EXCERPT FROM A SLAVE TO SIN
The Honorable Lucy Carrington reclined in the wide armchair, puffing on a Havana cigar. She propped her red, square-heeled shoes on the sturdy oak desk, circled her lips and exhaled a perfect ring of smoke.
“How does it feel to be a quarter of a century old?”
Lucy lowered her gaze and narrowed her eyes on Juliana Talbot, the youngest member of their secret society. Spirited and unabashed, with a penchant for needling, Jules often sported a wicked smile. As the daughter of a railroad tycoon, she was a wealthy heiress. She possessed grace and education, soft features, too. Her dark brown hair and bay brown eyes contrasted sharply with her pale skin, making her a striking beauty, but the desirable traits could not blot out the secret truth—she was a tainted woman.
Lucy took another puff, blowing the misty fumes in her friend’s direction.
Jules chortled, baring her straight, white teeth as she chomped down on a cigar.
“Don’t tease her, Jules,” from Winifred. “It’s poor karma.”
“Karma?” She snorted. “I don’t believe in the claptrap.”
“I didn’t either until my sister quarreled with our ayah . . . and sprouted whiskers the next day.”
Jules reached for her upper lip in alarm as Winifred Knolls sniggered. She had recently returned from India with her family, where her father, a captain in the regiment, had been stationed for almost a decade. She had a sound grasp of Hindu culture and religion and spoke the native dialect with aplomb. At four-and-twenty, she was one year younger than Lucy, and like Lucy, she possessed a flattering shade of blonde hair. She had fine ringlets, though, and grey-blue eyes. She also maintained a fair complexion, well guarded from the hot, sub-Asian climate. There was a fragile, mischievous quality about her, too, reminiscent of a fabled faerie . . . though ruthlessness sometimes twinkled in her eyes.
“No whiskers,” sighed Jules.
Winifred smirked. “Yet.”
Jules frowned.
The three ladies were entrenched in the study, nursing the finest cigars, drinking the most expensive port, and enjoying a good round of ribbing. It’d become a tradition, their weekly gatherings, and the masculine study was the ideal setting for their unorthodox cabal. The thick, wood paneled walls concealed their laugher while the sonoma cabinet nourished their vice for spirits and tobacco.
“Jules is right, though,” said Winfred, winking. “You’ve reached a pinnacle age.”
Pinnacle, indeed.
Lucy seized the crystal glass on the table and hoisted it into the air. “A toast to spinsterhood.”
The other ladies followed suit, downing the smooth, spicy, fortified wine.
“And to mark the momentous occasion,” from Jules, drawing on the cigar, “we’ve arranged a special surprise for you.”
“Animal? Vegetable? Or Mineral?”
Jules giggled. “Animal, of course.”
“No, mineral,” said Winifred.
“Drat.” Lucy pouted. “I’d hoped for vegetable.”
As the trio of misfits cackled, the study door opened and a tall, robust figure filled the entranceway.
The room hushed as Noah Carrington, Viscount Payne, glowered at the unwelcomed intruders through the haze of cigar smoke. He was dressed in sharp black eveningwear, his green eyes darkening to match the tone of his suit, his sandy-blond hair ruffled as if he’d stroked the short, wavy curls once too often.
Lucy looked away from her formidable older brother. She glanced down at the man’s desk, littered with estate papers, and defiantly crossed her ankles over his account book. She eyed the shelves next, stacked with precious tomes belonging to her quiet, intellectual brother, Mathew. The walls, meanwhile, epitomized her youngest sibling, Andrew, with his gothic, strangely dream-like paintings.
It was the domain of the Carrington brothers, the study . . . but it belonged to Lucy, for she had paid for it—all of it—with her soul.
“It’s half past nine.” He fisted his fingers. “Do you intend to sit in here until the celebration is over?”
The merriment from the ballroom seeped into the study through the open door, but she wasn’t in a rush to receive the guests. She avoided Time. On all grounds. She loathed its constrictive hand at her throat, falsely frightening her into believing she was going to lose or miss something important if she wasn’t always hopping in a hurry.
“Come along, Jules,” said Winifred. “Our meeting is adjourned.”
The two ladies dunked their cigar butts into their empty glasses, then sashayed from the room, arm in arm.
Noah watched their saucy movements askance, his lips firm, before he narrowed his dark gaze on his sister once more.
Her feet still planted on the account book, Lucy matched her brother’s scowl. Soon blood beat in her skull. She slowly uncrossed her ankles, lowered her limbs to the ground, feeling woozy.
The caster wheels rattled as she pushed back the arm chair and moved away from the desk. She approached the dour patriarch, handing him the smoldering fag end.
A vein pulsed in his neck.
She smiled. “I lost track of the time, I’m afraid.”
She took one, uneven step toward the door.
“You’re drunk,” he said in disgust.
“Balderdash.”
She paused beside the sonoma cabinet with glass inlays, primping her hair. The folded curls still neatly arranged, she fluffed her short, feathered bangs and tweaked the ruby headpiece to make sure it was pinned securely in place. Running her gloved hand over her red sateen bodice, she dusted her skirt and plumped her bustle, draped in three tiers of lush taffeta with gold thread needlework.
“I had a little port, is all. It’s my birthday, and I’ve every right to celebrate.” She grabbed the short dress train in one hand, gathered her breath, then leveled her brother with a piercing expression. “Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve guests to greet.”
She heard the man’s curses as he collected the glasses and cigar ends, but ignored his foul grumblings, picking up her fan and making her way toward the second floor and the ballroom.
She approached the landing, and soon the red checkered carpet appeared more and more distorted. She grabbed the cherub finial on the balustrade for support.
“I’ll take care of you, Lucy. I swear it.”
She squeezed the alabaster angel’s head with a sardonic smile, the memory of Noah’s passionate oath a tatty echo now.
She tsked. “Promises, promises, brother.”
Lucy climbed the steps, her vertigo contained. As she neared the double doors, a coolness settled over her, and her footfalls grew more refined. She flicked her wrist with force, and in one fluid movement the paper fan opened. Swatting at the air in light strokes, she entered the spacious ballroom.
The heat, the noise came over her like a swell. She blinked a few times, regaining her composure, and smiled at the assembled company. A trumpet sounded upon her entrance. She winced, her head throbbing. The music stopped. The guests turned toward the door, admiring her. She especially sensed the men’s approval, and her smile widened.
As the orchestra resumed their instruments, a familiar medley filled the air, followed by an accompanying chorus of For She's a Jolly Good Fellow.
The party erupted in applause.
Lucy curtsied in gratitude for the many well wishes. Across the room, Jules and Winifred grinned at her, and she winked at the pair in return.
“Many happy returns, Lucy.”
Andrew, her youngest sibling, cut through the crowd. Tall with striking green eyes, he approached her with his usual confidence and pecked her on the cheek.
“It’s about time you showed up,” he said. “I was prepared to put Mathew in a dress and parade him through the ballroom as the guest of honor.”
Her pensive, middle brother frowned at the jest as he, too, joined their intimate circle, his gait more timid. He averted his light green eyes, looked at his gloved hands. “Many happy returns, Lucy.”
“Thank you, brothers.”
Mathew offered her a black velvet box. “Here.”
She accepted the gift and opened the narrow container to find a shiny gold, chain-link bracelet with white diamonds.
“It’s lovely, Mathew.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he said quietly.
Andrew beamed. “I’ve a present for you, too.”
“Where is it?”
“Drying in my studio.”
“I see.”
He shrugged. “I’ll have it for you by week’s end, I promise.”
He promised? She’d come to view vows from her brothers with skepticism. She certainly never relied on their word.
She looked at Mathew again. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
She lifted her hand. “Aren’t you going to fasten the bracelet to my wrist?”
He appeared discomfited. “Of course.”
Andrew circled an arm around his ungraceful brother’s wide shoulders. “It’s all right, old fellow. If I had my nose pinned between the pages of Frankland’s Organic Chemistry, I’d forget the finer points of etiquette, too.”
Mathew glanced sidelong at his pestering sibling before he fiddled with the tiny clasp for half a minute. At last he secured the jewelry to his sister’s wrist.
Andrew then bowed with fanfare. “Might I have the honor of a dance, my lady?”
Lucy folded the decorative paper fan and took her brother’s right arm, releasing Mathew from further trumpery.
The couple set out for the dance floor, and Andrew took her in his arms for a waltz.
“I’ve a confession to make, Lucy.”
Her youngest brother was tall and lean, unlike her other brothers who possessed more girth. She had to arch her neck to meet his emerald eyes. “What is it?”
“I promised young Archibald Watson a dance.”
“Really? Well, I won’t keep you from your partner.”
“With you, my dear. I promised him a dance with you.”
“Oh? Mr. Watson cannot ask me to dance himself?”
Andrew smirked as he twirled with her around the grand room. “He’s afraid he’ll get his heart broken.”
She lifted a single brow. “It’s unfortunate for Mr. Watson I left my dance card in my bedroom.”
“I’ll send Mathew to fetch it. He’d like nothing better than to escape the drudgery of polite society.”
“And if I’m not inclined to dance with the cowardly Mr. Watson?”
“Damnation, Lucy,” he growled, dropping the cordial pretense. “Are you really going to die an old maid with the epithet chiseled into your gravestone?”
She stiffened at the cruel words, her blood burning. “Yes.”
His features hardened. A dark light played in his eyes. “It doesn’t suit you, my dear. Spinsterhood.”
“No,” she said tightly. “It doesn’t suit you.”
He had a guilty conscience, like the rest of her brothers. If he married her off, he wouldn’t have to be reminded of his sin—her sin—but she wouldn’t be bullied into wifedom. She intended to keep her moniker as the “iron maiden.”
The waltz ended.
The room was still spinning in her eyes, though. She was lightheaded, too. “I’m thirsty.”
Andrew escorted her off the dance floor. “I’ll bring you some iced tea.”
“Wine, if you please.”
He frowned. After a brief pause, he wended through the throng toward an anteroom with light refreshments—and waited in line behind a gaggle of ladies for the tea. In a huff, she gathered her train, making her way toward the corner of the room and the open window.
As the cool breeze touched her warm cheeks, she stared out over the green, misty cityscape of London. The fan still secured in her gloved hand, she squeezed the ivory handles between her fingers until her knuckles ached, imagining them Andrew’s bones.
“Good evening, Miss Carrington.”
She glanced sidelong at the impertinent fellow standing beside the thick yellow curtains with his hands secured at his backside. He had approached her without a proper introduction, and after her brother’s grating comments, she wasn’t in a mindset to overlook his incivility.
Glowering, she demanded, “Who are you?”
He was clothed in formal eveningwear, fine black dress coat and trousers. He had a low, white waistcoat revealing a plaited shirt and black necktie. She dropped her eyes to his feet, assessed his leather boots with short heels. Top quality, she mused. He appeared a gentleman.
“Do I meet with your approval?”
Brash, wasn’t he? Over the years, her title as the “iron maiden” had intimidated most men. A few arrogant chaps still wooed her—with unfortunate consequences—but most dared not approach her.
The stranger dared, however.
“What are you doing here, sir?”
“I’ve come to get my heart broken.”
A slow shiver rolled down her spine, like tiny spiders creeping over her vertebrae. It was the brisk breeze nipping at her flesh, she concluded. She was unmoved by his confession, the stark honesty in his words.
“You want your heart broken?”
“I like pain.”
He had a smooth, deep voice. Steely, even. He wasn’t easily aroused, she sensed. She had not confronted such poise, such assertion in ages. Or such audacity.
She girded her muscles as an unbidden heat entered her belly, a warm sensation akin to a tipple of fine red wine. She resisted the sentiment with grit. The handsome devil wasn’t going to break her iron front with a few brassy, whispered words . . . and yet he commanded her attention with his dark brown eyes, hooded under a pair of soot-black brows. He had the gaze of a predator, pointed and unflinching. Sensual lips, though. A true Bohemian.
Humbug!
Her brain sticky with drink, she gathered her tangled thoughts until she spotted Jules and Winifred across the ballroom. The zany couple giggled and winked at her. And she gasped as she remembered their promise:
“We’ve arranged a special surprise for you.”
Lucy regarded the stranger again, and her eyes rounded. Soon the sensational truth rooted in her mind. He was her birthday gift. He was her birthday gift. The untoward flirtation, the brazen conduct. He wasn’t a real gentleman. He was her “special surprise.”
She grabbed her whirling thoughts, lassoed them like a cowboy from the American West. It was such a scandalous “gift,” even from an eccentric pair like Jules and Winifred. Wholly tempting, though. He was a divine creature. Tall. Over six feet. He had broad shoulders, a sinewy frame, but he wasn’t fat or heavily muscled like a dockside worker. There was grace in his carriage, true elegance.
She observed his fine lips, so kissable. He quirked his mouth in a mysterious fashion, as if he was keeping a delightful secret from her. There was a bump on the bridge of his otherwise well-proportioned nose, and she wondered if it’d been broken in the past. Smooth skin. Good. She loathed whiskers. The facial hair scratched like claws. Strong, prominent cheekbones. Dark eyes. Such dark eyes. And thick, short lashes. Black. He had long hair, too. Slightly wavy. It gathered at his earlobes. Unconventional. And, oh, so tempting.
She didn’t fight the heat in her belly anymore. She allowed the prickly warmth to spread through her veins until it singed her toes and ears.
“I do not break hearts in public.” She smiled. “It’s impolite.”
His upper lip twitched, ever so slightly. “I will meet you in the garden.”
“Wait.” She lifted the fan to her mouth, burning with curiosity. “What is your name?”
“Wilde.”
Wild, indeed.
He stalked away, and she admired his physique as he dipped between the couples with suave strides. Her brother returned with the tea. She waited a few tactful minutes, swigged the icy drink, then excused herself from his company.
In defiance of propriety, she abandoned the party and sneaked through the ballroom doors in pursuit of Mr. W
ild.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexandra Benedict is the author of several historical romances published by Avon Books. She also writes fiction as an Indie Author. Her work has received critical acclaim from Booklist and a starred review from Publishers Weekly. All of her books are translated into various languages. For more information visit: www.AlexandraBenedict.ca
Alexandra also writes young adult fantasy fiction with a romantic twist under the pen name Alex Benedict. Don’t miss her debut So Down I Fall—A dark re-imagining of The Little Mermaid. To learn more visit: www.AlexBenedict.ca
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