, and trust, all of which take time to develop. You found those with Warrington eventually. Yet you haven’t been married to Clayborne one whole day and you already condemn the match as a dismal failure.”

“But—”

“Of course,” her grandmother interrupted, “in this situation, it would appear dismal. However, your future is up to you. You may try to foster those sentiments in your relationship to feed your own happiness, or live with the results if you do not.”

Serena threw up her hands in incredulity. “Love a man who trapped me into a scandalous marriage with selfish disregard for my reputation? Respect a man capable of such perfidy? Trust a cur that most likely spent our wedding night partaking of strong drink and loose women?”

At that, Grandy chuckled. “No doubt your refusal to share a marriage bed rankled his pride.” A moment later, the smile faded, replaced by gentle understanding. “Each of you will need the ability to compromise and forgive to have a happy marriage.” Her grandmother’s gaze probed, pinning her uncomfortably against the broad sofa. “Serena, someone must make the first step toward reconciliation. If he will not apologize, and men rarely will,” she offered sagely, “try to forgive him, then find a way to prevent him from straying again, if that is what you fear.”

Serena set her jaw and glared defiantly at her grandmother. “I do not care who he spends his nights with as long as he does not darken my door.”

Grandy grinned. “Yes, you do. Since you came here for my advice, I shall give it to you. Either you must forgive him and accept him as your husband or plan to live the rest of your life with a polite enemy. I cannot make that decision for you, but I can say I think he will make you an excellent husband. Perhaps, with a man like him to keep you warm at night, you will have no further need for Hannah More’s preachy tomes.”