Your Wicked Heart

by Meredith Duran

  “Miss Thomas!” This bawling address came through the door, in the less-than-dulcet tones of Mrs. Primm. “I say! You’ve a gen’lman visitor!”

  Olivia went quite pale. “What? Who could that be? Send him away!” she yelled at the door.

  Amanda rose, heart pounding. “Yes, send him away!” she agreed, although she spared a frown here for Olivia, whose reaction seemed peculiarly violent.

  “I’ll do no such thing!” Mrs. Primm yelled back. “He’s a seal on his coach and he refuses to go before he sees you!”

  Amanda clapped a hand to her mouth. So did Olivia.

  They stared at each other for a shocked, frozen moment.

  Then Amanda dropped her hand. “Why do you look so shocked?”

  Olivia drew herself straight. “I do not look shocked.” But then she flew to the window, cranking it open to peer out.

  Whatever she saw made her shoulders loosen.

  Turning back, she gave Amanda a look of puzzlement. “Whose coach is that?”

  Amanda shook her head slowly. “Whose did you expect it to be?”

  The door shuddered. “Come down at once!” ordered Mrs. Primm. “I don’t have enough tea for two pots!”

  And then came the sound of the stairs groaning again beneath their load.

  “You’re in some sort of trouble,” Olivia said, narrow eyed. “What have I told you, time and again? Avoid the nobs. At all costs, avoid them!”

  Amanda groaned. “I tried!” She had even declined Lady Forbes’s offer of a ride home.

  The woman must have had her followed!

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, becoming aware, against her will, of a flutter of joy.

  He had come for her. Again.

  Don’t be stupid. Remember how he deceived you!

  “That look on your face,” Olivia muttered, “is not . . . desirable.”

  Amanda bent to fetch her gloves, which she had dropped when entering. “What look is that?”

  “The look,” said Olivia, “of a very foolish girl.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The blush,” Olivia said more pointedly. “As though it’s a . . . suitor downstairs.”

  “Nonsense,” said Amanda, and yanked open the door.

  * * *

  She did not pretend surprise when she entered the small parlor to find Ripton standing by the window. But she did bite her lip lest she accidentally smile at him when he turned, his face grave, to bow to her.

  He had never bowed to her before.

  Nobody had, in fact. Secretaries did not merit bows such as this one. Ladies in ballrooms, perhaps, but . . .

  He came toward her. “Amanda,” he said. “You idiot.” And then he grabbed her and pulled her into a hug.

  Astonishment made her go still in his arms. And then she closed her eyes and took a great breath of him, and a new amazement broke over her: amazement that it had been so long, nearly four weeks, since she had last seen him. Five weeks since she had last touched him. Nothing had ever seemed so wrong or unnatural in her life as this realization.

  “You came for me,” she whispered.

  His hand wound through her hair, cradling her. “I will always come for you,” he said.

  Her spine was not made of steel after all. It melted and released her from paralysis; her arms came around him and she gripped him back, wanting to embrace him even more tightly than he did her.

  But it was impossible. His was the greater strength. She felt his muscles harden, his arms banding around her more fiercely yet.

  From behind them came the sound of a throat being cleared. “I’ll not have this under my roof,” said Mrs. Primm.

  “She won’t be under your roof much longer,” Ripton said in a cold, haughty voice that Amanda did not recognize.

  She sighed into his chest. No, she would not lie to herself. His arrogance was all too familiar.

  As the parlor door slammed, she slipped free of his hold. “It is not your call where I go, sir.”

  He looked at her a moment, then slowly shook his head. There were shadows beneath his beautiful black eyes, and it looked as though he had not shaved in days. He shoved his hand through his hair, knocking his hat off; it fell, unheeded, to the floor.

  “You have no idea,” he said slowly, “how thoroughly I have searched for you. The things I imagined when I discovered you no longer aboard the ship—”

  She had stolen away the morning they had docked—begged and then pleaded desperately, without care for her dignity, until the sailors let down the gangplank for her an hour before schedule.

  “I could—” Her voice caught. The memory of that morning was unendurable even now. “I could not bear to see you again.”

  The words made him go very still. And then he bowed his head. “I expected as much.” When he lifted his face again, his expression was calmly composed. “And it makes no difference. I told you once that I take my responsibilities seriously. That they are my main calling in life. And you are one of them, Amanda. As much as my cousin—more than him. As much as any of my family—or more so. You are mine now to look after. You must see that.”

  Her euphoria fractured.

  “I am not one of your burdens, Ripton.” She stepped back from him, her hands balling into fists at her sides. This was why he’d come? To satisfy his sense of duty? “I thought I’d made that clear. If you come only to assuage your guilty conscience, you can go to the dev—”

  “No.” Jaw hardening, he lunged forward and caught her by the elbows. “No, we are not reenacting this scene again. By God, listen to me. It is not obligation that brought me here. It is, I will admit, partly insanity, but a common form, I believe. I love you, Amanda. God knows how it happened, but I am not a man to love lightly. And I am not a man to let love go.”

  She barely felt his hand on her now. Skin prickling, she gazed up at him. “You . . . love me.”

  “Yes.” He smiled slightly. “Why look so amazed? It was you who told me what a fine catch you were. That very first night . . . do you recall?”

  She tried to speak, but her tongue had turned to clay. This had to be a dream. “But . . . you’re a viscount. The real one. You can’t—”

  “I can do anything I damn well please,” he said softly. “But . . . I would prefer, in this matter, to have your cooperation. Your ardent cooperation, if you please.”

  She nodded immediately, then caught herself and frowned. “In what matter?”

  His hand ran down her arm, his fingers twining through hers. He lifted her knuckles to his mouth. “In the matter of marriage,” he said, his gaze fixed to hers.

  “I am dreaming.” Now she knew it.

  He smiled against her skin. “A nightmare, perhaps? I don’t expect I’ll be an easy husband to love.”

  Husband. She pulled her hand away, obscurely frightened. “But I’m nobody. A secretary.”

  He frowned. “What in God’s name does that matter? I’m the head of my family. Who will stop us?”

  “But the scandal! That you would wed me!”

  He stared at her a moment, then exploded into laughter. “Scandal? Dear God! Amanda, I’m a St. John. One of my great-uncles rather famously attempted to marry his horse. If anything, my marriage to a beautiful, well-mannered, perfectly acceptable young woman will be seen as . . . disappointingly staid.”

  But she could not trust his levity. Not in a matter as important as this. “Think of your cousin! Your family is so important to you . . . If you marry me, he will never speak to you again!”

  “Ah.” He sobered. “I do hate to injure your vanity, dear heart, but it took Charles exactly five days to overcome his wounded pride. I gave him a bit of money, and he’s already off to his next lark—India, to be precise. God help them all.”

  The answer should have reassured her. Instead, she began to tremble, for she realized that one objection still remained—the largest of them all, the one he could not fix. “I have no idea how to be a wife to you. To”—her vo
ice broke—“such a man as you.”

  “What? No,” he said, catching her hand again, drawing her back to him when she would have continued to retreat. “Are you mad? Why, that very first night, you told me exactly what I required: constancy and respect, affection and support. Only one thing you failed to mention.”

  “And what is that?” she whispered.

  His smile faded but his gaze remained intent. “Love,” he said. And swallowed.

  It was that swallow—that small jerk of his throat—that undid her. For it was proof of what he had never shown her before: vulnerability.

  Why . . . she believed him. He did love her.

  He loved her.

  For the space of a heartbeat, she did not speak. This moment, in this musty room with its threadbare carpets, the landlady no doubt eavesdropping at the door—this moment was the beginning of it all.

  The beginning of her true adventure.

  And it would last forever.

  With five words, she set forth on the path: “Yes,” she said hoarsely. “I will marry you.”

  And as he laughed, a loud and lovely laugh of relief, she leapt forward into his arms. His laughter lingered as he kissed her mouth, her cheek, the tender spot beneath her ear. And then, with his lips against her earlobe, he said, “Not simply for safety, I hope?”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “Safe? You’re a kidnapper!”

  The gasp that came from the other side of the door made her giggle. And then, sobering, she cupped his cheek and looked up into his eyes.

  “And I love you,” she said. “Kidnapper that you are.”

  His breath caught. Gently, very gently, he stroked her lip with his thumb. “May I . . . kidnap you now?” he asked. “For the sake of good form.”

  “I think you must,” she said gravely. “For I owe the landlady three pounds, and I don’t have it.”

  “I have a few rings you could sell,” he said. “And one in particular.” Slipping a slim gold band from his finger, he smoothed it onto her thumb, where it dangled.

  She made a fist to keep it in place. “Lovely,” she said. “But I think I’d like to keep this if you don’t mind. I will give Mrs. Primm some other payment.”

  “Forget Mrs. Primm,” he murmured, and picked her up, causing her to yelp with glee.

  “But you’ll have to set me down,” she gasped, “or you’ll shock her into apoplexy.”

  “And if I can’t bear to release you?”

  “Then perhaps you may kidnap me in . . . a quarter hour?”

  He sat down on the sofa, still holding her in his arms. “An excellent idea,” he murmured. “A quarter hour, then. And until that time . . . how shall we occupy ourselves?”

  Smiling, she slid a hand around his nape and pulled his mouth to hers.

  Continue reading for an exclusive excerpt from

  That Scandalous Summer

  by Meredith Duran

  Available from Pocket Books February 2013

  PROLOGUE

  London, March 1885

  His brother’s town house felt like a tomb. Beyond the brightly lit foyer, the lamps were turned down, the windows shuttered. One would never have guessed that the sun was shining over London.

  Michael handed off his hat and gloves. “How does he fare today?”

  Jones, Alastair’s butler, had once been the epitome of discretion. But this question had become their daily ritual, and he no longer hesitated before answering. “Not well, your lordship.”

  Michael nodded and scrubbed a hand over his face. Two early morning surgeries had left him exhausted, and he still reeked of disinfectant. “Any visitors?”

  “Indeed.” Jones turned to fetch the silver salver from the sideboard. The mirror above it was still covered with black crepe. It should have been taken down already, for his brother’s wife had died more than seven months ago. But those months had unearthed a series of revelations. Infidelity, lies, addictions—each new discovery had darkened Alastair’s grief for his duchess into something more ominous.

  That the mirror remained shrouded seemed fitting. It was an accurate reflection, Michael thought, of Alastair’s state of mind.

  He took the calling cards from Jones, flipping through them to note the names. His brother refused to receive company, but if the calls were not returned, the gossip would grow louder yet. Michael had taken to borrowing the ducal carriage and one of his brother’s footmen, waiting on the curb for a chance to leave his brother’s card without being seen. Had the situation not been so dire, he would have considered it an excellent farce.

  He paused at a particular card. “Bertram called?”

  “Yes, an hour ago. His grace did not receive him.”

  First Alastair had cut himself off from friends, suspicious of their possible involvement in his late wife’s affairs. Now, it seemed, he was spurning his political cronies. That was a very bad sign.

  Michael started for the stairs. “Is he eating, at least?”

  “Yes,” called Jones. “But I am instructed not to admit you, my lord!”

  That was new. And it made no sense after the note Alastair had sent last night, which he must have known would provoke a response. “Do you mean to throw me out?” he asked without stopping.

  “I fear myself too infirm to manage it,” came the reply.

  “Good man.” Michael kept climbing, taking the stairs by threes. Alastair would be in the study, scouring the afternoon newspapers, desperate to reassure himself that news of his wife’s proclivities had not been leaked to the press. Or perhaps desperate to find the news—and to learn, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who else had betrayed him.

  But he would not learn the names today. Michael had already checked the papers himself.

  A wave of anger burned through him. He could not believe they’d been reduced to such measures—reduced again, after a childhood in which their parents’ marriage had exploded slowly and publicly, in three-inch headlines that had kept the nation titillated for years. It went against the grain to think ill of the dead, but in this instance, he would make an exception. Damn you, Margaret.

  He entered the study without knocking. His brother sat at the massive desk near the far wall, the lamp at his elbow a meager aid against the larger gloom. His blond head remained bent over his reading material as he said, “Leave.”

  Michael yanked open a drapery as he passed. Sunlight flooded the Oriental carpet, illuminating motes of floating dust. “Let someone in here to clean up,” he said. The air smelled of old smoke and stale eggs.

  “God damn it.” Alastair cast down the newspaper. A decanter of brandy stood uncorked by his elbow, a half-empty glass beside it. “I told Jones I was not at home!”

  “That excuse would be more convincing if you ever left.” It looked as though Alastair had not slept in a week. He took after their late father, as fair as Michael was dark, and normally he inclined to bulk. Not lately, though. His face looked alarmingly gaunt, and shadows ringed his bloodshot eyes.

  Some wit had once dubbed his brother the Kingmaker. It was true that Alastair had a gift for wielding power—political and otherwise. But if his enemies had looked on him now, they would have laughed from relief as much as from malice. This man did not look capable of governing even himself.

  Michael pulled open the next set of drapes. Not for a very long time—not since his childhood, spent as a pawn in their parents’ games—had he felt so helpless. Had his brother’s ailment been physical, he might have cured it. But Alastair’s sickness was of the soul, which no medicine could touch.

  As he turned back, he caught his brother wincing at the light. “How long since you’ve stepped outside? A month? More, I think.”

  “What difference?”

  This being the ninth or tenth occasion on which they’d had this exchange, the impulse to snap was strong. “As your brother, I think it makes a great deal of difference. As your doctor, I’m certain of it. Liquor is a damned poor trade for sunshine. You’re starting to resemble an
undercooked fish.”

  Alastair gave him a thin smile. “I will take that under advisement. For now, I have business to attend—”

  “No, you don’t. I’m handling your business these days. Your only occupations are drinking and stewing.”

  With his harsh words, Michael hoped to provoke a retort. Alastair had ever been mindful of his authority as the eldest. Until recently, such jibes would not have flown.

  But all he received in reply was a flat stare.

  Damn it. “Listen,” he said. “I am growing . . . extremely concerned for you.” Christ, it required stronger language. “Last month, I was worried. Now I’m damned near frantic.”

  “Curious.” Alastair looked back to the newspaper. “I would imagine you have other concerns to occupy you.”

  “There’s nothing in the papers. I checked.”

  “Ah.” Alastair lowered the copy of the Times and looked dully into the middle distance. In his silence, he resembled nothing so much as a puppet with its strings cut. Damned unnerving.

  Michael spoke to break the moment. “What was this note you sent me?”

  “Ah. Yes.” Alastair pinched his nose, then rubbed the corners of his eyes. “I did send that, didn’t I.”

  “In your cups, were you?”

  The hand dropped. Alastair’s glare was encouraging. “Quite sober.”

  “Then explain it to me. Some nonsense about the hospital budget.” Michael opened the last set of curtains, and in the process, discovered the source of the smell: a breakfast tray, abandoned on the floor. Jones had been wrong; Alastair had not touched his plate of eggs. The maids were probably too frightened to retrieve it, and too fearful to tell Jones so.

  “Whoever told you that we’re lacking funds was misinformed,” he said as he turned back. Devil take these gossips. He should never have let that journalist into the hospital. But he’d assumed that the article would discuss the plight of poverty, the need for legal reforms.

  Instead the reporter had fixated on the spectacle of a duke’s brother personally ministering to the dregs. Ever since, the hospital had been overwhelmed by all manner of unneeded interest—bored matrons raised on tales of Florence Nightingale; petty frauds hawking false cures for every ailment under the sun; and, above all, his brother’s political opponents, who mocked Michael’s efforts in editorials designed to harm Alastair. Had his attention not been occupied by his brother’s troubles, he would have been livid with irritation.