The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

by Samantha James

  The duke stepped up beside her at that moment. “Wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Westfield.”

  Claire inclined her head. “And may I say the same, Your Grace?”

  “I’m so glad you will attend my house party. I think you’ll enjoy it. My estate is lovely this time of year.”

  They chatted. In time, her gaze again fastened on Gray. Across the floor, he greeted first one guest and then another. On his arm was a dark-haired woman with sultry eyes. She possessed a ripe, earthy beauty, full lips, voluptuous curves. She laughed up at him and he glanced down at her. She stepped up on tiptoe, so close her lips touched his cheek.

  A strange sensation gripped Claire’s heart. If she didn’t know better, she would have called it jealousy.

  Ridiculous, of course.

  She remained where she was, just outside the entrance to the dining room. “Ah,” said Clive. “I see you’ve spotted Lady Hastings. She, too, is a widow, like you. Her mother is a dear friend of Lady Charlotte.”

  “I’ve yet to make her acquaintance,” said Claire. In fact, she didn’t want to meet the woman; she disliked her on sight. Her smile was too wide, her jewels too bright.

  And her gown too revealing. Oh, yes, far too revealing. Claire suspected that given his height, Gray would have no trouble seeing far more of her breasts than what was exposed. Not only that, she suspected the woman wore not a stitch beneath. The ring of her nipples stood dark and taut.

  The gong sounded for dinner, and Clive inclined his head and gave a little bow. “Do me the honor of escorting me in,” he said to her.

  Claire took his arm. She could see how she might easily find his lazily wicked manner and devil-may-care good looks irresistible. No doubt he was just as she’d thought. A rogue. A bounder.

  When everyone was seated, Gray’s mother rose to tiny, slippered feet and tapped her fork on a crystal glass. “Hear, hear, everyone!” she called, gathering everyone’s attention. “Good evening and welcome to my son’s birthday celebration. We will not talk about age—certainly not I!—but I hope you will join me in wishing my son the heartiest of birthday wishes.”

  Beside Claire, Clive rose and offered another toast. It ended with several more toasts, then everyone joined together in conveying birthday wishes.

  The beauty beside Gray framed his face between her hands and kissed him full upon the lips. In the next half breath, their heads were nestled together intimately.

  Claire deliberately looked away and reached for her wine glass, praying fervently that the meal would end soon. She didn’t notice the disapproving tightness on Charlotte Sutherland’s lips.

  When the meal was over, she saw the duke engaged in conversation with an acquaintance in the adjoining room, where the furniture had been pushed aside for dancing. Some of the faces were familiar. Claire nodded and smiled. She was growing more comfortable in this world. She didn’t particularly care for it, however. She would rather have been home at Wildewood, caring for her garden. Caring for the people on the estate.

  But there was nothing left for her there either. Not anymore.

  She was gripped by a stark, sudden emptiness. Her heart knotted. Oliver had written home occasionally; he had clearly reveled in this world of parties and balls.

  And the darker world that lurked beneath the facade of manners and morals.

  Bitterness seeped through her. If only he had been stronger. If only he had reached out to his family. Instead he had succumbed—and lost his life in the bargain.

  Claire moved about, restless. In time she made her way outside and into the garden.

  She didn’t notice that she was followed.

  She seated herself on a carved stone bench. Music, laughter, and bits of conversation drifted to her ears. The darkness was oddly soothing. She turned her head, to discover she wasn’t alone.

  “My word, sir, you gave me a start!”

  A man dressed in evening clothes stood before her. Claire guessed he was younger than Gray. It had been another whirlwind of names and faces tonight. She had met so many people since coming to London that they were beginning to blur in her mind. “I’m sorry, sir. Are we acquainted?”

  “We are now, aren’t we?” He gave a bow. “Gerard Riggs at your service.”

  Claire extended a hand. “Mrs. Claire Westfield.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. There was the sour odor of wine about him, quite a lot—and she was sure she wasn’t mistaken. A prickle of unease went through her. He had yet to release her fingers.

  “I must confess, Mrs. Westfield, I’ve seen you before. At Lady Blakely’s several nights ago.”

  “An enjoyable affair, wasn’t it?”

  “Indeed. I hear you’re from the country. No doubt you don’t know of Braddock and Sutherland. I saw you with Braddock earlier. Braddock is quite the ladies’ man, as is Sutherland, so you must be on guard against the pair of them. Of the two, Sutherland is the worst. He’s dangerous. No better than a common ruffian.”

  Claire was annoyed. He still hadn’t released her hand. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Riggs. You needn’t concern yourself with my safekeeping.” She tugged at her hand.

  His grip tightened. “I saw you come out here. When you didn’t return . . . well, I thought perhaps I had best see to your well-being.”

  She was already contemplating her next move. “Sir, if you don’t unhand me, I am going to—”

  She got no further. The man jerked her close. An arm hard about her waist, he dragged her against him.

  Wet lips dragged across her cheek. The smell of sour wine nearly made her gag. Fingers thrust hard into her hair and gripped her scalp. “I know what you need. What any widow needs. A man—”

  Claire twisted and wrenched back. “By heaven, if I had a gun I would shoot you,” she hissed. “If I had a knife I would carve you from ear to ear.” An empty threat, but she would do the next best thing. Drawing back her fist, she took aim at his jaw.

  There was a satisfactory thud.

  He staggered back. “My nose!” he cried. “You’ve broken it!”

  “I believe she has.”

  A sudden prickle went down her spine. There was no mistaking that smooth, resonant voice behind her.

  Gray’s tone was one of disgust. “You imbecile, Riggs. You’re drunk again, you fool. Go inside.”

  Gray signaled to a footman, who took the man’s arm and disappeared toward the carriage house. He turned back to her.

  One of his brows climbed high. “You’re a bloodthirsty little creature, aren’t you? I vow, had I been Riggs, I’d have been quaking in my boots. And here I was, ready to rescue you.”

  “I was hardly in need of rescuing,” Claire said, her tone rather breathless. Drat! She pushed at her hair, half fallen down her back.

  “No? I would have thought a widow would know better than to accompany a man alone outside.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me quite rightly. You’re not a silly young girl. Surely you know the workings of a man’s mind.” He didn’t hide his impatience.

  Claire’s eyes began to blaze, lighting them to honey gold. “I will thank you to be civil when you address me,” she said haughtily. “I did not accompany him. He followed me. And I begin to think you are the one who is foxed—and from whom I’m in need of being rescued.”

  “Everything you’ve heard about me is probably true, so tell me. Did you come outside, hoping I would follow?”

  “The last time I saw you, you were quite engrossed with Lady Hastings.”

  A black brow arose. “Jealous?”

  “You flatter yourself.”

  “Do I? A possibility occurred to me . . . That night at Lady Blakely’s, what if you wanted to put yourself in my path?”

  A rush of heat stung her cheeks. The insufferable bastard. Had she been so obvious, then?

  She must tread carefully, she told herself, lest he turn away and never come back.

  “You have a vivid imagination,
” she said, dismissing it as lightly as she could.

  “Do I? The night of the play, you came to my home.”

  “Upon your invitation,” she reminded him.

  “Hmmm. I must say, you were certainly readily agreeable. And you’ve cast off your widow’s weeds. What is a man to think?”

  “I suspect you’re about to tell me.”

  “I am a man who knows women, Claire. There are men of whom you should be wary.”

  “Men like Riggs?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Men like you?”

  “Men exactly like me.”

  It wasn’t a boast. No, merely a statement of fact. She hadn’t expected such bald-faced candor.

  He studied her. Something passed over his face. “I cannot quite put my finger on it, dear Claire . . . You are a widow, yet there is—how shall I put this?—a freshness, almost an innocence about you that is . . . refreshing. And almost a challenge.”

  Claire’s heart climbed to her throat.

  “I am not the only man who will find it so. I’ve no interest in girls—yes, girls—who come to London for their come-out. Those in search of a husband.” He shook his head. “Be wary, Claire. Be very wary.”

  Her cheeks were suddenly burning.

  “Surely you can’t be as awful as all that.”

  His laugh was almost harsh. “Ah, darling, you betray your youth, for despite your widowhood, you are young, and newly brought into this den of lions. Heed me, lest you become too caught up in it.”

  A maddening smile now curled his lips. Claire’s heart was pounding, fast and hard. She had the uneasy sensation Gray sensed her self-doubt.

  “Men like Riggs, Claire”—he shrugged—”they are after no more than a dalliance.”

  “And you?” she dared. “Are you after no more than a dalliance?”

  He gave a sudden, biting laugh. “Oh, Claire, I’ve hidden nothing about my reputation. I’m the worst of all. Now come here. Your hair has come down.”

  He left no time for protest. Instead he turned her bodily around. His fingers weaved into her hair. And the silliest thought went through her mind.

  He twined it as expertly as did her maid.

  When he was done, he spun her around. Claire’s pulse was racing. He was so close, no more than the span of a hand separated them.

  “No more clandestine meetings in the dark, Claire.” That wickedly devilish smile widened. “Unless they’re with me.”

  Chapter Seven

  The weekend of the Duke of Braddock’s country house party approached. If she could have cried off, she would have. So he would be amenable to a dalliance, would he? Was he so confident in his ability to lure her in?

  He was no one’s fool. She mustn’t allow him to get the best of her. She mentally ticked off the mounting reasons she despised him.

  His arrogance.

  His mockery.

  His presumption.

  For he did presume to know her, which infuriated her.

  But she could hardly go about the business of making the man fall for her if she stayed in London. Ah, but the question still remained. Could she entice him?

  By heaven, he would not get the better of her. She had backbone enough to meet and match him.

  Claire shared Penelope’s coach. Pen had dashed off a note to the Northrups. They were indeed eager to see her. The trip required a stay at an inn. It was a pleasant journey through the countryside. The sun’s rays dappled over the fields. The landscape was rich in color, verdant green, and the sun a bright, vivid blue. The air was clean and fresh; there was no stench of coal and smoke, as in London.

  It was lovely . . . and yet a melancholy longing rose up inside her. Rolling through the countryside reminded her of Wildewood. How much she missed it!

  At noon of the next day they crossed over a stone bridge and the gently swirling waters of a stream below shortly before turning into the lane that led to the house. At Braddock’s estate, both she and Penelope pressed their noses up against the coach window, agog. They sped through soaring iron gates, down a wide lane bordered by trees, past vast green lawns and well-manicured gardens.

  “It looks like a fairy princess must surely live here,” Penelope breathed.

  That same thought occupied Claire’s mind.

  There were two massive wings on either side of the mansion’s front entrance. Several servants were there to help them from the coach and unload Claire’s trunk. The duke himself came to welcome her in the foyer, where two wide staircases swept toward each wing.

  After being shown to her room, Claire took a brief nap, then watched as several more coaches rolled in. She joined the duke and some of the other guests for afternoon tea in the garden. Oh, but Clive did indeed possess a roguish charm. His reputation was almost as bad as Gray’s.

  There was no sign of Gray.

  The opening festivity was a masquerade ball. Claire stood on the side of the dance floor, enjoying some of the costumes. Everyone wore masks, including her. She spied an ancient Roman soldier—judging from the rakish tilt of his head, it was Lord Davies. Another chose the costume of a medieval jester.

  There was still no sign of Gray.

  She had chosen to dress as a Gypsy. Her costume was bright and colorful. Her blouse had puffed sleeves and was off the shoulder, tucked into a long, flowing skirt of bright purple. Tied around her narrow waist was a sash of yellow. She’d left her hair long and loose, caught back by a ribbon, her head covered by a patterned scarf.

  Across the room, the musicians began to play, lively, vivacious tunes. Claire caught the mood, clapping and stomping in time to the music. Someone brought her a glass of champagne, then another. A pirate caught her around the waist and swung her around.

  She laughed and whirled along with him. Another man claimed her as partner. She pleaded aching feet. “I see you’ve a liking for champagne,” someone said. “Would you like another?”

  She gave a reckless laugh. “Please!”

  “I obey your every wish, Madame Gypsy.” The next moment she was holding a glass. “Drink it and come dance with me.”

  Feeling reckless, Claire drained it. Her new partner swept her onto the floor. She was still laughing as they spun away.

  His hand was warm around her waist. He held her close. Claire registered the plane of hard chest and long, muscled legs. The scent of him drifted to her nose. Caught up in carefree exhilaration, she flung back her head. She loved the way she felt small against his masculine strength.

  Her head was spinning. The champagne, she knew. She was used to country dances at neighborhood gatherings and not those of the ballroom. But now she felt as if she’d been caught in some strange Gypsy spell. Her feet left the ground as they whirled around. She tipped back her head, the arch of her throat long and white.

  She had yet to identify her partner. She didn’t care. Surrounded by the trill of laughter and voices, she liked being able to forget all else.

  “Every man here is jealous of me,” he whispered.

  The thought was exhilarating—and he was indeed the recipient of other envious glances. He spun her away from the dance floor and out onto the verandah. He didn’t stop until they stood beneath an arching trellis of fragrant, climbing vine.

  Perhaps there were other couples hiding away in the alcoves of the garden. But it seemed as if it was only the two of them in the world.

  Her partner stared down at her. A thousand tiny lights seemed to glitter in those ice-blue eyes. Her heart stood still—

  It was Gray.

  Her every sense had known it . . . and come alive. He held her around the waist. The span of his palm was almost possessive, fingers splayed wide around her back. It was as if she burned.

  “You fascinate me.”

  Her breath left her lungs in a rush.

  “You enchant me. I want to spirit you away.”

  His eyes were glittering. She glimpsed in them a need that was both thrilling and frightening.

  His voice seemed swa
thed in silk. Sensation swamped her. Her skin felt like it was burning. She realized then that opportunity was upon her. It would begin in earnest. Here. Now. She had wanted to entice. To lure. But she’d never expected it would be like this. She sensed a fervent intensity in him that frightened her. The lights from the house revealed a glittering flame in his eyes, something utterly fierce.

  Mid-thought, his mouth closed over hers.

  This was nothing like their first kiss. The night at his home was merely a prelude compared to this. His embrace had been tame. This was impassioned. Fierce and urgent. His mouth seemed all-consuming. It seemed she tasted him everywhere, resonating through every part of her. She felt overwhelmed. She tasted . . .

  Possession.

  There was a dark, sweet pleasure in the way her mouth clung to his. Oh, God. Her heart went wild, even as a voice in her soul cried out in betrayal. How was it she could feel such pleasure with Oliver’s killer? Some small sound escaped. He swallowed it. Her lips parted beneath the hunger in his. He roused feelings in her she’d never thought possible. His tongue was searingly blatant. It demanded entrance, with a sweeping claim that shocked her even as desire spilled all through her. She remembered how he’d said the night of the play that he wanted to run his tongue along her lips and taste her wine.

  The arm around her back tightened. There was an odd, unfamiliar quiver low in her belly. Her hands came up and clutched at his shoulders. She registered heat. Strength. Hardness.

  The world around her spun. The sounds of the night slipped away. His mouth was demanding. Intent. Engulfed in darkness, engulfed in him, she struggled for breath.

  Somehow she’d thought it would be wholly in her ability to control him.

  What folly.

  She knew it the instant his mouth trapped hers.

  The fusion of their lips was raw and hungry. Panic surged. What would she do if he did not stop? That wasn’t part of the plan. Claire thought she had tasted passion. Need. The other night hadn’t prepared her for this. She hadn’t expected to feel like this. She hadn’t expected he would feel like this.