My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers

LONDON 1830

“Really Colin,” Viscount Lindley leaned forward, widening his mismatched eyes in mock horror. “The fact that you haven’t had a woman in nearly a year is appalling, the death of your beloved Uncle Gerald notwithstanding. Having met the man, I’m certain he wouldn’t wish you to live the life of a hermit with nothing but your scribblings to keep you company. You’ve been in London for nearly a fortnight without so much as a glance at a female.”

“You exaggerate.” Colin Hartley shot his friend a murderous look before turning to take in the sumptuous furnishings of Hastings, Viscount Lindley’s very discreet, very exclusive club. Hastings was reserved for only the very wealthy of London, or the incredibly powerful. Viscount Lindley was both. The club was even more exclusive than Whites or Brooks.

The paneled walls gleamed in the mellow light of the wall lamps, their glowing patina likely the result of the scrubbings of dozens of maids. Each wall was covered with portraits of past patrons and benefactors. Various dukes, earls, and such, covered every square inch, all looking appropriately disapproving. Had any of those august men been alive they would have routed Colin from their midst with a mere curl of their upper lips.

Large comfortable chairs circled the room, in settings of two and four, so that the powerful could decide the fate of lesser beings in relative privacy. Plush Persian carpet, so thick and lush it put the fields of Ireland to shame, cushioned his worn boots. Servants dressed in blue and silver livery wandered between the wealthy gentlemen, discreet and quiet so as not to disturb their betters.

The room was rich and decadent, much like Viscount Lindley himself.

Nick’s lip curled. “Living in a hut—”

“Bugger off, Nick. My uncle’s estate in Ireland was not a hut. My God, just because a person isn’t a duke, or a bloody marquess, doesn’t mean one lives in a hut.”

“A farm then.”

“Estervale is an estate whose tenants cultivate sheep, you snob.”

His friend shot him a wolfish grin showing a gleaming line of teeth.

“Had,” Colin waved his hand looking for the word, “needs not necessitated my trip to London, I would never have left Ireland.” A half-truth.

“Needs? As in a woman?” Nick wiggled his brows lasciviously.

“No.” Colin rolled his eyes. “Other, needs.”

“Well then here’s to Uncle Gerald,” Viscount Lindley raised his glass. “I liked your uncle, by the way. A fine man, Gerald McBride was, despite his taking you to live on a sheep farm.”

“Estate. My uncle was a gentleman. Please rest assured not a bit of manure ever touched me.”

A deep chuckle bubbled up from his friend’s chest and the room quieted almost immediately. Glances and raised brows were thrown over stiffened shoulders.

“I should hope not, after all, you are the son of the Earl of Kilmaire.”

“Third son. Thank God. I’ve no desire to ever wear the burden of a title. Sheep farming may suit me quite well.” Another half-truth, for while there were sheep, they no longer belonged to Gerald McBride, or his nephew.

“Indeed?”

“Besides, I would never have been able to finish at Eton had Uncle Gerald not taken financed the remainder of my education. My parents could certainly not afford to, I believe they spent all they had sending my brothers. Uncle Gerald was a godsend.”

Colin wished desperately that Uncle Gerald hadn’t mortgaged Estervale to the hilt. While he was grateful for his uncle’s sacrifice he was certain that the bulk of the money had gone to Runshaw Park and the Earl of Kilmaire, not Eton.

“Yes, it is fortunate Uncle Gerald took you in. I often wonder how it is that he and your mother had such…different in opinions of you.”

How Colin detested Nick’s habit of picking apart a person’s life, his odd eyes piercing him as he brought up the odds and ends that made up Colin’s existence.

Colin had no wish to discuss the Mad Countess, as Nick well knew.

“Membership here must cost a bloody fortune.” He steered the discussion away from the Countess of Kilmaire.

“I’m certain of it, though I wouldn’t know.” Nick shrugged his large shoulders , causing the expensive and expertly tailored coat he wore to pull a bit at the seams.

The bloody coat probably cost more than Colin’s passage to London. And that was the problem. The very rich didn’t know what it felt like to count every penny.

Estervale, the house Colin had called home for ten years, was his home no longer. What a shock it had been to have a solicitor waiting on the front steps shortly after Colin laid his uncle to rest. The Bank of Ireland owned Estervale now. He must find an alternate means of support, one that did not involve sheep farming. For though he certainly wouldn’t admit such to Nick, Colin didn’t care a bit for sheep or the smell of wet wool.

“Are you familiar with Lord Wently?” Colin pretended to study the amber liquid in his glass.

“Wently? Do you have an invention to share or perhaps you’ve written a treatise on sheep farming? While he is still funding the restoration of some Grecian marbles, marbles I’m quite sure will be shown to be fakes, I’m told he has thrown his weight behind William Howell and they’ve started a publishing house. Howell is the author of those lurid novels involving murder and young innocent ladies. Arabella is quite addicted to them, I fear.”

“Your sister has always been rather bloodthirsty.” Colin sipped at his drink trying to appear nonchalant.

Nick’s eyes slid over him with a look meant to force Colin to give up all of his secrets. “What are you up to Hartley?”

“I may have a proposition for Lord Wently, though I need an introduction.”

Nick held his glass up, pretending to study the amber liquid. “I’m not acquainted with Lord Wently, although Lord Robert Cambourne is his close friend.” Nick shot him a speculative look. “But, I’m sure you knew that having spent so much time with the Cambourne family at Gray Covington. Perhaps that’s why you’ve come to London?”

“Possibly.”

“Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?” Nick said. “I may be able to help.”

The last thing Colin wanted to do was explain his reasons for seeking an introduction. In addition to picking apart a person’s life, Nick had a terrible habit of rearranging other’s lives in a manner Nick thought would suit them best. The results were often mixed.

“I was hoping to beg an introduction to Lord Wently from the Marquess but I understood Lord Cambourne was not in town at the moment.”

“Well, not presently. But, as it happens, the Marquess of Cambourne is scheduled to make an appearance at my grandfather’s ball tomorrow night, as is most of the ton. He would be delighted to see you, I’m sure. Cam’s father was quite fond of you. Lord Cambourne is a man whose opinion I trust. Much more of a father to me than my own sire. I’ve often sought his advice, when I didn’t wish my grandfather’s.”

Before Colin could respond, a harsh whisper drew his attention. A large man, his round form barely squeezed into the poor chair on which he sat, glared at Colin and Nick, while relating something to his companion. The fleshy face burned red with outrage as the beady eyes looked over an upturned nose at Colin.

He looks like an enraged pig.

Mr. Pig’s companion was just the opposite, all sharp angles with a chin that looked as if it could cut through cheese. This gentleman was a bit more reserved in his perusal, only nodding in agreement with each word his friend spoke.

“What do you think,” Colin waved his glass of whiskey towards Mr. Pig, “that we have done to offend those two? Possibly we attended Eton with their sons and our reputation as the Wickeds precedes us.”

“Humph.” Nick regarded the men with hooded eyes. “I cannot fathom why such a ridiculous nickname has stuck so soundly over the years all because the three of us managed to encounter some old gypsy in the woods. Though, at the time I did appreciate her gracing us as such, for it was a useful tool in keeping the spoiled brats at Eton from threatening us with their fists.”

“You mean threatening Cam and I,” Colin corrected him. “No one dared go after you.” Colin waved his hand over Nick’s large frame. “Too bloody big.” He nodded towards the men. “Probably my father owes them money. If so they will need to look elsewhere for recompense. Do you see that the large one resembles a wild boar of some sort?”

Nick’s lips twisted into a grimace. “It’s me.” The words left his lips in a quiet hiss. “It’s always me.”

Colin sipped his drink. “Oh yes, that. Sometimes I forget you’re the bloody Devil of Dunbar. I for one shiver in my boots every time I am in your company. You’re terrifying,” Colin pretended to tremble in fright.

Nick stayed silent, only sipping at his whiskey.

“Nick,” Colin apologized, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made light of such a thing.”

“It’s of no import.”

“I’m certain no one still thinks on the rumors. The war has been over for a very long time.”

Accusations of theft and treason, though unproven, still cast a shadow upon the Dunbar family. Nick’s father, Phillip, had taken his own life over the false accusations, as well as that of Nick’s mother.

“You’d be surprised. The deaths of my parents didn’t actually absolve them of the act my father was accused of. Most view it as proof of his guilt. I still find it baffling. Anyone that knew my father personally knew he was too much of a drunkard to pull off such a complex scheme.” Nick’s eyes grew hollow and cold. “Someday I will find the person who is truly guilty. Neither they nor their family will be safe from the Devil of Dunbar. The Dunbars serve the Crown.”

It was a phrase Colin had often heard repeated while he attended Eton with Nick. ‘The Dunbar’s serve the Crown.’ His gaze fell to his friend’s large hands, the knuckles covered with scars and bruises. He’d never asked Nick how exactly the Dunbars served the Crown. Probably better off not knowing.

“The actions of my parents,” Nick waved a hand in front of his mismatched eyes, “and these, are enough to make me a bit of a pariah. Were the ton not all afraid of Dunbar, I’m certain I would be hunted down with pitchforks and set aflame. Look at him,” Nick lifted his chin to the quivering servant who stood to the left of their chairs. “He can barely hold his tray he’s shaking so badly.”

At Nick’s perusal, the servant paled and blinked.

“My family is a founding member of this bloody club, so you’d think at the very least I would be waited on by someone who isn’t trembling like a virgin on her wedding night.” His friend sounded more amused than angry now and Colin relaxed.

“Well, you are the Devil, Nick.” Colin chuckled taking the sting out of his words. The whiskey was going to his head. How long had they sat at Hastings drinking? No more than an hour. His eyes fell to the nearly empty bottle sitting on the table next to Nick’s knee. Well, possibly more than an hour.

A mischievous grin crossed Nick’s hard features. “I should bloody well start acting the part, don’t you think? You,” he pointed to the servant, “who are those two gentlemen? I think I’d like to make their acquaintance.”

The servant’s Adam apple bobbed as he swallowed anxiously. “The Baron of Taunton and Viscount Sistern,” his voice shook, “my lord.”

“Well, send them a bottle of your finest brandy, won’t you? Compliments of the Devil of Dunbar.”

“Yes – yes, my lord.” The servant’s eyes grew round as he looked at Nick.

“And stop acting as if I’m about to turn you into a frog,” Nick commanded. “Good Lord, you appear about to faint. Like a woman whose stays are too tight. I haven’t turned anyone into a frog in ages. Mr.Hartley finds it very off-putting.”

Colin nodded in agreement, the act of moving his head causing the room to spin a bit. “Very off-putting.”

The servant bowed and scurried off, pausing only to look over his shoulder at the Devil of Dunbar.

“Probably won’t come back.”

An amused smile crossed Nick’s lips, but he said nothing. The only sign of his agitation was the drumming of his fingers against his chair arm. An ancient pitted ring on his thumb glinted dully in the room’s mellow light.

Colin often thought that the history of Nick’s family would make for an excellent novel. His friend certainly looked the part of the Devil. He always appeared a bit menacing, as if he’d just come from a fight he’d won, and the bloodlust still ran through him. The eyes, of course, could be rather disturbing to those who first viewed them.

Just now those eyes, one blue and one brown, watched Mr. Pig and his friend with a bland look.

“Ah, there he goes.” Nick lifted his glass in the direction of the servant who was making his way to Lords Severn and Taunton who appeared a bit chagrined that they’d gained the notice of Viscount Lindley.

The servant, poor man, tentatively approached the pair, bowing slightly as he presented the brandy. He murmured something in a low voice and spared a glance at Nick.

Colin took another sip of his drink, gratified to see the flush that crept up the fat one’s neck. Dislike for Nick colored his face. And fear.

His companion, obviously the wiser of the pair, stood, bowing deeply to Nick before averting his eyes.

“Colin,” Nick continued in a half-whisper, “shall I go over and tap the fat one on the shoulder? Tell him Old Scratch has advised me that his time is up? That the brandy was just a beginning of the warmth he’ll soon feel?”

Colin giggled again. He really should stop now lest he spend tomorrow in bed with his head aching. Whiskey spilled down his sleeve and he frowned. “Now see what you’ve done, Nick. I’ve so few good shirts left and now I fear this one is ruined.”

“That’s no way to speak to the Devil,” Nick growled, loud enough so Lords Sistern and Taunton could hear. “I could make your blood curdle with a look.”

The servant stopped as he made his way back to Nick and Colin. He nodded in their direction before hurrying away through a small door set into the paneled wall.

“Probably heading off to pray somewhere,” Nick added sardonically, sitting back in his chair, a deep chuckle humming from his chest. “That was great fun.”

Colin could see that it was not.

A shadowed look hovered in Nick’s eyes, as if his friend were taking a moment of self-pity. All the money and power in the world wouldn’t make Nick acceptable to the ton. Ever.

Wisely, Colin stayed silent.

“Now, where were we? Ah yes, discussing your lack of female companionship.”

“We weren’t, you were,” Colin replied a bit defensively. Bloody hell, why couldn’t Nick just leave it alone?

“You need a woman, Colin. It will do wonders for your ill humor. Perhaps even assist you with whatever little project you wish to discuss with Lord Wently.”

So, they were back to Lord Wently again. “I am not in ill humor.” Colin ignored his friend’s curiosity.

“Nonsense, of course you are. A good tumble will help ease your mind before you are welcomed into the bosom of your family. You are going to Runshaw Park, are you not?”

Colin thought of his mother’s hate-filled visage. It was doubtful the Mad Countess had ever clasped Colin to her meager breast in welcome.

“Possibly.” His brothers wished him to come home, had in fact been begging him since they learned of Uncle Gerald’s passing.

Nick frowned. “Hmm. Well, I’m only looking out for your best interests. Regardless, you need a woman. Celibacy has made you all dour and thoughtful.” The big shoulders shivered in revulsion. “Christ, you’re as pale as the sheets the maids use to make my bed. Unless, it’s not a woman you need,” his friend left the words hanging in the air.

“You’re an ass, Nick. If you weren’t so bloody big I’d call you out for that.” The whiskey sloshed out of Colin’s glass again. Good Lord he couldn’t seem to keep the glass from tipping in his hand. “Not every man is lead around by his cock, as you are.”

“I do agree that it has caused me to make some poor choices in the past. Many poor choices. I see a lovely pair of tits and I fear I lose all control. Can’t help myself.”

“I’m rather more selective.”

Nick leaned forward. “I know a widow. Delightful woman. Rounded in all the right places and quite lovely.”

“A former mistress of yours? No thank you.” Colin drained his glass.

Nick shot him an insulted look. “I should say not. As it happens, she’s just come out of mourning, rather like yourself. Her husband was a business associate. Quite ancient. Died shortly after the wedding. Since you will be at my grandfather’s ball—”

“I never said I would go.” Just the thought of being amongst the ton filled Colin with dread. “I don’t dance.”

“Have you not just told me you need an introduction to one of Lord Robert Cambourne’s closest associates?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps if you told me why—”

“No. Stop pestering me.”

Nick held his hands up in supplication. “As you wish. Though I’m not sure why you would want the assistance of a stranger rather than myself.”

Because you would try to manipulate things.“I’ll tell you in good time. I promise.”

“Well then, Lord Cambourne will be at my grandfather’s ball. As will everyone else in London. No one dares defy Henry’s invitation. And I will make sure my widow friend is in attendance as well. She adores brooding men awash in anguish. Which you most definitely are. The Irish are such a dreary race.” Nick wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “She’s a lovely bosom as well.”

“Shut up, Nick. God, you can be annoying. Why have I never noticed before now?”

“Careful, you’ve only got two friends, Hartley, and you can’t afford to insult me since Cam is absent.”

“My glass is empty and so is the bottle.”

“Very helpful, Colin. Where do you suppose that little rodent’s gotten off to?” His shaggy head turned slowly about the room until it stopped. “Never mind.” He lifted his glass in the air to signal to another servant who stood near the far wall.

“Have you heard from him?” Colin asked.

“Who? The rodent?” Nick gave a short laugh. “I’m sure he’s giving his notice as we speak.”

“I meant Cam.” Colin rolled his eyes. “God, you are awful.”

“Not for some time. Cam is terrible at letter writing as you well know. I suppose there’s a lack of paper and ink in the jungles of Macao. I do hope he hasn’t gone and gotten himself killed, although I’m certain that was what she was hoping. I certainly can’t fault you for not wishing to call on Cam’s father at Cambourne House with that bitch in residence.”

The bitch in question being the Marchioness of Cambourne, wife to Lord Robert. Cambourne. Cam’s stepmother made his life a living hell, and Nick was certain she’d had something to do with her stepson’s sudden journey to Macao.

“Cam will be home soon, rest assured. If he’s still—,” Nick sighed “—and I’m certain he is. The Dowager has asked my assistance and the use of a Dunbar ship. He’s coming back even if I have to go and bring him back myself.”

“Indeed. No one dares disappoint Cam’s grandmother.” Colin smiled at the thought of the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. “I would enjoy renewing my acquaintance with her.”

“You’ll get your chance. Miranda’s just made her debut so I’m certain the Dowager will be in attendance.”

“Miranda? In a gown making a debut?” Colin snorted thinking of Cam’s younger half-sister. “God, she was so incredibly annoying as a child. Always covered in mud and chattering incessantly until one wanted to put cotton in their ears. Trailing behind me and begging for attention. If she’s grown into anything like her mother, I’ll keep my distance.”

“I’m sure you will.” An odd smile crossed his friend’s face.

Another servant, this one made of sterner stuff than the previous man, returned with a fresh bottle, setting it gently on the table between Colin and Nick, before bowing and sliding away.

“Now,” Nick filled Colin’s glass before his own, “let me tell you more about my widow friend.”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I let Nick talk me into this.”

The ballroom before Colin was filled with the overindulged, pampered gentlemen and ladies of the ton, hovering in groups around the vast room like the vultures they were. He had a distinct dislike for society, having always been a member of it, but only allowed to exist on the fringes. The Earl and Countess of Kilmaire were certainly not sought after. Their third son, even less so.

It didn’t matter a bit to Colin. He found the people humming about him like wasps about to sting to be dreadfully boring. The gentlemen spoke of their horses and their mistresses, usually in that order. The women were vapid bits of flesh encased in silk and taffeta who gossiped and pouted while flapping their fans and filling their dance cards.

Colin’s arrival aroused little fanfare in the ballroom. The barely murmured announcement of his arrival from a dutiful footman didn’t even merit a glance from the crowd.

He immediately took a glass of wine from a passing servant and slid into a deep alcove where he could observe the ball unseen. His only companion in the alcove was a rather large urn which looked appropriately ancient and priceless. A large potted plant sat inside the urn. A closer inspection of the large green fronds springing from the plant indicated it was a palm.

“Thank God I don’t have to make attending affairs such as these a habit,” he whispered to himself. “Ian or Thomas must fetch punch and converse with these nitwits.”

There were few advantages to being born a third son, and even fewer if you were the third son of an impoverished earl and his addled wife. But one obvious advantage was that the continued lineage of the Kilmaire’s would not be Colin’s responsibility, but the responsibility of his brothers. Ian, the heir, and Thomas, the spare, would have to dance attendance on some virgin with a large dowry.

A very large dowry.

The state of Runshaw Park, the ancestral seat of the Earl of Kilmaire was a well-known fact amongst the ton. Every piece of property not entailed had been sold in bits over the years, probably to many of the people in this room. The Kilmaire jewels were gone. The paintings and tapestries that once hung in splendor had been sold to the highest bidder. Even the once magnificent Kilmaire library had been sold, book by book, to a London bookseller.

The sale of the library especially pained Colin.

But being an impoverished title wasn’t the reason the Kilmaire’s were considered beneath most of the ton. After all, plenty of titles needed the infusion of a rich dowry. No, it was more the Irish blood running through their veins. While the earldom was English, the origins of the title were Irish, and the Kilmaire earls continued to show a marked preference for women from Ireland. And of course, most of the Irish were papists. The taint was nearly more than the ton could tolerate.

And, of course, there’s Mother, the Mad Countess.

Carefully tugging at a loose button hanging from his nearly threadbare coat, Colin grit his teeth at the thought of his mother. He wondered how he could possibly avoid her if he visited Ian and Thomas. There likely wasn’t a way to do so. Just the sight of Colin would set off the Mad Countess, terrifying everyone on the premises.

Why did Rose McBride Hartley detest her youngest child? Even in hindsight, it still remained a mystery to Colin. When he’d been younger, before he’d simply grown to accept her hatred, Colin would lie in bed and replay every action he’d had with his mother. How had he angered her to the point where she could no longer stand the sight of him? Her distaste for Colin increased during his years at Eton, to the point where he stopped visiting Runshaw Park all together, instead spending the holidays with the Cambourne family at Gray Covington.

On the rare occasions that Colin did visit Runshaw Park and his brothers, the Mad Countess would sit perfectly still, dark eyes so like his own, tracking his every movement. She barely blinked, reminding him of a cat stalking a defenseless mouse.

Bloody unnerving.

Lord Kilmaire, on the other hand, ignored his youngest son, only taking notice of Colin’s presence if Colin managed to truly disturb Lady Kilmaire’s mental state. Uncle Gerald took Colin’s father to task once over his treatment of Colin, but Lord Kilmaire refused to defend his son or show him an ounce of affection. The earl would brook no disparagement of his wife, even from her younger brother. For though the Mad Countess was…well, mad, Colin’s parents had been a love match. Lord Kilmaire’s adoration for his wife bordered on obsession.

Colin’s glance fell back to the ballroom and the entitled swirl of the ton. Mulling over his parents and his lack of finances was depressing. While Colin never expected much from Lord and Lady Kilmaire, Uncle Gerald was a different story. Uncle Gerald mortgaged away the only home Colin had ever really known, without so much as a warning to his nephew.

I must succeed, for there’s no other way for me.

“Damn.” Colin poured the remainder of his wine into the dirt around the palm, wondering if the liquid would have an adverse effect on the plant, for wine certainly did on Colin. He detested wine, no matter how fine and French the vintage. Possibly one of the servants would bring him a whiskey.

Not bloody likely.

Why hadn’t his uncle told him the true state of affairs? They’d been close, close enough that Uncle Gerald did not mince words when speaking of the madness of his sister. Uncle Gerald even hinted that Mother had accidently killed a housemaid in a fit of rage and Colin’s grandfather shushed the incident. Upon bringing Colin to Ireland, his uncle had taught him how to defend himself with a knife. He’d gifted Colin with a wicked long blade that could easily be stowed in the front pocket of a coat, or in one’s boot.

‘Just in case, lad. My sister’s as mad as they come. And you might end up in London one day, a city full of murderous intent. Not one of them fops can be trusted.’

Rose McBride Hartley was indeed as mad as they came. A beautiful woman whose appearance was completely at odds with the chaos that dwelled within her mind. Though Uncle Gerald always spoke of his sister with love, there also was an everpresent undercurrent of fear.

A stir at the end of the ballroom ended Colin’s musing. A hum, the sound of many voices all whispering at once, filled the air as if a hive of bees had been let loose. Several men bowed low, the ladies at their sides falling into deep curtsies. The musicians put aside their instruments and lowered their heads as if the king himself were making an appearance.

Not the king, of course, but close.

His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar, entered the nearly silent ballroom, daring anyone with an icy blast of his azure blue eyes, to notice the slight limp in his stride. Stubbornly, he made his way to the dance floor, slowly moving towards the center of the room, enjoying the homage he was paid.

None dared to meet his eyes.

The ballroom was eerily silent, the guests struck mute with respect for and fear of their host. The curse that lingered over the Devils of Dunbar gave one pause, for who among them knew if it was true or not? Treason hovered like a filmy cloud over the Dunbars. One would think London society would cut the entire family.

Nick once told Colin that his grandfather knew the secrets of everyone in London. Horrible secrets. Secrets that would ruin a family. While the ton may wag their malicious tongues behind the duke’s back, none were foolish enough to incite his wrath or risk his displeasure.

The Duke, his large form towering over the mere mortals who packed his ballroom, looked out from a once handsome face made craggy by old age, lips twisted downward in disapproval. His hand clasped that of a pretty dark-haired woman wearing a gown of midnight blue silk. Tiny diamonds sparkled across the dress, reminding one of stars in the sky, as well as the wealth of the woman who could afford such a garment. The Dunbar jewels, sapphires and diamonds, dripped from her ears and throat.

Lady Cupps-Foster. The Duke’s thrice widowed daughter.

Nick’s aunt, Colin mused, was still a handsome woman in her prime, though there wasn’t a man alive in all of England who would marry her. Not anymore. She’d buried three husbands, all of whom had died prematurely. Nick’s cousins, Lady Cupps-Foster’s two sons, inherited titles from their fathers and were an earl and a baron, respectively. Her last husband, Lord Cupps-Foster, died before an heir could be produced.

Lady Cupps-Foster smiled merrily up at her father with eyes just as blue as his, but where the Duke surveyed all those around him as if inspecting an inadequate supper buffet, hers were warmer. Graciously nodding to her guests, she gave the musicians leave to begin playing and gave her father a stern nod. Lady Cupps-Foster was a force to be reckoned with in the Dunbar family, and indeed in all of London. Her father rarely denied her anything.

The Duke grimaced.

A man, taller than the Duke but with a build so similar none could doubt they were related, sauntered in behind the pair. He surveyed the crowd with odd mismatched eyes, one brown, one azure blue. Nick’s lips twisted in amusement, for he knew the stir his appearance caused, and he gave a mock bow to the room.

Viscount Lindley, the Devil of Dunbar had arrived.

The lords and ladies of the ton murmured among themselves, pushing back from him as if he were a leper and not the heir to Dunbar. Several ladies opened their fans with a flick of their wrists, hiding their faces behind the painted façade, some flicking their eyes up and down the man’s expensively clad form.

“Finally. Bloody big idiot. Leaving me here to fend for myself when he knows how much I detest it.”

Following behind her brother, chin tilted arrogantly, was Nick’s sister, Lady Arabella. Arabella wore a gown of light rose and matching ribbons threaded through her dark hair. She looked young and sweet until one caught sight of her face, for Arabella wore a perpetual grimace.

Colin had yet to ever see Arabella smile. Humor was not her strong suit.

Arabella tried unsuccessfully to lead her brother to the dance floor, tugging on his sleeve as Nick shook his head.

“The Devil of Dunbar does not dance.” Colin informed the palm. “Only Cam.”

Cam was the dancer.

Would he ever see his friend again?

Regardless of Nick’s determination to retrieve him, if Cam didn’t wish to come back, he wouldn’t. Not unless he were forced.

Colin peered out from his hiding place, searching for the Marquess of Cambourne. He only needed a few moments with Lord Robert, to prevail upon his connection and secure an introduction to Lord Wently.

Pulling at his too tight neckcloth, Colin only succeeded in poking his finger through the thinning silk. Hastily, he twisted the silk so that the hole wouldn’t show. Good God, my clothing is falling apart even as I wear it. If I’m not careful I’ll end up partially naked in the Duke’s ballroom.

Desperation was a horrible feeling. Nick would advance him funds, of course, any amount Colin wished. But then what? How to ever pay it back? Would he spend his life dependent on his friends?

“No. No. No.” He repeated to himself.

Nick assured him last night that Lord and Lady Cambourne would be in attendance. Lady Miranda’s debut would insist upon their presence. With so many eligible bachelors hovering about the ballroom, Lady Cambourne would be salivating over the sheer opportunity offered her eldest daughter.

Poor Miranda, who preferred catching frogs to learning deportment, had often trailed her older brother and his friends. Fascinated with stories that Colin told her of the wee folk, she became convinced the woods of Gray Covington were full of fairies and trolls. She could often be found crawling about the woods on her hands and knees, all the better to spy a stray fairy that might be hiding. She had also adored sweets, Colin remembered, particularly raisin cakes, which led her to be a bit chubby.

Lady Cambourne had not cared to have her daughter dirty or plump. How well Colin remembered her ladyship declaring at an evening meal when Lord Cambourne’s business kept him in London, that Miranda not be served anything but water and boiled turnips. Miranda was stout, Lady Cambourne decreed in her silken voice as she patted down her wheat-colored coiffure. While Colin, Cam and Lady Cambourne dined on roast, Miranda sat silent in her chair, tears running down her cheeks. When dessert was brought to the table, Lady Cambourne made sure the tray was set directly before her daughter. On the tray lay at least half a dozen freshly baked raisin cakes—Miranda’s favorite.

‘You are a little piglet, Miranda. You already possess an inordinate amount of detriments to your deportment and character without looking like a cow. You’ll see someday that I am doing this for your own good.’

Cam objected, of course, and threatened to tell his father, but Lady Cambourne whispered something in his ear, silencing him.

“Bloody bitch,” Colin hissed out loud. The first time he’d seen her, Colin imagined her to be a fairy princess. Lady Jeanette Cambourne sparkled and shone like the finest diamond. Unfortunately, her ladyship was akin to a perfect, flawless apple, which once bitten into, revealed a rottenness that caused you to fling it away in horror. Her cruelty to Miranda was the least of the woman’s sins. Colin well remembered the discovery of her cuckolding her husband with Gray Covington’s head groom.

The night her ladyship had withheld the raisin cakes from Miranda, Colin had waited until the Marchioness retired to her rooms, then went directly to the kitchens and wrapped half a dozen raisin cakes in a napkin. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it, only that Lady Cambourne’s treatment of her daughter reminded him of the Mad Countess.

Unfortunately, his act of kindness held consequences.

Miranda’s round, plump face lit up with a toothless grin and her eyes turned worshipful as she thanked him. The next day she marched up to him, Nick and Cam while they were building a fort and asked Colin to marry her.

For the next several years, Miranda followed Colin every time he visited Gray Covington. Talking incessantly, she buzzed around him like a gnat he could not rid himself of. Miranda begged for more tales of the wee folk and as she grew older, Greek or Roman myths. He would never have admitted it to Cam, but Colin secretly enjoyed the way she worshipped him. It had made Colin feel important. Needed.

“I suppose she’s grown up to be one of these annoying creatures,” Colin said under his breath as he watched a group of twittering young ladies circle the ballroom in a cluster of silk and lace, as if an invisible thread linked them together. How could she not be?

“Well, there you are, finally. I’ve been searching everywhere for you.” The elegant, cultured voice teased softly from behind the Grecian urn.

Colin turned a bit cautiously, comforted by the feel of the knife tucked in his coat—a habit Uncle Gerald had instilled in him.

‘It takes too long sometimes to load a pistol. But a knife is always ready.’

“I can’t imagine why such an urn would be looking for me,” he said lightly, “especially since we haven’t received a proper introduction. I am acquainted with the palm, however, as we were introduced earlier this evening.”

A soft giggle, as light as soap bubbles floating up from a bath, emanated from the urn, or rather from the person behind it. The palm waved slightly, as if a gentle breeze blew through the fronds.

“I said, I’ve been looking for you.” The words were soft and suggestive, as if the speaker were bent on seduction.

The greenery parted, and Colin’s first thought was that he prayed the speaker was bent on seduction.

A young woman stepped blithely in front of the urn, one gloved hand pressed to her lips as if she were about to burst into laughter. Glossy black hair, the color of a raven’s wing, coiled about her head in an elaborate coiffure. Peridots winked at him from within the dark dresses, matching the gems that dangled from her delicate ears.

Colin’s heart stopped at the sight of her. So beautiful.

Her gown was the color of the Irish hills and decorated with dozens more peridots, twinkling about her lush form in such a fashion that she appeared to shimmer in the weak light of the wall sconces. Almond shaped eyes, the same color as her dress, watched him in expectation. She was the most gorgeous thing Colin had ever seen. Like a fairy come to steal him and take him to the Otherworld.

Lovely, lovely.

Lust slammed into him so fiercely that for a moment he didn’t breathe. How was it possible that this amazing creature was looking for him?

She moved closer, revealing a generous, but tasteful display of bosom. The top of her breasts gleamed pale and white in the candlelight, like fine alabaster.

Colin’s eyes immediately took in the expanse of honeyed flesh and the gentle swell of her hips. She seemed not to notice the effect she had on him. Her plump red lips held an impish smile.

“I beg your pardon?” His throat went dry. Something about this woman seemed vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen her somewhere before, perhaps walking along Bond Street as his hackney passed.

The scent of sweet honey and lavender surrounded him as she neared.

Cocking her head to the side, she dipped into a polite half curtsy. As she did so, an ebony curl slid over her silk clad shoulder to settle in the crevice between her breasts.

Colin couldn’t take his eyes off that curl. It seemed to beckon him, pleading with him to wrap the glossy strand around his finger. How would her hair look unbound, pouring over her shoulders, down to her-

“I’ve been sent to fetch you,” she lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Viscount Lindley thought you would probably be hiding, and, as usual, he was quite right. I find it an annoying habit of his. Always being right. Just once, I would like him to be incorrect about something, or someone, though he rarely is.”

Colin nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving the curl which beckoned him to come closer. He longed to press the curl to his lips.

Her head cocked to the side. “Although, if I could hide from all that fuss in the ballroom, I certainly would. The unnecessary flapping of fans,” she rolled her eyes as her slender gloved hands waved in the air, “the tedium of making pleasant, meaningless conversation just so someone you don’t even particularly care for will call on you the next day. I find it a terrible waste of time. I’d much rather read a book, wouldn’t you?”

A smile tugged at Colin’s lips. “Indeed. I adore books.”

“I’m ashamed to say that I spend most of my time during calls attempting to keep from yawning in the caller’s face. No one ever has anything interesting to say. Weather. Fripperies.” She shrugged, moving the mounds of her ample breasts. “Although, I do adore the dancing, truly. I mean the dancing at balls,” she giggled, “that sounded rather like I dance when gentlemen call on me. Do you dance, Mr. Hartley?”

She said his name in such an odd, familiar way, as if they’d known each other for years. There was something about the way she spoke, her words darting about like fish in a stream, that reminded him of something. Or someone.

“I do not.” God, he wanted to touch that curl, possibly place one finger into the delectable crevice where it lay.

She pursed her lips, drawing his attention. She had a rather sinful mouth, one that made him think all manner of wicked things. Her lips were the color of summer berries and would likely taste as sweet.

“Well, that’s rather unfortunate,” a soft smile crossed the luscious lips. “I was so hoping that you danced, for I do adore it. The way the music floats about you while you’re spinning around is delightful. I’m reminded of the ballet. Do you enjoy the ballet? Oh, don’t answer, I doubt that you do. Most gentlemen do not. I’m not certain many young ladies do either, for that matter, though I’ve often wondered how one dances on their toes.” The gown floated about her trim ankles as she turned back and forth for his benefit, pointing her toes at him in an imitation of a ballerina.

“Would I be able to make you reconsider? Not the ballet of course, but the dancing in general?”

A tightening in Colin’s breeches told him that yes, there was much she could do to make him reconsider. There was no doubt that this was the charming widow Nick told him of last night. Nick’s description did not do the woman justice. She was younger than Colin expected, though Nick did say she had been married to a much older man. It was not uncommon for a young girl to marry a lord many years her senior in order to gain a title.

He started at the feel of her fingers against the fabric of his coat, the action sending a wash of heat from his forearm down to the tips of his fingers. The boldness with which she approached him enticed him, for he didn’t care at all for the false shyness many women affected. Colin much preferred a woman who was direct. Confident.

“I could teach you the steps,” she leaned forward, the top of her bodice lightly glancing off his chest. “Don’t worry. They aren’t hard.”

Yes, but I am.She was so close that if he moved only an inch, he only need bend his head to press his lips against the scented flesh pushing out of her bodice.

“Come,” she said as the musicians started up again in the ballroom, the muted strains just reaching the darkened alcove. Taking his hand in hers, she entwined their fingers. “I will turn a bit.” Lavender and honey floated into his nostrils as she expertly spun about. “You barely have to do anything but stand there while I pirouette like a top. It’s really quite simple, though I wouldn’t like it if you stepped on my feet. Lord Bagley did that just the other night, unintentionally of course. He’s too nice to do something like that on purpose. But,” she came about so that their faces were only inches apart, “it still hurt quite a bit.”

She had the most amazing eyes, like grass after a summer storm and flecked with gold.

“I feared he’d broken my toe. That happened to someone I knew once. A broken toe. Not by dancing, but when a horse stepped on her foot.” She made a neat half turn and looked back at Colin, her brow crinkling in thought. “Now I don’t mean to say that Lord Bagley is a horse. He’s a rather delightful man. Truly.”

She spun the remainder of the way around, until they were facing again. A smile of satisfaction crossed her lips. “See how easy that was?”

Desire rolled through Colin, and his cock hardened almost painfully as his eyes traveled down her form. She was slender, but not with the reed slimness of so many of the ton’s beauties. Instead, she looked soft and plush, with welcoming curves that begged for his touch. He nearly salivated at the beauty he knew lay just beneath the silk and lace.

“I don’t think I have it down,” he murmured. “Would you show me again?”

Cheeks pinking like the buds of a rose she replied, “I suppose, but it’s really not that difficult. She took his hand again, stepped forward, and then suddenly stopped, her eyes widening.

“You don’t know who I am.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. A spurt of laughter escaped the plump lips. “This is rather unexpected. I just assumed—”

“Viscount Lindley sent you to find me, didn’t he?”

Her mouth begged for a kiss. And he was going to kiss her. In fact, he didn’t think he could stop if he wanted to.

She nodded her head, the curl bouncing across her lovely skin until it settled once again between the swell of her breasts. “Yes, of course, he did. He insisted I be the one to fetch you.”

Colin tightened his fingers around her waist, pulling the luxuriant body closer to him, until he could feel the warmth of her skin. He reached out to tug at that teasing curl, allowing his fingers to brush intimately against the tops of her breasts.

A delicate tremor went through her at his touch. “You’ll destroy my coiffure.” She took a halting breath, causing her breasts to surge deliciously against the confines of her gown. “Have a care.”

“Duly noted.” The sound of the ballroom faded away and all he could hear was the breathing of the woman before him and the rapid beat of his own heart. Candlelight played against her beautiful cheekbones and across her shoulders.

He reached out to run a fingertip against her lips, watching as her mouth parted with his touch.

“You aren’t,” she said haltingly, “wearing gloves.”

“Are you outraged at my lack of decorum?” He knew she wasn’t, else she’d be screaming by now.

“No. I – I just find it unusual.” Her tongue, tiny and pink, darted out between her lips.

“Jesus.” Gently he touched his lips to hers, brushing lightly against her mouth as an adorable squeak sounded from her.

“Dear God, you smell delicious.” He kissed the corner of her mouth as the fleeting thought that someone could chance upon them urged caution.

“As do you.” She fell against him then with a relieved sigh, crushing those gorgeous breasts against his chest. One gloved hand lingered over his shoulder as if she were considering whether to accept his kiss before her silk clad fingers sank into his shoulders.

Moving his mouth lightly over hers, he teased and toyed with her plump lips, before deepening the kiss. He felt the shift in her body, heralding her surrender to him. Slanting his mouth against hers he devoured her, as if he were a starving man at a feast. Flicking his tongue against her bottom lip, he heard her purr, like a small voluptuous kitten, against him.

Emboldened, his hand slid down the length of her back, feeling the soft, warm skin hidden safely beneath her gown. How he wanted to peel away the fabric that kept him from touching the scented flesh beneath. He wanted to taste her. Inhale her scent. Sink himself into her.

Nipping at her lower lip, he whispered roughly against her mouth, “You are magnificent.”

Her lips parted at his words.

She shivered slightly as his tongue moved through her parted lips, seeking hers. He felt her reticence at the intimacy, but she did not push him away; instead she shyly twined her tongue about his, and attempted to match his movements.

Colin groaned, wanting her. Lusting for her.

Her fingers ran up the back of his neck to the base of his skull, shifting through his hair. It was a delicious feeling.

He suckled her tongue while his hand moved up the front of her gown, lingering just below the curve of her breast. Leaving her lips, he ignored her protest to place his mouth against the satin of her neck.

Her pulse raced beneath his lips. Trailing a lingering kiss up the length of her neck, he paused to nuzzle against the lobe of her ear before drawing the bit of flesh between his teeth.

She struggled to pull him closer, clinging to him as if she were drowning. Her silk clad breasts slid across his chest, the tiny peridots decorating the bodice catching on the buttons of his coat.

Colin pushed her gently, but purposefully, against the wall, covering her smaller form with the hard length of his body. This was madness, for if it continued he would take her in this alcove, the Duke’s ball be damned. He’d forgotten everything, even his reason for being at the Dunbar ball. The only thing that existed was the feel of this woman in his arms. The absolute rightness of her.

She broke off the kiss, “Colin.”

The familiarity with which she used his given name surprised him even as the way she spoke, with a languid sensual sigh, sent another bolt of longing through him. His fingers moved to tickle the lace at the edge of her bodice, then stopped abruptly.

“Dear God.”

Lips swollen from his kiss, her lovely green eyes regarded him with desire and some emotion he didn’t recognize. Green eyes. The same as every other member of her family.

Her fingers ran down the side of his face until he caught her hand in his.

“Don’t be angry,” she murmured.

The last time he’d seen her, she’d been shoving a frog into a tart that the cook at Gray Covington was making for supper. He should have accepted her proposal of marriage years ago, but she’d been only eight at the time.

“Well,” Nick’s amused voice sounded behind him, “I see Miranda’s found you.”