Tempted

by Rita Thedford

  Behind him, a red mare pounded her hoofs against dirt, and once again a prayer of thankfulness went abroad that his flaxen-haired partner rode so well. It wouldn't take long now to rejoin the country party, and if they were careful, no one would notice they'd been gone.

  They rode for a long time in absolute silence before, finally, winking lights beckoned from ahead. Howard Manor was alight with continuing gaiety, guests of the well-liked couple laughing and drinking, dancing and gossiping now, as they would be until nearly dawn. Assignations would be made and frantic whispers exchanged.

  The stables were deserted as the help had gone to enjoy their own pleasures; they rode finally, two abreast, into the well-kept haven. Dismounting quickly, neither speaking, they wound their ways just on the perimeter of the sculpted grounds, through the kitchen, and onto the servants’ stairway.

  Impossibly, it seemed, no one was about. Most likely all available help was busy dealing with Lord and Lady Howard's many guests.

  Eyes narrowed, he heard no complaints uttered, no voices shouting an alarm when his partner in crime took the lead, snatching a candle from a nearby wall sconce. Through the twisted maze of hallways, they walked rapidly, clinging to shadows until they reached the appropriate door. The room was well appointed, the coverlet on the bed turned down enticingly. Yes, the servants had been busy.

  The bandit smiled as his accomplice swept into the room with an air of victory and swept the hat and rough mask from his head. A shower of white curls fell in endless disarray and an elfin smile framed by deep dimples bubbled forth. “A good night's work, m'lady. A good nights work, indeed,” she crowed with delight. “I bow to your cleverness in not killing the murderin’ bastard, though he deserved it, he did."

  Pandora, the owner of those blonde curls, sketched a courtly bend as Elizabeth swept the tricorne from her head, yanked at a black ribbon, and sent a thick mass of auburn hair tumbling about her waist. Despite the night's serious play, she grinned, showing small white teeth. “Aye, my partner in crime, a good night's work it was."

  Shrugging off the black frock coat, she stood wearing only her breeches, boots, and a ridiculously frilled shirt and faced her lady's maid of more years than she could remember. Her grin faded suddenly as she felt her hands begin to tremble.

  In truth, she shook all over. God help her, she'd actually done it! All this time in planning, over in less than an hour's time. It felt not enough, but it had to be.

  Pandora swept the length of her white hair over her roughly garbed shoulders, marched to her lady, and took both of her chilled hands. “Why didn't you kill him as you planned, m'lady? He deserved it, he did, for killing our poor Charlotte."

  "I don't know.” Elizabeth sighed with a long, sickened breath. “He killed her as surely as she and I were twins, yet when it came down to the matter, I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. My killing him would make me no better than he."

  Pandora grinned wickedly. “So you maimed him instead. Well done, I say. Very well done. The bounder won't be tossing any other ladies down stairs unless he grows wings to fly."

  Her laughter filled the room and Elizabeth watched the tiny whirlwind as she went to fetch the evening gown she'd been wearing earlier in the evening.

  "You are a bloodthirsty wench, Pandy. Truly bloodthirsty, though I vow, no more than your Irish ancestors.” Elizabeth methodically tugged off the ill-fitting boots and stripped the tight breeches from her body. The white shirt fluttered to the floor at her feet as she stepped forward and immediately began to don her feminine undergarments.

  There wasn't another moment to waste.

  Surely by now her parents were wondering where she'd gotten to. Never would they have dared imagine their darling daughter had taken to the countryside on a private mission of revenge. They would be horrified to learn of what she'd done in the name of vengeance. Every limb shook with the aftereffects of what she'd done tonight. She'd been called brazen before, but never had she done anything quite so outrageous.

  She was Lady Grayson, for pity's sake!

  If her parents ever learned of tonight's misdeed, she'd only further upset them, and they were burdened enough already by grief. She deeply understood the heavy yoke of losing one such as Lottie. Indeed, she hadn't felt whole these two years past.

  Their small family had lost enough.

  Lord Henry still blamed himself for the death of his daughter. Melancholy tinged his personality now, where before he'd been jovial and always full of fun and laughter. A powerful man among his peers, her father was honorable and well considered. He was respected throughout England, yet Charlotte's needless death destroyed him moment by moment.

  Elizabeth's mother, Millicent, took the flight of fancy approach to the entire matter. Life must go on, she was wont to say. The woman who'd raised two daughters and lived her life through their achievements was desperate to grasp at anything to bring back happiness into her home. Her entire attentions were focused on Elizabeth and a match. A good one. There would be a marriage, babes, and a happily ever after.

  She was a woman who believed in fairy tales.

  Yet, anyone who lived at Brightstone Estates in Hampshire knew the woman grieved. In private. Behind locked doors. Later, she would emerge, eyes red-rimmed and a forced cheery smile on her lovely face.

  She had lost her beloved Charlotte to a scoundrel's worthless abuse, but she would not see Lizzie's future destroyed as well. She lived for a return of normalcy that might never come.

  It was during the years after Lottie's death that Elizabeth first came to realize and appreciate the subtle strength of her mother.

  For the sake of her parents, she had shown some enthusiasm for attending this country weekend, and when they agreed to attend with her—as a family—she began to plot.

  The Howard affair in Devonshire was a crush of Londoners who longed for nothing more than an escape from the city heat. It was also her first foray in public since the death of her sister. Edward had not been invited, though his estate bordered the Howard's ancestral home. ‘Tis true, he wasn't popular among the gentry, and whispers of Charlotte's strange death had tainted him as unsavory.

  Over the years and with the shock of Lottie's death, his name had gone into shadows. Whispers of his past dealings with women filtered into polite society, leaving many to speculate about the cause of poor Charlotte's death.

  Elizabeth still remembered that night!

  Lying in her bed, she'd been visited by nightmares. A presence sent chills over her skin. Feeling somehow she was no longer alone, she bolted up in bed. Breath left her lungs only to be replaced by an insufferable ache. Sadness such as she'd never known climbed over her back and into her soul. She'd known before the messenger arrived that her sister was gone.

  Sweet Charlotte, who'd only wanted babies and gentleness was gone, and Elizabeth knew in that moment that her life was forever altered.

  That was two years ago.

  Elizabeth had learned, though, that mourning was not something one put a time limit upon. If she'd had her way, she would still be at home in the country and wailing to the winds about her loss. Charlotte's passing had left an unbearable aching hole in her heart that wouldn't be filled in a day or a million days. Charlotte was her love, her companion, her friend ... her twin.

  The fireplace, charred from cheery fires past, now sat cold and stark against the wall. Elizabeth stared at it and brooded. Charlotte was sweet and good, full of hope and exuberance for a future that she'd never live to claim. Elizabeth had always been the harder, more realistic of the two, yet she'd needed Lottie's optimism like she needed air. Where Elizabeth saw storms brewing on the horizon, Charlotte saw life giving rain and the promise of rainbows. Her sister was a near perfect being taken early because a monster had chosen to destroy her goodness.

  Tearing her gaze from the charred remains of yesterday's blaze, Elizabeth shook her head and returned to the present.

  Merciful heavens, she was becoming maudlin.

  Must be
the aftereffects of crippling her sister's murderer.

  Drawing a shaky breath, she stood and let Pandora pull the dark rose silk over her head and turn her for fastening. “I never said thank you, Pandora."

  Deftly fastening the tiny hooks, Pandora laughed. “No thanks needed, m'lady. I only wish you'd killed the bastard who tormented our poor Charlotte. He deserved worse than he got."

  Finally, Elizabeth laughed. “Bloodthirsty wench, aren't you?"

  "Aye. Must be the Irish bloodlust for revenge.” Pandora laughed. Elizabeth felt the maid's fingers tense against her back and when she spoke again, her voice shook. “I know it's not my place but..."

  "What?"

  "He deserved it and worse for killing my sweet lady. There are others, you know."

  Elizabeth sighed. “Yes. I know, dear heart. I know. But can I avenge them all?"

  Pandora turned her. Her eyes, like brown velvet buttons, gazed at her, and Elizabeth knew with just that look that Pandora was more than just a maid. She was a friend. A woman. They were linked in a way few could comprehend. Charlotte would understand it. A howl set up inside Elizabeth, never voiced but there nonetheless.

  "Wollstonecraft says women are not chattel but human beings, with feelings. I've felt enough, too much, since Charlotte's death not to know she's right. What can I do, Pandy? What can one woman do to fight this injustice? Women all around us are mistreated, beaten, and worse!” Elizabeth clutched her hands at her chest. Her heart pounded against the frail silk of her gown. “I hate him. Edward deserves to die, but I was too weak to actually kill him! Why couldn't I kill him like he deserved?"

  Pandora nodded briskly and yanked the slim shoulders of the dress over her mistress’ arms. “Cause you're a lady. A lady doesn't do murder, but she can make the poor sod miserable. And she can protect, too. Like a mother protecting her child, we must all look out for the innocent. Like m'lady Charlotte.” Her eyes turned sly as she led Elizabeth to the vanity table where she began to dress her hair.

  Elizabeth watched Pandora in the mirror and, when appropriate, handed her a pearl-topped pin. “Just what are you suggesting?"

  "Do you feel vindicated since you shot m'lord bastard's knee to bits? Do you feel this takes your grief from you?"

  "No,” she admitted. “Just the opposite. I was ineffectual. I couldn't kill him."

  Pandora grinned, her hands immersed in a cloud of dark red curls. “Just as I thought, m'lady. You couldn't kill him because, after all, you are a lady. You do have some manners. Instead, you did one turn better and crippled him! It's marvelous! Really. He won't be pushing anyone anytime soon now, will he? And it's all owed to you. You saved another woman. You did!"

  Elizabeth stared at her reflection with eyes gone hard with hate. Charlotte's eyes would never look that way. Never! But Charlotte was gone, and Elizabeth had nothing left but that base emotion and the need for revenge. Men who hurt women were less than nothing. Women were physically weaker and worth nothing in the eyes of the law: they were fair game. The injustice was monstrous and Elizabeth planned to do something about it!

  She glared into the mirror and as Pandora trimmed her hair, she seethed. Edward had destroyed her family as surely as if he'd shot them all with a pistol. Her father sat in his study, a shell of a man and withered before her eyes. Her mother, lord bless her, adopted a tone of fake happiness and talked only of Elizabeth's reentry into society. A good marriage and grandchildren would solve it all. The pain. The despair. Yes, children and a happy marriage at last would solve it all.

  Sickened, Elizabeth stood and studied the effects of Pandora's efforts. She was beautiful, like Lottie, but never could she compare with her twin. Where Lottie was full of sunshine, Elizabeth stood in the shadows. She wasn't a kind person like Charlotte; after all, she'd just shot a man's legs out from under him.

  A slow smile spread across her face.

  No. She wasn't sweet and good. She was a hellion on a mission of revenge. Charlotte's goodness wouldn't be left in the graveyard of defeat. It would mean something. From this day forward the bandit in black would see to it.

  Two

  London, 1820

  From a distance, her hair, thick and resplendent stuff, appeared almost black. But every now and then, she would move, and the lights from the many overhead chandeliers would catch it just so. Mahogany. Not merely auburn, but as dark as the ancient carved desk currently occupying the study in his Berkeley Square mansion.

  Leaning with graceful boredom against an ivory-colored marble column at the edge of the ballroom floor, Christian Delaford, the seventh Duke Haverton, studied the young woman and felt the first stirrings of lust. He narrowed heavy-lidded eyes in speculation.

  Accustomed to sybaritic pleasures and never denied in his thirty-four years, he was flagrant in his regard for the delectable miss who wore her haughty allure like an irresistible challenge.

  Few things intrigued the Duke. Wealth, power, and sinful dark looks held the promise that forbidden desires were his to take. A challenge was something to be savored and enjoyed, much like the risks he often took at London's gaming tables.

  His dark, earthy appeal assured he was never wanting in female companionship, and he'd indulged, admittedly to excess, since his return to England's shores. Last night's sinful pleasure had occupied him till dawn when he'd finally crawled from between the thighs of his lovely companion, kissed her swollen lips, and taken himself home to bed.

  He had almost forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by lovely, but mindless, young women, who had nothing more to occupy their minds than what gown to wear. Forgotten, too, was the civilized chatter that was normal for events like this during the height of the season. Frivolity and carefree evenings among the ton made him restless and inwardly edgy, but he bore them with the ease of his class. He was a man of action, ruthless in business and in his personal relationships, though they were limited to a select few.

  He'd been too long away from England, having lived these past ten years in China. They'd been profitable years, but solitary, given that he was bent on amassing even greater fortune to add to the family coffers. Though some part of him was pleased to be home, he missed the exotic pleasures, the scents of China ... the erotic, the hedonistic. He'd had to please no one but himself, and it was a lush, unforgettable experience to saturate himself in forbidden pleasure. He wondered now, in this pristine ballroom, if he would ever again accept less.

  Out of necessity, Christian once again lived among the so-called civilized and searched, unbeknownst to his friends, for a suitable wife.

  It was mandatory, though he chafed at the thought of matrimony. Damn his father and the cursed stipulation in his will. Married by midnight of his thirty-fifth birthday or the title and massive fortune reverted to a distant cousin.

  Even from the grave his father manipulated him. Seething, stretching against invisible constraints, he glanced at one of his companions and realized he'd missed something.

  "Forgive me, Bentley,” he murmured. “My mind wandered."

  His companion grinned. “From the way you were staring at our lovely Elizabeth Grayson, ‘tis no wonder. She's the sort to capture a man's imagination."

  Christian's smile was slow; his world narrowed upon her. “A beauty to be sure. I suspect she has an untamed wildness about her despite the cool reserve,” he replied almost to himself. “A flower. More tropical than domestic perhaps. One wonders about her scent."

  Bentley choked on his drink.

  "Forgive me.” Though he seldom apologized, he took Bentley's proper English sensibilities into account and made an exception. Bentley, no more than one and twenty, was inclined toward the romantic. Christian nodded slightly in recognition of his faux pas. “The Orient has made me blunt. She is, of course, a lady and not a member of the demimonde."

  His eyes wandered again toward the object of their conversation. An elderly gent, fat with wiry gray hair, took her hand and escorted her onto the dance floor.

  Not once sinc
e she'd gained Christian's notice had she danced with anyone under the age of forty, unless one counted a few stammering youths fresh from university. Curious.

  He'd noticed her from the moment he'd come through the doors and handed his card to a waiting doorman. Frankly, he doubted any man present could fail to notice the sumptuous beauty who stood with remote grace on the perimeter of the dance floor.

  "What is her age?” he asked quietly, giving away nothing more of his prurient thoughts.

  "Hmm. Nineteen or twenty, perhaps twenty-one. I'm not quite sure."

  "And still unmarried? Strange, considering her great beauty.” If he must marry, why not a woman who made his loins burn? Insipid females turned his stomach, and there seemed nothing faint-hearted about the lovely Elizabeth. He wanted a mistress in the bedroom and a Madonna with his children. In short, he wanted it all. He would have it.

  Bentley plucked two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and deftly handed one over. “But fortunate for us, hmm? She truly is a dashing young woman, if women can be called dashing. An heiress as well. Beauty and good fortune—the proper blend I would say."

  "Poor girl's been in mourning for the past two years,” Mr. Howard Potter said from his position near Christian's other elbow. He was a slightly built man, a third son and as such, could never dream of attracting a woman like Lady Grayson.

  A pity, Christian thought. The man seemed a true gentleman. Unlike himself, Potter was content to watch her from afar, and Christian couldn't help but scoff at the wistful, half-in-love expression on the younger man's face. To Christian's way of thinking, love was for young misses and poets, not for intelligent and practical men.

  "Two years!” Potter said. “An ungodly length of time for one so young, but her sister's death nearly killed the girl from the tales I've heard."

  "That's quite true,” Bentley replied. “Charlotte, Lady Stanhope, was her identical twin. She took a fall from a long staircase and broke her neck. Lord Grayson, father of the twins, still hasn't recovered from the incident, and some say he blames himself."