Sarah sighed as she fanned herself from the periphery of Lord and Lady Bellingham’s ball, watching the beaus gathering around her sister, a veritable Debrett’s: a duke, two marquesses, three earls, one viscount, and a baron. In stark contrast, her dance card was almost completely blank, and she was surrounded by dowagers and chaperones instead of suitors.
Society was a dreadfully boring affair.
Fortunately, she had discovered a means of making the grim, lonely hours of balls, musicales, and soirées pass a bit more quickly. After making the excuse she required the lady’s withdrawing room to her mother, Sarah stood and made a hasty retreat from the ballroom.
Beyond the crush, the air was cooler. The din of the ballroom faded. Casting a few, careful glances about, she set off to find the library below. Though servants and guests frequented the halls at such events, making a true disappearance difficult, the challenge was worth the reward. Mama was often distracted by her friends. Amelia was forever diverted by the men swarming her. Which made disappearing for a time an excellent solution to cure Sarah’s inevitable boredom.
Down the stairs she went, unimpeded, but footsteps quickly intruded upon her solace. Horror churned through her, for if she was caught, alone, wandering about Lord Bellingham’s townhome, the consequences would be disastrous. Mama would be furious.
With a wild glance about, she chose the first door she found and slipped inside just as the footsteps drew nearer. Closing it gently, she exhaled a sigh of relief.
Relief that ended abruptly when she discovered she was not alone.
A throat cleared behind her.
A masculine throat.
Dear, sweet heavens.
Sarah spun about, hand on her heart, and there he was. The Earl of Markham. Insufferably handsome with his dark hair and distinct blue-green eyes, his strong jaw, sculpted lips, his body that was too large, too tall—more laborer than lord—and yet, somehow the most entrancing gentleman she had ever seen. There was another word for him.
Breathtaking.
Yes, he took her breath and robbed her wits. The only other occasion upon which she had been in such proximity to Markham, he had made her heart pound like a runaway horse when he had turned the force of his gaze upon her. Even though they had yet to be formally introduced, she could not deny she was drawn to him.
He quirked a brow, mouth twitching with what appeared to be suppressed amusement. “Are you hiding from someone, my lady?”
Of course, he would laugh at her. She could hardly blame him. What a silly mouse she must seem, putting her reputation at risk, wandering into chambers where she did not belong.
It occurred to her then, he may suspect he had discovered her in the midst of something nefarious. Perhaps a clandestine meeting, the sort Sarah was not supposed to be aware existed.
“My lady?” he prodded, moving nearer.
To her dismay, she realized she had nowhere to retreat. The door met her back, hard and unyielding. Still, she could not seem to find her voice. She had not much experience with gentleman. Or rather, gentlemen as overwhelming as the Earl of Markham. Ordinary gentleman, yes. Men who made it difficult for her to think? Decidedly not.
“I trust you do have a voice, my lady.” He smiled then, a true smile, revealing a lone dimple in his right cheek.
How could it be that even his dimple was glorious?
She forced herself to speak at last. “I do indeed have a voice, my lord. Forgive me for my intrusion. I was merely…lost.”
His grin deepened. “Lost?”
“Yes.” She had not missed the manner in which he had continued to approach her.
Confidently. Arrogantly. Warmth unfurled in her belly. Then slid lower. She was certain her cheeks were ablaze. The nearer he drew, the more heightened her awareness of him became.
“Or perhaps found,” he suggested, stopping only when he was near enough that she could touch his chest if she but raised a hand.
Her fingers itched. What would he do if she touched him? It was wrong of her to entertain such a thought, never mind allow herself to be tempted by it. But she could not seem to strike the notion.
“I took a wrong turn.” Her voice was alarmingly breathless.
“You descended a staircase,” he pointed out, sounding amused.
Was it her imagination, or had his stare flitted to her lips for a moment before rising once more? Her imagination, she decided, for it was safer.
Far safer.
“I did descend a staircase,” she agreed. “But I was looking for my mother. The two of us were separated, you see.”
A lie, but hopefully he would not question her further, and she could make good her escape before she was truly ruined. Or before she did something foolish. She had made the acquaintance of many gentlemen since her comeout, but there was something about the Earl of Markham—some magnetism—which called to her on an elemental level.
“Indeed?” He still seemed amused, more than likely at her expense. “You were separated from your mother so thoroughly, you took a wrong turn and found yourself on another floor of Lord Bellingham’s home entirely.”
When he said it aloud, she realized how exceedingly inane her explanation had been.
“Very well,” she allowed grudgingly. “I concede the feebleness of my excuse. If you must know, I was dreadfully bored with the ball, and I was seeking out the library.”
His smile fled. “This, too, is yet another prevarication.”
She bristled. “It is not, my lord. I do not care for balls, and I have recently found myself in the habit of surreptitiously sneaking away and finding other means of distracting myself—namely, books.”
He stared at her solemnly, his countenance impenetrable. “You were not meeting a gentleman, Lady Sarah?”
He knew her name.
Drat.
She had been hoping—logically supposing, in fact—that a man like the Earl of Markham would have no inkling as to who she was. Most gentleman, after all, saw only Amelia. But this man, this handsome, perplexing man knew precisely who she was. The knowledge did strange things to her insides.
“I was not meeting another,” she reassured him, keeping her voice cool.
The longer she remained in this chamber with him, the more she invited ruin, and Sarah knew it. She ought to turn and flee in great haste. She ought to run as far and as fast as she could. But for some reason, there was nowhere she wanted to go. Nowhere else she wanted to be, other than here.
With the wickedly handsome Earl of Markham.
“You have already fibbed to me once,” he told her. “Why should I believe you?”
“Why should you care either way, my lord?” she dared to ask.
A ghost of a smile returned, flitting over his lips. “Because it is most unwise for a lady to seek a man, alone, in a chamber. Quite dangerous to the reputation of the lady in question. Perhaps I merely wish to protect you, Lady Sarah.”
But his eyes had returned to her mouth, and this time, she knew she was not mistaken. A new blossom of warmth burst open inside her. Her heart beat faster.
“I do not require your protection,” she said, anticipation mingling with the yearning trilling down her spine.
Would he kiss her?
Did she want him to?
Yes, a voice inside her sighed. She did.
“Or perhaps,” he said lowly, “I wish to have you all to myself, and I want to be certain your heart does not already belong to another before I kiss you.”
Her lips parted. He wanted to kiss her. The Earl of Markham wanted to kiss her.
Impossible.
And yet, there was no mistaking the heat in his unnaturally light-hued eyes.
“It does not,” she whispered. Or at least, it had not. Not until she had ventured into this chamber and discovered him within.
“Excellent.” His smile turned wolfish. “May I, Lady Sarah?”
Yes, she was about to say. Please.
But a tapping at the door intruded before she coul
d.
It occurred to her then, quite belatedly, that the earl had been within this chamber first. That perhaps he had been seeking someone else here. Her cheeks flamed hotter. How mortifying, if it were true. And who was it on the other side of the door? Panic seized her in its relentless grip. If she were discovered here, with him, her reputation would be in tatters.
Markham reacted swiftly, planting a hand against the door, the action bringing his chest into contact with her breasts. “A moment, Monty,” he called out.
“Very well,” grumbled a masculine baritone from the hall.
Thank heavens. She had not interrupted his assignation with another woman after all. Which meant…
The Earl of Markham was staring down at her, a question in his eyes. He was awaiting the permission she had yet to give him, she realized. But the intensity in his gaze had made it impossible for her to speak.
Instead, she nodded her acquiescence.
He did not hesitate. With his free hand, he cupped her face in a gentle hold. His thumb settled upon her chin, and she wished he was not wearing gloves. How she longed for the sensation of his skin against hers. But in the next instant, nothing else mattered, for his lips had settled over hers.
The contact sent a wild jolt through her. His mouth moved over hers softly, coaxing her to respond. Her first kiss. She knew not what to do, so she gave herself over to instinct, kissing him back. Her hands found his shoulders. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, then slid inside her mouth when she gasped at the shocking pleasure of it. The kiss deepened.
A desperate sound of need emerged from her. Her senses were alive and alight. He tasted sweet, like Madeira, and the decadent scent of sandalwood enveloped her. The pressure of his thumb on her chin increased as he tilted her head, encouraging her to open for his sensual exploration.
She never wanted the kiss to end.
“Hell, Markham, a man is likely to die of thirst,” intruded the voice once more. “Can you not make haste?”
The earl’s mouth left hers. His unsettling gaze swept over her face. “Promise me something, my lady?”
Still shaken by his kiss, she blinked up at him, thinking she would promise him anything. Anything at all, as long as he promised to kiss her again in return. But she said nothing of the kind.
Instead, she forced herself to recall she was a lady. “What can it be, my lord?” she whispered, lest the interloper in the hall overhear her voice and recognize it.
“Promise me you will save all your kisses for me,” he said.
She did not hesitate, for she could not even fathom ever kissing another gentleman after the Earl of Markham. Everyone else would pale in comparison.
“I promise,” she told him, and then she watched him go.
Chapter One
Two years later
Promises, like hearts, were easily broken.
It was a lesson Sarah had learned at the hands of the Earl of Markham. Once, he had asked her to promise him all her kisses. A mere three weeks later, he had become betrothed to her sister.
But that had been a veritable lifetime ago, and he was going to pay for the sins of his past, for she intended to deliver vengeance to Markham in the most merciless fashion she could fathom, beginning this very evening. She would confront him, and then she would let him know in precise, exacting detail, just what she had planned for him. And she would not stop until he suffered as her sister had suffered.
Until he wished he was cold and lifeless and bound to the grave like Amelia was.
The lavish masque ball before her was proof enough Markham thought he had escaped the ramifications as he carried on with his life, surrounding himself in sumptuous excess and decadence. If she had been a guest at any other fête on any other evening, the ballroom would have undoubtedly left her in awe.
Walls hung with rich velvet drapes, the chandeliers blazing overhead, the entire affair a crush of the wealthiest lords and ladies of London, the rich scent of hothouse blossoms redolent in the air, and everywhere signs of his hideous prosperity, from the decadent French cuisine to the crystal goblets laden with an endless supply of drink.
But this was no ordinary societal affair.
Sarah’s lip curled beneath her jewel-encrusted half-mask, one of the only things she possessed to keep her identity hidden, along with the dark wig to cover her unmistakable golden hair. Father had no notion she had ventured to Markham’s masque ball this evening, and if her plan unfolded as she expected—with the grace of a fine fan—he would never discover her perfidy when he returned from his trip to the country.
Her gaze searched the crush of revelers as she watched from the edge of the ballroom, unerringly finding her quarry. There was no mistaking Markham. He was still taller than most gentleman, his body broader as well. He wore his brown hair longer than fashionable, in waves that almost brushed his wide shoulders. He even walked with a commanding air, as if he were a general stalking into battle. Where he went, the throngs parted.
Once, she, too, had fallen beneath the spell of his overwhelming magnetism. Despicable despoiler of innocents though he had proven himself to be, the Earl of Markham remained one of the most beautiful men Sarah had ever seen. That much had not changed. Even obscured by a black silk half-mask, Markham’s strong jaw, sculpted lips, and slashing cheekbones were enough to make her breath still, her heart beat faster.
Nay, that could not be.
Anxiousness was to blame, she told herself, dismissing the sensations roiling within her. She despised the man. The looming skirmish had to be the reason for the sudden dryness of her mouth, the unsettled feeling low in her belly. She may have foolishly fancied herself in love with him once, but she had been terribly young then, and hopelessly naïve as well.
Markham’s charm had been intoxicating as wine. But wine in too great a quantity was poison, and the Earl of Markham in any quantity at all was lethal. She was wiser and stronger than she had been then. His treachery and Amelia’s loss had forced her to become so, and it was Amelia’s shocking death that had brought her here, to this moment.
To the Earl of Markham’s reckoning.
Sarah forced her feet to move. Forced herself to glide with a confidence she did not feel. Tonight was different. She was no longer herself, the reigning toast of London and diamond of the first water she had become. Tonight, she was a ghost returned from the grave to haunt the Earl of Markham. Tonight, she was going to make him face the specter of his past and force him to admit what he had done.
She was going to ruin him, and she would relish every moment of his fall, just as she had once enjoyed every moment of his treacherous kiss. But her motivation was not the hurt he had dealt her, nor the shocking betrayal of choosing Amelia over her. Nay, her motivation this evening was purely for her sister.
Retribution.
Intent upon her task, she threaded her way through the masked men and women in her path, but Markham was always too far ahead. His long legs were striding, moving him away from the crush of his guests, where she had expected him to linger. Instead, he seemed as if he were retreating, not even pausing as he made his way to a paneled wall in the far corner of the cavernous room. Moving much like a wraith himself.
Sarah almost collided with a woman in an amethyst-colored mask who was clearly in her cups. A scarlet-masked gentleman blocked her path when she would have followed the earl.
“May I have the honor of your next dance?” he asked.
“I am afraid my dances are all taken,” she lied, sidestepping the man as she rose on her toes to keep Markham in sight.
Only to find he had already disappeared.
“But the evening has just begun,” protested her unwanted suitor.
Horrid man, keeping her from what she had set out to do this evening: bring a man even more horrid to his knees. She would force him to admit what he had done to Amelia. Tell him in exacting detail how thoroughly he would soon be destroyed. Not even his immense wealth could save him when she was finished. He may be the
most sought-after bachelor in London, but even the revelers surrounding her this evening would turn their backs upon him when the magnitude of his sins became common knowledge.
She spared the stranger desperate for her hand in the next quadrille a glance. “Forgive me, my lord, but my dances are in great demand.”
The man’s eyes narrowed into slits behind his mask. “You remind me of someone. I know you, do I not?”
Lady Amelia Bolingbroke, she wanted to cry. Sarah had donned one of Amelia’s beautifully ethereal evening gowns. She was similar enough in appearance to her sister that she knew the resemblance would be undeniable, though she could never compare to Amelia’s dark-haired beauty. Sarah rather fancied herself a counterfeit painting of a masterpiece: similar, but not perfection.
“Perhaps you knew me once,” she told the gentleman coolly. “I am but a ghost now.”
Leaving him sputtering in her wake, she carried on, blindly following where she had last seen Markham. But the corner of the ballroom, once she had reached it, was empty. The earl was nowhere in sight. Around her, masked men and women swirled in a flurry of color. The music was loud, drowning out the thumping of Sarah’s heart. Potted palms obstructed part of her view.
Where could he have gone?
Blast him. With Father returned to the country for the next several days, this masque ball had been her unexpected chance to finally see her plan to fruition. She could not afford to lose the opportunity. Surely the villain would not stray unduly far from his drinks and his pleasure?
Something about the paneled wall caught her interest then. The raised and polished surface seemed incongruous somehow. More potted palms obscured most of the space except for one panel. And none of the velvet hangings on the other walls of the ballroom were in evidence here.
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 16
