The novel's thinly disguised characters provided endless hours of speculation and delight among the ton. They could hardly believe that one of their own would lower themselves to pen such a thrilling and touching tale. It was the greatest literary scandal London had known since a married Percy Bysshe Shelley had eloped to France with sixteen-year-old Mary Godwin over a decade before.
When it was announced that the duke of Devonbrooke and Minerva Press would be jointly hosting a ball in the author's honor at Devonbrooke House, they set out to beg, borrow, or steal an invitation. The families who had retired to their country estates for the winter ordered their footman to hitch up their teams and headed back to the city. None of them were willing to miss the social coup of the year or the chance to ogle the notorious bride of Lord Death himself.
* * *
As Lottie approached the marble steps that spilled down from the gallery into the vast ballroom of Devonbrooke House, she felt more nervous than notorious. A crush of guests milled around the ballroom below, eagerly awaiting her arrival. A string quartet was seated in the corner, their bows poised over their instruments as they awaited the signal to strike up the first waltz. Sterling and Laura stood at the foot of the stairs, looking even more uneasy than she felt, while George ducked through the crowd with his head down, trying to elude a persistent Harriet.
Lottie had dreamed of such a moment her entire life, yet now that it had arrived, she felt curiously empty inside.
She touched a hand to her upswept curls, wondering if any of their guests would recognize the girl who had once been known as the Hertfordshire Hellion. With Laura and Diana's help, she'd chosen a gown of emerald green velvet that rode slightly off of her creamy shoulders. A matching choker encircled her slender throat. Shimmering gold banding edged the puffed sleeves and square-cut bodice of the gown. The waist was cut low, hugging the natural curves of her body. The strand of pearls woven through her hair added a touch of elegance to the demure ensemble, as did the whisper of lace peeping through a side slit in the skirt.
Addison was standing at rigid attention at the top of the stairs. The butler gave her a nearly imperceptible wink before clearing his throat and loudly intoning, "The Most Honorable Carlotta Oakleigh, the marchioness of Oakleigh."
An animated murmur swept through the ballroom as all eyes turned to the stairs. Her fingertips grazing the iron balustrade, Lottie slowly descended, a gracious smile fixed on her lips.
Sterling was waiting for her at the foot of the steps. Lottie felt a wistful pang in her heart as she imagined Hayden standing there instead, his green eyes shining with pride.
Her brother-in-law offered her his arm. As she took it, Laura signaled the musicians. They launched into a rousing Viennese waltz and Lottie and Sterling began to glide around the floor.
"No word from Townsend yet?" Sterling asked as several other couples joined the dance, swirling around them in a riot of colors and chatter.
"Not even a whisper. I'm beginning to think Hayden must have tossed him off the cliff along with my book."
Sterling scowled. "Better him than you."
When the first waltz ended, he handed her off to a beaming Mr. Beale. The kindly publisher was only too eager to be seen squiring about Minerva Press's brightest new literary light. The dazzling success of her novel had enriched both his coffers and his reputation. Lottie clutched one of his ink-stained hands, learning quickly that he was a much better publisher than he was a dancer.
"I believe we can pronounce the night a triumph, my lady," he said, peering over the top of his spectacles at the whirl of excitement, "just as we can the seventh printing of Volume Three of your book."
He was blissfully oblivious to the sly glances Lottie was receiving from behind their guests' fans and quizzing glasses. It wasn't admiration she saw in their eyes, but rabid curiosity and thinly veiled pity. Smiling at Mr. Beale, she held her head high. If Hayden could endure society's censure for over four years, surely she could survive it for one night.
Occupied with keeping her delicate slippers out from under the publisher's rather cumbersome feet, she didn't realize a marked hush had fallen over the crowd until the music ground to an off-key halt.
Addison's voice rang out in the sudden silence, lacking its usual clipped cadence. "The Most Honorable Hayden St. Clair, the marquess of Oakleigh."
As a stunned gasp traveled through the crowd, Lottie whirled around to find her husband standing at the top of the stairs.
Chapter 22
It seemed the Devil had come to claim his bride…
ALTHOUGH EVERY GAZE IN THE ENORMOUS ballroom was fixed on the man at the top of the stairs, he had eyes only for Lottie. The burning look he gave her made several of the women standing nearby fumble in their reticules for their smelling salts.
As he started down the steps, a wave of excited chatter swept the room.
"Is that him? Could it be?"
"Look at those eyes! He's even more handsome than she described."
"Oh my! He looks rather savage and unpredictable, doesn't he? I've always admired that in a man."
For some of the younger guests, it was their first glimpse of the notorious recluse once known as the Murderous Marquess. Others still remembered him as the prized catch who had broken the hearts of their eager young daughters by marrying a penniless French girl. But to all of them he was now the hero of Lady Oakleigh's infamous novel — a man wrongly maligned not only by them, but also by the very woman who stood watching his approach, as pale and silent as a statue. More than a few of them hoped he had come to give her the set-down she so richly deserved.
As Hayden's determined strides carried him across the ballroom, both Sterling and George moved to intercept him. Laura shook her head frantically at her brother and grabbed her husband's arm, digging her fingernails into his sleeve.
Stopping in front of Lottie, Hayden sketched her a crisp bow. "May I have the honor, my lady? Or is your dance card already full?"
"I don't have a dance card, my lord. In case you've forgotten, I'm a married woman."
His eyes smoldered down at her. "Oh, I haven't forgotten."
Mr. Beale stepped aside, eagerly surrendering her. From the glazed look in his eye, Lottie could tell he was already mentally tallying how many copies of her book this fresh scandal was bound to sell. "I'd best hand you over without a fight, my lady. I've heard your husband is the jealous sort. We wouldn't want him to call me out, now would we?"
Giving Hayden a conspiratorial wink, he bowed and backed away, leaving Lottie all alone to face her husband. As the musicians took up the soaring melody where they had left off, Hayden swept her into his arms and into the dance.
Lottie stole a glimpse at the daunting set of his freshly shaven jaw above the snowy folds of his cravat, hardly daring to believe that she was in his arms once again. His hand was splayed at the small of her back, its possessive heat urging her nearer with each dizzying turn around the ballroom.
Gazing straight ahead, he said, "I owe you an apology, my lady. It seems you're capable of maudlin sentimentality after all. You simply weren't going to be happy until you made a hero of me, were you? I just don't understand why you had to do it at your own expense."
"What expense?" Lottie replied, keeping her voice deliberately light to hide how breathless he was making her. "Look around you. I finally have all of the fame and attention I've always craved. Just as you predicted, I'm the literary toast of London."
Hayden did look around, but unlike Mr. Beale, he recognized what he saw. "They didn't come here tonight to honor you. They came to gawk at you. Just look at Lady Dryden. How dare that spiteful old cow look at you with pity in her eyes? She's already driven three husbands to early graves with her incessant nagging." He gave the buxom old woman a fierce scowl, sending her ducking behind her hand-painted fan.
"You really shouldn't be so hard on them. I can assure you that they all enjoyed weeping copious tears when my heroine's redemption came too late and my hero cast
her out of his life and his heart."
Hayden lowered his eyes to hers, the look in their dark-fringed depths making her pulse quicken. "Weren't you the one who told me that it's never too late? Not if you have someone to believe in you."
The music ended in that moment, but instead of letting her go, he drew her even closer. Neither of them realized another startled hush had fallen over the ballroom until Addison made a strangled noise deep in his throat. His voice resounded like a trumpet as he shouted, "His Majesty, the king!"
Hayden and Lottie jerked apart as a fresh surge of astonishment rippled through the ballroom. Sterling and Laura looked as shocked as everyone else. The king's rapidly failing health had driven him into seclusion at Windsor months ago. Some even whispered that he was beginning to show signs of his father's madness, insisting he'd fought at Waterloo alongside Wellington instead of squandering his youth and vigor on excesses of wine, women, and overly rich cream sauces.
As he minced his way toward them, flanked by two of his royal guards, Hayden bowed and Lottie sank into a full court curtsy, her head inclined and her skirts spread on the floor around her. Keenly aware of the vulnerability of her nape, she eyed the guards' swords out of the corner of her eye, just waiting for the king to bellow, "Off with her head!"
Instead, he snapped, "Stand up, gel. Let me have a look at you."
Lottie slowly rose, murmuring, "Your Majesty."
He was more bloated and pasty than she remembered, but not even time or ill health could dim the lascivious twinkle in his eye. As he leaned toward her, his gaze strayed to the deep cleft between theswell of her breasts. "Forgive me for crashing your little party, my dear, but I simply had to pay my respects." To her shock, he drew a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. "Not since the last installment of Harriette Wilson's memoirs have I found myself so engaged by the written word."
"Why, thank you, Your Majesty. I consider that high praise indeed coming from your lips."
Giving her husband a nervous look, the king leaned so close his fruity breath fanned her face. "Your characters were rather thinly disguised, my dear," he whispered. "Perhaps it's just as well that you made no mention of our own little dalliance."
Exchanging a disbelieving look with Hayden, Lottie touched a finger to her twitching lips. "Have no fear. His Majesty can always rely on my discretion."
"Very good, gel. Very good." At that moment, a lovely young woman went bobbing past, her ample breasts swelling over the top of her low-cut bodice. "If you'll excuse me," the king mumbled, already teetering after her on his jeweled shoes, "I believe there are some matters of state that require my immediate attention."
"Two of them, no doubt," Hayden muttered, watching their monarch's beleaguered guards follow his meandering path through the ballroom.
"Well, at least I didn't have to bite him that time."
Hayden shifted his glare to her. "If he had kept ogling you in that shameless manner, I was going to bite him myself."
"Then we'd have both ended up in the Tower."
"I'm not sure that would have been such a terrible idea. At least we'd have had some privacy."
He seized her by the hand, visibly frustrated to find them boxed in on all sides by the milling crush. Not even the king's unexpected entrance had been able to completely distract the crowd from their own little drama. Spotting another door at the rear of the room, he began to draw her toward it.
He'd barely taken two steps when a rotund gentleman stepped into their path. "Oakleigh!" the man boomed, clapping one beefy hand on Hayden's shoulder. "So glad to see you back in London at last. Do hope you plan to linger. The wife and I were hoping you might come 'round for supper one night."
Mumbling something noncommittal, Hayden ducked out of his grip and started in another direction. This time it was a beaming lady blocking their path. Resting a gloved hand on Hayden's forearm, she fluttered her lashes at him. "If you haven't any other invitations, my lord, do consider joining Reginald and me for tea tomorrow afternoon."
Before he could accept or decline, a throng of gentlemen and ladies surrounded them, each struggling to make their voice heard over all the others.
"… having a hunting party next month at the country house in Leicestershire. Do promise you'll be there!"
"… an outing to the Lake District in the spring. Everyone who is anyone has vowed to accompany us, but it simply won't be a success without you."
"… thought you might like to join Lord Estes and me at Newmarket on Sunday. I'm thinking to wager three hundred guineas on a pretty little filly I've had my eye on for the past fortnight."
Hayden jostled and elbowed his way through them, never once loosening his grip on Lottie's hand. When they finally emerged in the corridor outside the ballroom, he flung open one door after another until he finally found what he was seeking — a deserted room with a fire on the grate and a lock on the door. An Argand lamp resting on a satinwood table cast a mellow glow over the chintz-draped walls of the parlor.
Hayden secured the door, then swung around to face Lottie, resting his hands on his lean hips. "Good God, woman, do you see what you've done? Are you happy now?"
"Quite." Settling herself on a brocaded chaise, Lottie smiled up at him. "I've opened every door in England to you. And every door opened to you will be opened to your daughter as well. Thanks to me, Allegra will one day have her pick of suitors."
His eyes narrowed. "I don't suppose you happened to notice that none of their invitations included you."
"And why would they?" She shrugged, pretending the deliberate slights hadn't stung just a little. "After all, I'm the shallow, immature girl whose lack of faith in a kind and decent man cost her all hope of future happiness."
"No, you're not! What you are is the most infuriating creature I've ever met!" Glaring daggers at her, he raked a hand through his hair. "Why, I could just… just…"
"Kill me?" Lottie cheerfully provided. "Strangle me? Push me off a cliff?"
Biting off an oath, Hayden came striding toward her. As his hands closed over her shoulders, drawing her to her feet, she came willingly into his arms, her mind recognizing what her heart had always known.
She had never been afraid of him. She had only been afraid of her feelings for him. As he lowered his mouth to hers, they swept through her in a raging torrent of tenderness and yearning.
"Adore you," he finished, his voice cracking on a helpless note as he brushed his lips across hers in featherlight strokes. "I could just adore you with all of my heart."
"Then do," she whispered, twining her arms around his neck. "Please."
She didn't have to ask twice. He wrapped his arms around her, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth. As she melted into him, savoring the smoky sweetness of his kiss, Lottie was exhilarated to find herself once again standing on the edge of that dangerous precipice from her dream. Only this time she knew that if she dared to step off that ledge into Hayden's arms, she would not fall, but fly.
Resting his hands on her shoulders, Hayden gently set her away from him. "Now that you've convinced the scandal sheets and all of society that Justine's death really was a tragic accident," he said softly, "don't you think I at least owe you the truth?"
Shaking her head, Lottie touched two fingertips to his lips. "I already know the only thing I need to know — that I love you."
A groan escaped his throat as she slid her hand around to his nape, urging his mouth back down to hers. Between kisses, their shaking hands fumbled with buttons and ribbons, tapes and laces, desperate to shed the crisp layers of clothing that separated them. Hayden reached around to tear at the row of tiny, velvet-covered buttons at the back of her gown; Lottie whipped off his cravat, starving for a taste of him. She ran the tip of her tongue over his jaw, savoring the rich aroma of bayberry soap and the prickly hint of beard-shadow no amount of shaving could ever vanquish.
He dragged off her gown and slid her petticoat down over her hips. She tore at the studs
holding his shirt closed, sending them bouncing unheeded across the room.
Shoving her down to a sitting position on the chaise, he disappeared behind her. "If I ever get you into a real bed," he muttered, tugging loose the tangled laces of her corset. "I'm never going to let you out of it."
"Is that a promise?" she asked as his impatient fingers raked the pins from her hair, sending it tumbling around her shoulders.
Lifting that shimmering veil, he grazed the curve of her throat just below the velvet choker with his moist lips, sending a shiver of raw pleasure over her skin. "You have my word as a gentleman."
But it wasn't a gentleman who reached around to cup the breasts he'd just freed from her corset. It was a man, with a man's needs and a man's hungers. He gently squeezed their lush softness in his palms, then captured her aching nipples between thumb and forefinger, tugging and stroking until she was arching against him, writhing with need.
Scattering angel-soft kisses along her nape, he sent one hand gliding over the downy skin of her belly. He didn't waste a single precious moment tearing away the tapes that held up her drawers, but simply continued the downward slide of his hand until his deft fingers breached both the narrow slit in the damp silk and the honeyed cleft beneath.
He slipped two fingers inside of her, groaning deep in his throat. "I didn't think it was possible, but you're as ready for me as I am for you."
"And why wouldn't I be?" Lottie demanded fiercely. She arched against his hand, desperate for the pleasure only he could give. "I've been waiting just as long."
Tearing open the straining front flap of his trousers, Hayden straddled the chaise, then wrapped one arm around her waist and guided her back until she was straddling him. Rising up beneath her, he urged her down… down… down, until every throbbing inch of him was embedded deep inside of her.
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