Never Love a Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  “Host a regular party. Not a full ball, but a soirée with food and music.” She clapped her hands together to punctuate her offer. “I’ll help you with the arrangements.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “You want me to invite Society to Lockwood House for a soirée?”

  “Precisely.”

  “No one would come,” he said incredulously.

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” A smile crept over her face as she thought of people’s expressions when they received the invitations. “People will be clamoring to be invited. Lockwood House is a place of mystery, of scandal. It’s dangerous. Exciting. To have the opportunity to see it without risking one’s reputation will have people here in droves. But we won’t invite droves. The guest list will be quite exclusive.”

  His mouth twitched with amusement. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

  “I have.”

  “And you mean to keep coming here so we can plan this?” He shook his head. “I’m not comfortable with that. You mustn’t risk your reputation.”

  He may not trust her or like her, but that simple statement meant more to her than any of that. He was a gentleman—somewhere inside. “I’ll come with a chaperone. And I’ll ensure everyone knows our relationship is above reproach.”

  He stared at her, but she sensed his mind working. He didn’t like her aunt and was weighing whether her help was worth putting up with Margaret in some capacity.

  “I won’t be chaperoned by my aunt, if that’s what you’re worried about. I believe Mrs. Lloyd-Jones will be pleased to play the part.” Yet, Lydia still had to convince Aunt Margaret to allow it. She had to believe she would get something out of it, that Lydia would obtain some unknown secret of Lockwood’s. She’d promise her aunt whatever she had to. Not only would this scheme get her away from her aunt for a goodly amount of time, the potential for a permanent departure through marriage to an eligible bachelor dangled before her like sweetmeats on a tray.

  He still looked skeptical. “You really think people will come to a party here?”

  “I’m certain of it. Two weeks hence.” She briefly held up her forefinger. “And no more vice parties.”

  “All right,” he said, “but I want to invite Lady Aldridge.”

  She snapped her gaze to his. “I believe she’s still ill. At least she was when I last tried to call on her. That was the day I met you as you were getting into your coach.” And he’d all but insulted her.

  His gaze drifted off briefly before settling back on her. “Please accept my apology for my behavior that day. I should not have inferred you were like your aunt. That was rude of me.” His voice was soft, his gaze tinged with heat.

  “Thank you.” She smoothed her hand over her lap. His gaze followed her movement and lingered on her hand or her lap. Or both.

  Now was the time to address the second item on her agenda. “I think you should invite Mr. Locke.”

  Lockwood’s mouth tightened, and his entire frame seemed to tense. “Why?”

  She needed to tread carefully. “It’s part of the mystique. Until your ill-advised vice party the other night, your encounter with him at the Whitmore Ball was the talk of the town. It still is, but your continued disregard for societal norms has captured people’s interest.”

  He exhaled, and his shoulders lost some of their tension. “You may have to repeatedly remind me why I want to do this. I’m content out here on the fringe with my . . . unacceptable proclivities.”

  The way he said the last brought a shiver to her skin. Again, she wanted to ask for more details. What proclivities, and why did he like them so much? Though she didn’t have the luxury of time, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from asking, “Why did you start having vice parties in the first place?”

  He was silent for a very long moment. Lydia inwardly cringed and wished she could take the words back. In fact, she was about to apologize and tell him to disregard her question when he spoke. Softly but deeply. “Because they’re the only kind of parties I can have.”

  She shook her head. “That can’t be true.”

  His gaze held hers. “But it is. I don’t wish to delve into the specific details, but Society consciously excluded me. I had to cultivate new relationships and new methods of entertainment. Now, after years of hosting these parties, I quite enjoy them. Indeed, I’d be loath to give them up.”

  She clasped her hands together in her lap to focus the energy swirling through her. Society consciously excluded me. She’d planned to ask him what was wrong with Society, but given what he’d said, she already knew. Who would want to be a part of something by which they’d been rejected?

  There was something in his expression—something in the way his eyelids dipped just slightly. Anger or sadness lurked just beneath the surface.

  She probably ought to let the subject go, especially given her lack of time, but she wanted to get at the heart of why he felt like these parties were all he had. “So you’d choose vice parties over Society? They provide you with that much . . . pleasure?” She couldn’t keep from blushing.

  “Since I’ve only recently been reaccepted into Society—on a very limited scale—there isn’t really a choice. But yes, I enjoy my vice parties very much. However, please understand my pleasure derives from playing host and providing a pleasurable evening for my guests, not from satisfying my own vices.” He cocked his head to the side. “And why do you want a place in Society? I would think that someone like you would be intimately aware of its artifice and whimsy. I like knowing where I stand and what I can expect. I also like living by my own rules and not those of some silly arbiters of fashion or taste.”

  His words stirred her. If she hadn’t already committed to wanting to distance herself from gossip, she would have done so now. She also knew she couldn’t be content hosting sinful parties on the “fringe” as he put it. “You are entitled to your opinion, of course. I, however, like the entertainments Society has to offer, and I like the people. Well, some of them anyway.” Even enduring the ones she didn’t like was far better than spending her days conversing with sheep. Which is precisely what she’d be doing if she didn’t wasn’t very careful. “If you aren’t interested in reclaiming your place in Society—and you absolutely deserve one—I suppose there’s no reason to have this soirée.” She didn’t bother hiding the disappointment from her voice. She wanted to help him now more than ever.

  “I suppose there isn’t,” he said softly. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

  She snapped her gaze to his. “You will?”

  He lifted a shoulder carelessly as if he’d just decided to buy an ivory cravat instead of a white one. “Why not?”

  She’d been about to say because you don’t care what anyone thinks of you. And she suddenly wished she could feel that way. That she could be happy with only her own approval, and maybe that of her father, though she already knew he didn’t much care where she lived or what she did. How freeing it would be to walk your own path—and yet how lonely.

  The butler’s entry, however, prevented her from speaking. “The hack is waiting, my lord. Dockley will see her home.”

  “Thank you, North.” Lord Lockwood stood.

  Lydia knew she should leave, but didn’t want to. And not just because she loathed returning to her aunt’s. She felt comfortable here—at Lockwood House of all places. With him. Just as she had the first day she’d met him. Perhaps Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s matchmaking skills were more astute than Lydia realized. That provoked her to jump up and seek her departure.

  He moved toward her and offered his hand. “Come, ’tis time you’re on your way. Your costume is convincing, but if anyone sees your face they’ll know in a trice who you are.”

  A bolt of fear shot down her spine. “Your staff won’t say anything?”

  “No, I have the most discreet retainers in London. Just keep your face down when you get outside. I’d offer you a mask—we keep plenty on hand—but that would draw even more attention at this tim
e of day.”

  She took his hand and again experienced the burst of heat she always felt when he touched her.

  He didn’t release her, but held her hand as he walked her to the door. “How do you plan to get back into your house undetected?”

  “The same way I left, through the scullery.” She hoped to get in without anyone seeing her. They’d have to report it to Aunt Margaret. In fact, Lydia would insist. Once, a maid had covered for Lydia and the consequences for her had been so severe that Lydia hadn’t allowed any of them to do it again.

  Lockwood arced his head down to look at her. His gray eyes were inquisitive. “You risked a great deal coming here.”

  She didn’t flinch from his gaze. “Nothing I’m not willing to lose.” This small taste of freedom would be worth any punishment Aunt Margaret threw at her. Unless she put her in a coach to Northumberland. But given how much her aunt relied on her to obtain gossip, Lydia doubted she’d actually do it.

  North held the door open, and Lockwood escorted her into the foyer.

  She could imagine him as a gracious, charming host. And maybe he was at his vice parties. Perhaps that was why they were so popular. Throwing a successful party was a skill, regardless of the themes involved.

  He walked her to the front door and then brought her fingers to his lips. The touch of his mouth against her glove barely penetrated the fabric, but the charged look in his eyes shot all the way to her soul. “You intrigue me, Lady Lydia. I look forward to how we might proceed.”

  Oh, this flirting was growing dangerous. Never mind what she’d risked in coming here today—what was she risking by aligning herself with this self-proclaimed devil?

  She withdrew her hand and exited Lockwood House. Though she hadn’t attended one of its notorious parties, she felt scandalized just the same. But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was that she’d liked it.

  Chapter Nine

  JASON WATCHED Lydia walk to the hack and frowned as Scot hurried by her. North held the door open to admit his brother. Scot swiped his hat from his head. His breathing was labored, as if he’d run a long distance.

  “Devil nipping at your heels?” Jason asked.

  “Not yet, my lord. I was down the pub as usual.” Scot habitually visited one of his favorite pubs on afternoons when Jason didn’t require his services. “Seems Aldridge House takes an ale delivery twice a week. Only today they didn’t accept delivery because the house was in an uproar. Lady Aldridge died this morning.”

  Jason couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping. He snapped his mouth shut and inclined his head at North to shut the door. “What? How?”

  “Laudanum overdose.”

  Jason shook his head sadly. A shame the widow had to follow her husband to the grave in such quick succession. She was far too young to lose her life. “She’d been ill. Perhaps she took too much laudanum by mistake.”

  Scot’s countenance, however, implied that nothing was ever that simple. “Or perhaps she took too much on purpose. She was quite devastated by his lordship’s death.”

  “I’m not sure I’d believe her capable of suicide,” Jason said. Her reputation before Aldridge’s death had been that of a vivacious young woman with a pleasing complement of wit and charm. Still, no one knew what people were truly capable of. After all, no one had ever guessed Aldridge had been running a theft ring.

  Scot inhaled deeply as his breathing slowed.

  Jason clapped him on the shoulder. “I appreciate you delivering the news with the utmost haste, although you didn’t have to run.”

  Scot shrugged. “I knew you were interested in Lady Aldridge and whatever she’s doing with Jagger. If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab an ale.”

  North arched a brow. “Didn’t you just come from the pub?”

  “I ran.” Scot gave his brother a harassed glare and took himself toward the kitchen.

  Ethan. Jason clenched his jaw. Why was his half brother always at the root of something bad?

  “My lord, you don’t think he was somehow involved?” North asked sharply.

  Did he? Ethan had claimed he was trying to change and had pleaded with Jason to trust him. Those were not the sentiments of a man who would be involved in the death of a young widow. Still, his sudden relationship with her and his apparent background as a criminal were too coincidental to ignore. “I don’t know.”

  Jason turned to go to his office and assumed North would follow, which he did. Despite the terrible news, Jason felt a curious lightness he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe never.

  “My lord,” North said, falling into step on Jason’s right. “Why did Lady Lydia come here dressed in a maid’s costume?”

  “She was on a secret mission.” He wanted to smile at her daring, even if it was a bit foolish. She continued to surprise him, and he liked it. “I’m hosting a party in a fortnight.”

  The space between North’s brows briefly gathered, revealing his confusion. He was likely trying to determine what Lydia’s secret mission could possibly have to do with a party. Instead of asking, however, he only said, “I’ll get started on the invitations.”

  Jason waited to reveal the truth until they reached the office so he could appreciate North’s full reaction. He moved to stand beside his desk and faced his butler. “Not a vice party. A real party. A soirée. Lady Lydia is helping me reestablish my place in Society.”

  North stared at him, his mouth agape. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me correctly. We’re to host a real party. No invitations delivered late at night by black-liveried footmen, and no masks. At least I don’t think there will be masks. She said it would be a party with food and music, but not a full-blown ball.”

  North continued to appear nonplussed. “Why?”

  Jason tried not to laugh at his butler’s confounded state. “To present me as an acceptable member of Society. To show them all that I’m not to be feared or reviled.” She hadn’t said any of that, but they were the reasons Jason had agreed.

  And maybe, maybe because she looked at him with those gorgeous chestnut brown eyes and made him feel like he wasn’t feared or reviled.

  “It’s your fault,” Jason said. “You’re the one who encouraged me to venture back into Society.”

  North regained his composure. “How foolish of me in retrospect,” he said dryly. “I take it you will not be inviting Mr. Jagger again?”

  “On the contrary.” Jason still wasn’t certain that was a good idea, particularly given how his last visit to Lockwood House had ended, but he was more curious about his half brother than ever. And though they had come to blows again, Jason couldn’t stop thinking about how genuine he’d seemed in trying to start anew. It was unsettling.

  “Do you think he’ll come after what happened the other night?” North asked.

  “I do. We have unfinished business.” Jason believed Ethan would jump at another chance to reconcile—if that’s what he truly wanted. But what if it wasn’t? What if he were still in the midst of a criminal lifestyle and Jason was to be his next victim?

  “You said Lady Lydia is helping to plan this party?” North asked.

  “Yes, you’ll take all instruction from her.”

  “Given Lady Lydia’s involvement, Lady Margaret will have to be invited,” North noted. “Can you tolerate that?”

  Damn. Jason hadn’t considered that she’d be here in his house. She hadn’t been to Lockwood House since before his mother’s collapse.

  “I’m afraid I must.” Just the notion of that harridan in his house made his head ache. Jason massaged his temple. “In the meantime, where am I going tonight?”

  North clasped his hands behind his back. “A musicale at Lord and Lady Compton’s. However, no new invitations arrived again today.”

  Yesterday had been the first day since the Whitmore Ball without invitations. He had to credit the vice party with the deficit. It seemed Lady Lydia’s help would be welcome. Except, what the hell was he doing? He didn’t c
are about any of that . . . did he? He wondered if he would see Ethan at the musicale and knew that was the reason he cared. So long as Ethan was out there enjoying Society, Jason would be too.

  “Will that be all, my lord?” North asked.

  “Yes.” Jason fixed his gaze toward the bookshelves but focused on nothing in particular. He didn’t see his office. He saw a pair of rich chestnut eyes looking at him with unabashed interest. They still lingered on his scar, but not as much as they used to. Her pink lips smiled more often than not, revealing endearing little dimples. She was proving to be as unlike her aunt as he could hope.

  Hope?

  What could he possibly want from her? She was a marriageable young woman and since he had no interest in marriage, he should be steering clear of her. Why, then, was he planning the precise opposite?

  Because, as he’d told her, he made his own rules. He could indulge their mutual flirtation without overstepping. And once he’d determined what the hell Ethan was up to, he’d part ways with the alluring Lady Lydia and return to his existence on the perimeter.

  THE HACK dropped Lydia off on the corner. She kept her face averted, as Lord Lockwood had recommended and made it to the servant’s entrance of her aunt’s home. Exhaling with relief, she mentally braced herself for the last little bit of luck she needed. But it was not to be.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Erickson, stood near the door to the scullery into the kitchen. Her concerned gaze fixed on Lydia and swept over her gown.

  Lydia closed her eyes briefly. She’d have to tell Aunt Margaret everything. Not because Mrs. Erickson would tell her, but because Lydia didn’t want to put any of the servants in the position of having to lie for her. She wouldn’t allow any of them to lose their positions on account of her folly.

  She put on her sunniest smile, which was completely at odds with the foreboding swirling in her belly. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Erickson. Has my aunt returned from her calls?”

  Worry lines creased the housekeeper’s kind face. “You know she hasn’t.” Her gaze dropped to Lydia’s attire. “Is that Coxley’s dress?”