The Wolf's Pursuit (28 page)

Hunter shivered. No wonder his brother had
felt the need for repentance. He had spent half of his life killing
people.

Dominique trusted Hunter, therefore Dominique
trusted Ash, but now Hunter wasn't so sure Ash deserved that
trust.

Gwen placed her hand on Hunter's shoulder and
then kissed him lightly on the cheek. With a laugh, Hunter pulled
her into his lap and kissed her hard across the mouth.

"Do you mind?" Montmouth roared. "We are
eating!"

"I am having my dessert early," Hunter
announced between kisses. Gwen laughed as she kissed him back and
then the room was somewhat silent. Hunter looked up and smiled as
he found Rosalind and Montmouth sharing an intimate embrace, and
Dominique and Isabelle kissing as well.

It seemed, in that moment, that perhaps fairy
tales did come true.

London Fairy Tales

Book 4

Ash didn't want to remember her this way. Her
beautiful face, which had been often in a breathtaking smile, was
now cold and dead.

The first time he had seen her, he'd thought
she was an angel. He'd said that very thing under his breath when
she'd made her debut that season.

"Beautiful," he murmured as Lucy took a turn
about the room, gaining introductions to all the available
gentlemen who came her way. Taking an earth-shattering breath, the
kind that every man takes when he is about to approach a beautiful
woman, he made his way over to her.

Music faded into the background with each
step. All Ash was aware of was the clicking of his boots against
the floor as he progressed toward the beauty. One dance, if only
she would give him one dance, he would secure her hand forever. He
knew it in his heart, in his soul — she was meant to be his.

Heart beating out of his chest, he could
barely contain his excitement as she lifted her eyes and met his
gaze. Blue eyes twinkled in his direction and then she lifted her
hand in a wave. A wave? Something was wrong. Ash paused, and then
looked behind him. There was no one but him and then he gazed back
at her. She crooked her finger, beckoning him forward.

Completely under her spell, he couldn't deny
her anymore than he could cease from taking his next breath.
Finally, he stood before her, at least a foot taller than she.

"Where have you been, you rogue?" She swatted
him on the arm and gave him a coy laugh. "I have been looking
everywhere for you!"

"For me?" Ash questioned. "Are you sure we
have met?"

"Must you always joke at such serious times!"
The girl laughed again and he was caught at the sight of her
dimples as they danced along her cheeks. Carefree. She appeared so
carefree, so perfect, unweighted by the things of this world, by
responsibility and darkness, by disappointment. He tilted his head
and then reached out to touch her, perhaps she truly was a dream,
and then a voice broke out into the pounding in his ears.

"Ah, sweetheart, you've met my brother."
Hunter stepped beside the girl and wrapped his arm around her. Ash
stepped back, his heart sinking down to his feet. She hadn't been
looking for him at all, but his older brother, his twin, the duke.
It was such a sad joke, a sad existence really. Would he ever be
first in anything?

Months progressed into a year as he watched
his brother and Lucy fall into such a deep love that all he could
do was be happy for them and try to spend as much time away as
possible. After all, it was not done to want your brother's wife,
to want to care for her and protect her. It was fate's final cruel
trick to allow Ash to feel something for another and then have that
person ripped away by his brother. Though he loved his brother more
than his own life, it seemed Ash was always left with nothing while
his brother was given everything.

His name fit.

For he was the ash after the fire of Hunter
burned out.

He was nothing but soot, but darkness, and
sand. One day, his ashes would trickle away into the wind, never to
be remembered and never mourned, but forgotten.

"Ash! Do you hear me! I love you! I love
you!" Hunter yelled at his brother as he shook his shoulders and
then in one final attempt to thrust him out of his daydream,
slapped him across the face.

Ash stared at the blood staining his hands.
He tried to wipe it off. Tried but failed as it continued to drip
down his wrists into his jacket. "I'm so sorry," he kept repeating
over and over again, but it did not matter.

The carriage had come too fast. Lucy had
thought Ash was Hunter and ran to him, ran right into the
street.

The fault was his.

He knew it, Hunter knew it, and Lucy,
beautiful Lucy, his brother's innocent wife, was dead and it was
all because he had lied about who he was, tried to be better than
just the second son.

He backed away, slowly at first, and then he
ran.

His feet ached, his stomach heaved. Finally
he stopped in the middle of the street, hoping, praying that
someone or something would hit him. Death, it seemed, was his only
option. It was his wish, his choice. For how could he live with
himself after what he had done?

Hunter had loved Lucy, but so had Ash. She
was his everything, his only relative other than Hunter, and
although he had wanted her for himself, he had pushed those
emotions so far beneath the surface of his heart that he hadn't
understood how far the love ran until now, until it was too
late.

Legs like lead, he walked until he reached
his parent's tombstones. Both taken from him too soon. What would
they think of him now? He was the disappointment in the family, the
second son by two minutes. And now he was a murderer.

Disgusted with himself, he sat down on the
cold grass, leaned his head against the stone, and cursed. His
brother, his only living relative, and he had ruined his life, and
ruined his parents' memory in the process. All he had ever wanted
as a boy had been to please his father, yet all he'd received had
been disapproval. One time, just one time, he wanted to make
someone proud, make himself proud.

But it was impossible.

He looked down at blood-stained hands.

His future stared right back at him.

Flee. He needed to flee, to get away. No, not
just get away. He needed to die. A life for a life, so he set about
doing exactly that. It was not fair that he was able to live, to
survive, when the one woman who did nothing but bring happiness to
everyone she met was dead in the street.

"Lucy," he whispered as salty tears ran down
his cheeks and across his lips, "I'm so sorry… But I will see you
soon. I will see you soon." He reached into his pocket and pulled
out the pistol. With shaking hands he lifted it to his chin and
pulled the trigger.

Rachel Van Dyken
is the New York Times
and USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary
romances. When she's not writing you can find her drinking coffee
at Starbucks or plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor
(she's convinced the best villains exist on reality T.V.). She
keeps her home in Idaho with her husband and snoring boxer, Sir
Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! Follow her on
Facebook and Twitter! You can also keep track of her works in
progress and release dates by visiting her website:
www.rachelvandyken.com.

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The Redemption of Lord Rawlings

Every Girl Does it

The Parting Gift

Waltzing With the Wallflower

Savage Winter

Upon A Midnight Dream

Whispered Music

Beguiling Bridget

Compromising Kessen

The Devil Duke Takes a Bride

Chapter One

Lady Clara Huckabee trembled. She felt it in
her traitorous knees, which threatened to deposit her in an
undignified heap on the Grecian Axminster carpet, and in her
throat, tightened almost unbearably beneath her morning gown's
simple velvet neckline. Disappointing her guardian was bad enough,
but since he started this fiasco, surely he'd endeavor to bear it.
Shocking her aunt, though — for shocking her response would be —
was far worse, because it must necessarily cause a measure of pain
and Aunt Helen's sweet soul outweighed her silly, old-fashioned
notions. Clara steeled herself. It was their actions, their
insistence, which forced her to this miserable necessity. If they
refused to consider her wishes in the selection of a husband,
her
husband, then they must accept some of the blame for the
contretemps that ensued.

Hopefully the housekeeper wasn't listening
behind the closed drawing room door.

A deep breath, and Clara softened her
clenched hands into gentler folds. Only then did she trust herself
to meet the Viscount Maynard's black eyes, unblinking and
glittering. No matter how many times she ordered herself to be meek
and affable, he still looked like a possessive lizard.

"It distresses me to cause grief in anyone,
particularly a gentleman as eminent as my Lord Maynard, and I find
no pleasure in disappointing my esteemed aunt and uncle." She
paused. Those reptilian eyes widened and bulged; perhaps she was
the first person to dare cross the arrogant booby. Clara hurried on
before she could be interrupted. "However, the selection of a
lifetime partner is too delicate an operation to be entrusted to
any third party, no matter how revered. Kingdoms will neither rise
nor fall on my lineage and therefore I believe my own desires and
tastes should be consulted. I am sorry, but I cannot accept my
lord's offer of marriage."

Viscount Maynard's gaze drifted from her
face, drifted lower. "The child has an opinion of her own." When
he'd asked for her hand, his voice had been courteous and correct;
now he drawled his words, taking twice as long to state a simple
sentence. His lips curled as if he smelled something unspeakable.
"How precocious."

Her skin crawled. His gaze boasted weight and
mass, as if his hand explored her without permission. So much for
meek and affable; the viscount was surely more interested in her
inheritance, in Papa's money, than in her or her hand. "My lord,
your anxiety to change my opinion must be unbounded." She dropped
her most formal curtsey and escaped from the drawing room. Let him
eat cake; just not hers.

After the drawing room's sun-drenched warmth,
the cool Grecian elegance of the entryway made her face feel hot.
If the housekeeper had bent her ear to the door, she'd run in time.
With luck, Clara would escape, too, without additional arguments.
But on the curved stairway's far side, the library door stood ajar.
That would be Uncle David's temporary retreat and he'd be listening
for the first sign of movement. Yes, there was his shadow,
approaching the doorway. No time to spare.

Clara composed her expression as she ran up
the white marble stairs, her slippers soundless, her pale muslin
skirt gathered in one hand, the other trailing up the ebony
banister. A few moments alone, hidden in the old schoolroom where
Papa had taught her mathematics and the stars, and she'd compose
herself. The little telescope was still there, beneath the heavy
canvas covering they'd sewn for it, pointing as he'd left it, to
the merchant shipping and men-of-war anchored in the Sound. If she
held the canvas close to her face and breathed deeply, sometimes it
seemed she could still smell his musky scent on the neat stitching,
so much more even than her own. The memory cooled her temper, but
did nothing for the hole he had left behind in her heart. She'd
always miss him, always, and no man — certainly not that titled
twaddle — could ever remove him from the foremost place in her
heart.

Aunt Helen waited at the top of the stairs,
almost dancing in place. The artless little brunette wisps fallen
from her upturned hair framed her delighted smile, and she held out
her hands as Clara paused, three steps below. Surely Aunt Helen,
with her superb taste, hadn't presumed she'd accept that man?

"Our viscountess-to-be! My beautiful niece, I
wish you joy."

Inexplicable. But horribly true. "In regard
to my fortunate escape, I'm sure." The tart words tumbled forth
without thought. But there was no recalling them and while it had
been dreadful imagining Aunt Helen's shock, seeing it only added a
cold edge of satisfaction to Clara's anger.

"You didn't — you didn't refuse him? Clara,
how could you?"

"With relief and a smile, I assure you. Dear
aunt, how could you imagine I'd agree to marry anyone so cold and
arrogant?"

"But he is a viscount. The ways of the
nobility are not like ours. Great wealth and vast landholdings,
dating from generations long gone, give a titled man a sense of
entitlement that you and I cannot understand. He would make an
excellent husband for you."