The Wickedest Lord Alive

by Christina Brooke

  “No!” She struggled in his grip, her lips curled in a snarl. Wine spilled like droplets of blood on her smooth white breast.

  Disgust for her and even more for himself rose within him. After all, he knew precisely who was behind this cowardly attack. He didn’t need to bully it from her.

  “You repel me,” he said coldly, releasing her and setting the wineglass down with a deliberation that cost him dearly when he wanted to hurl its contents in her face. “I’ve given you everything you desired and more. And this is how you repay me.”

  She laughed, but it was a dragging, hollow sound. “Oh, you are the consummate protector, my lord. I must own diamonds worth a king’s ransom by now.”

  He said, “You’re not going to complain of my skills as a lover.” He didn’t know why the hell he cared.

  “Oh, you can play a woman’s body like an instrument, my lord. But the truly great artist plays with feeling. And you have none.”

  When he didn’t reply, she said in a tearing voice, “For pity’s sake, look at you! Someone who shared your bed for almost a year has tried to poison you, Steyne. And all you do is stand there like a marble statue. All haughty pride. All coldness and disdain. You won’t even prosecute me because it would hurt your pride for the world to know about this.”

  In a subdued voice, she added, “You don’t even have enough passion in you to hurt me.”

  The ice inside him seemed to expand until it made breathing difficult.

  He needed to get out of there.

  He indicated the package he’d brought with a flick of his hand. “Sell those,” he said to her. “Pack up your things and leave London. You are finished here.”

  * * *

  Parting from Mr. Allbright was every bit as bittersweet as Lizzie had expected. She’d made her rounds of the district in the preceding days, taking leave of the Minchins and the Tafts along with all the villagers and the surrounding gentry.

  When she couldn’t eke out her farewells any longer, it was time for Lizzie to prepare herself finally for departure. She must grow accustomed to the idea that she would not return to Little Thurston to live. Yet everything that had occurred since Lord Steyne came back into her life seemed a blur of unreality.

  Little Thurston and her friendships there were solid and real. This world she was about to enter took on the aspect of a land from a fairy tale. One full of forbidden, haunted forests and ogres who ate up innocent maidens for breakfast.

  She saw with a pang that in his own heart, the vicar had parted from her already. His sister, Mrs. Payne, immediately took up the reins of the household as if they’d been left dangling since Mrs. Allbright’s demise. As if Lizzie did not exist.

  “When was the last time you ate a square meal?” Mrs. Payne demanded of her brother. “You’re skin and bone, dear William, skin and bone.”

  The lady eyed Lizzie askance, as if Lizzie had not tried her best to coax Mr. Allbright to eat, tempting his appetite by ordering his favorite dishes. But Lizzie knew—none better—the way heartache can turn the choicest morsels to ashes in one’s mouth. She had not liked to press the vicar too hard, much less bully him the way his sister did. She’d felt she’d not had the right.

  But with a gleam of humor in the covert look he sent Lizzie, Mr. Allbright submitted to his sister’s hectoring. He ate. And Lizzie suffered the most shameful mix of gladness and misery at the sight.

  She told herself she’d be easy now about the vicar’s well-being. Mrs. Payne might be abrasive; she might treat Lizzie herself as if she were a servant and an incompetent one, at that. But she had her brother’s best interests at heart. And due to her talent for hounding Mr. Allbright into submission, she seemed to succeed better in taking care of him than Lizzie ever could.

  Relieved of that worry, Lizzie fretted over her future.

  Her optimistic nature could not help but paint that future brightly, with her and the marquis a loving couple in the center of a big happy family, inhabiting Steyne’s country estate. The vision was so far from Steyne’s plans for them, it seemed impossible. And yet she wanted it.

  With her entire being, she wanted that vision to come true. And she was going to do everything in her power to make that happen.

  On the day Lizzie left Little Thurston forever, the vicar took her hands in a strong clasp. “Be kind to him, Lizzie.”

  “Yes. If he’ll let me,” she said with a wry smile.

  He nodded as if he understood. “I think he is a man who has not known much kindness. But you will find a way.”

  The vicar did not embrace her, for that was not his custom. But he stood outside the gate, watching as the carriage rattled down the lane. Her last sight of him was of his sister taking his arm and shepherding him back into the house.

  Kindness. Could the key to unlocking Lord Steyne’s heart be so simple? Lizzie squared her shoulders and looked toward her future. There was only one way to find out.

  * * *

  Lizzie refused to let herself be intimidated by Harcourt. She’d lived in a great house for the first seventeen years of her life. She knew how they operated.

  But she had not been prepared for the sheer scale of the Duke of Montford’s principal seat. The closest she’d come to such grandeur was poring over engravings of the great French palace of Versailles.

  A massive forecourt, paved in square flagstones, was embraced on three sides by an extravagant expanse of stone in a surprisingly harmonious mixture of the baroque and the neoclassical styles. A central carved pediment and impressive ionic columns lent the whole a deceptive air of elegant simplicity. Then the eye strayed to the east and west wings, with their pilasters and ornate statuary.

  Lizzie wondered if living in such a great pile was as uncomfortable and inconvenient as she suspected it might be.

  “Formidable, isn’t it?” she said to Clare, when her friend shrieked with a mixture of delight and dismay.

  “Imagine growing up in such a place,” said Clare. “One might be lost and never found again.”

  Aunt Sadie, unmoved by the astonishing edifice, said, “Be sure to compose yourself before we get down, Clare. You will only look like a yokel wandering around with your mouth agape.”

  The comment was unusually astringent for Aunt Sadie. Lizzie wondered what could be amiss.

  She could not help but wonder if Clare’s indiscreet conversation at Lady Chard’s was responsible for the slight pinch between Aunt Sadie’s eyebrows.

  Lizzie had been obliged to suffer a most embarrassing lecture from Aunt Sadie about the sorts of attentions she must on no account encourage from Lord Steyne—or from any other man, for that matter. She had remained silent throughout, hoping to have the lesson over as soon as possible.

  But Aunt Sadie seemed to feel the need to make up for the many years in which Lizzie had not had a worldly female to guide her. Eventually, goaded beyond endurance, Lizzie said, “Ma’am, I appreciate your concern, but truly, you need not trouble yourself. I’m well aware of the rules of proper behavior. I shall not break them.”

  At least, technically she would not break them. A shiver of anticipation rippled down her spine. Steyne intended to seduce her. He’d stated it quite plainly. If she surrendered too soon, she might lose any hope of making their marriage something substantial and good.

  The butler greeted them with the information that most of the party had traveled on an excursion for the day but were expected to arrive back shortly. A brisk, efficient housekeeper conducted them to their bedchambers and saw them settled.

  Thankfully, Lizzie’s mountain of baggage had arrived sometime earlier. She would have to explain it all to Clare. There was no getting around the fact that even with the best will in the world, Mr. Allbright could not afford to outfit her the way Lord Steyne had.

  Nor could she explain away the pretty maid who bobbed a curtsy to her as the housekeeper departed.

  When the door closed behind the housekeeper, Lizzie said, “What is your name?”

  “Beth, m
iss,” said the girl, bobbing another curtsy. “Or at least, the housekeeper said you ought to call me by my surname, which is Dart, because I’m a proper lady’s maid now.”

  She had warm brown eyes and a mop of dark brown ringlets and was at least a head shorter than Lizzie, which was to say just the right height for a female.

  The girl appeared quite a merry little soul and rather doubtful of being addressed in such an impersonal manner.

  “What would you like to be called, just between us?” Lizzie said.

  The maid dimpled. “Beth would be ever so much more friendly. But you mustn’t mind me, miss. I daresay I shall become accustomed to Dart.”

  “Beth it shall be, just between us. When we are in company, I shall remember to call you Dart.”

  “Yes, miss. Thank you ever so much for employing me, miss. I shall do my best to please you.”

  Lizzie smiled at her. She wondered how Steyne had managed to engage the girl without giving a hint he was involved. Lizzie was vastly relieved her maid was young and not at all intimidating. For some reason, she’d envisioned a grim-faced martinet glowering disapproval at her when Steyne had told her he’d take care of procuring a dresser.

  She only hoped Beth could be discreet. She’d an inkling that was one quality in a maid she would find indispensable over the coming days.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of laying out a gown for this evening, miss.” Beth turned to indicate the gorgeous concoction that flared over the coverlet.

  Lizzie nearly cried out in delight. It was the most truly exquisite creation she’d ever seen, fit for a fairy-tale princess.

  At first glance, she’d thought the gown was white, but on closer inspection, she realized it was the faintest shade of pink. The neckline and sleeves were trimmed with Brussels lace, which proved to be a work of art in itself. Otherwise, the gown was perfectly plain, save for a double flounce at the hem and a twisted silk cord that tied around the high waist.

  A silk gown! She had never owned a silk gown before, not even when she lived with her father. Such luxuries were not wasted on chits of seventeen who were yet to leave the schoolroom.

  Lizzie made herself tamp down her excitement. She was supposed to be familiar with these gowns, well accustomed to dressing like a young lady of good birth and large fortune.

  “That will do nicely,” she managed to say.

  A strange kind of fever flared within her. She longed to pore over every pelisse, gown, and undergarment she now owned, thanks to the offices of Lord Steyne.

  Dear Heaven, had she learned nothing while living with the vicar?

  But any strictures on the hollowness of material possessions fled from her mind as an acquisitive hunger for the beauty and dazzle of new gowns possessed her. She needed to see the rest.

  Lizzie managed to stop herself demanding a full display of the fashions Steyne had purchased on her behalf. Beth must not know this was the first time she’d laid eyes on the garments.

  Instead, she said, “Beth, perhaps we might get to know one another a little better. Will you go through my wardrobe with me and tell me what accoutrements you think should be worn with each gown? And perhaps I’d best try them on, for I, er, have been ill and lost weight. They might require some small alteration.”

  Beth entered into the exercise with all the spirit of feminine love for adornment that burned in Lizzie’s breast.

  After half an hour, Lizzie’s head spun in a whirl of delight. From silk evening gowns to velvet pelisses and a truly magnificent riding habit of hunter green, everything she could possibly want or need had been provided. All of it tailored to her shape.

  Bonnets and gloves and reticules—there was nothing lacking here. She thought of her drab old dimity with the stain she had not been able to remove. For some reason, she’d been loath to leave it behind, even though she knew she could never wear it again, even if she had stayed in Little Thurston.

  Now, she embraced her new wardrobe with delight and a blossoming confidence. She would play the part of the noble lady, even if in her heart she was still plain old Lizzie Allbright.

  When Beth had put everything away, Lizzie felt a spurt of something hot and insistent at the back of her eyes.

  Why on earth should she weep? Steyne bought her these gowns so that it would not seem odd that the great Marquis of Steyne should fall in love with a complete nobody who dressed like a quiz into the bargain. There was no special meaning or message in these clothes.

  Steyne did have exquisite taste; she’d give him that. Eschewing the overabundance of tiered flounces and ruching in fashion this season, he’d chosen garments that would enhance rather than overwhelm her beanpole physique.

  Indeed, when she finally settled on a plain white day gown trimmed with green ribbon to wear that afternoon, Lizzie could not help anticipating Steyne’s reaction to her appearance with pleasurable expectation.

  Impassive though he might seem upon slight acquaintance, she was beginning to learn how to gauge his moods. Let her see if she could not move him to some expression of admiration. After all, he was supposed to be courting her, wasn’t he?

  But when she’d completed her toilette and dismissed Beth, an attack of doubt assailed her. It was not enough that Steyne admire her. She wanted him to care. And beautiful though the gowns were, they would do nothing to secure Lord Steyne’s affections.

  She sat down at the ornate dressing table and stared at her reflection like a stern maiden aunt. You can do this. You have managed other challenges before.

  A scratch on the door heralded a house maid, who bobbed a curtsy. “Lady Tregarth sends her compliments, miss, and asks you to join her and Lady Davenport in the yellow saloon in half an hour.”

  “Thank you.”

  As the door closed behind the maid, Lizzie jumped up. Half an hour was not much time in which to explain the whole sorry mess to Clare.

  She knew that the ladies the maid mentioned were Steyne’s sister, formerly Lady Rosamund Westruther, and the Countess of Davenport. She was not precisely certain of the Earl of Davenport’s relationship to Steyne. She was aware only that the earl was a Westruther and that some sort of scandal attached to his name. Clearly, he was still acknowledged and even welcomed by his family if he and his wife were staying at Harcourt.

  When Lizzie scratched on Clare’s door, she found her ready to go downstairs. “Aunt Sadie is resting,” said Clare, turning from her looking glass. Her rosebud mouth fell ajar. “Lizzie! Is it really you?”

  Laughing a little, Lizzie came into the bedchamber and shut the door behind her. “I don’t wonder you are surprised.” She gripped her hands together and took a deep breath. “Clare, I have something rather shocking to tell you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Xavier was annoyed with himself. He’d wanted to leave the afternoon clear, for Lizzie and her entourage were due to arrive. Were it anyone other than the Duke of Montford desirous of his presence, he would have dismissed the request out of hand.

  But he’d never managed to shake the sense of duty he owed his former guardian. When the duke summoned, his relations answered. Even Xavier.

  He reached the stables at the appointed time and found that His Grace was there before him, astride a handsome dappled gray. The duke looked as fit and strong as ever, his face virtually unlined and his dark hair only lightly dusted with gray.

  “Xavier,” said the duke. “So kind of you to join me.”

  “A pleasure, sir. As always,” returned Xavier. Lord, they were a pair, weren’t they? Every comment held an ironic barb.

  He knew why the duke had summoned him. He decided to take the bull by the horns as soon as they were clear of the stables.

  “I must thank you for agreeing to my scheme.”

  Montford glanced at him. “I find myself quite agog to meet this young lady. She must be … something out of the ordinary way.”

  Indeed she was, or at least Xavier thought so. But Montford’s comment was, as usual, loaded with some obscure mean
ing. “Sir?”

  Montford waved a hand. “To have so captured your interest.”

  Xavier grimaced. “Any interest I feel is purely practical. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how vital it is that I have an heir.”

  The duke’s lips twisted. “No. You need not tell me anything at all about the importance of heirs.”

  Montford urged his mount to a canter. Xavier did the same, curiosity tugging at his mind. He thought he understood his former guardian rather better than most, but he had never fathomed the reason for the duke’s remaining unwed.

  Some youthful disappointment, perhaps? But no, that could not be it. While Montford was ruthless when it came to arranging marriages for his own kin, he never expected more of others than he did of himself. There must be a better reason than ancient history to stop him making an advantageous union of his own.

  Of course, there was Lady Arden, the beautiful matchmaking widow who was whispered to be His Grace’s mistress …

  Mentally, Xavier shrugged. He had his own affairs to concern him. Besides, the duke would not thank him for speculating.

  Changing the subject, Xavier said, “No doubt you’ve heard the news.”

  “About your mother?” said Montford, never at a loss. “Yes. She has left Vienna, I believe. Heading for Paris.”

  The duke’s omniscience was something one might always count on, so Xavier wasn’t surprised His Grace’s information accorded with his own.

  Xavier’s idle tone matched Montford’s. “Do you think she killed the husband?”

  “No. I think she goaded some poor young swain to do it for her.”

  “Very likely.” He’d thought himself dead to any feeling about Nerissa, but he’d been fooling himself. That unhealthy mixture of pity and shame and hatred rose up in him once more.

  There was no point castigating himself. Even Montford had not predicted this.

  “Will she come here, do you think?” Xavier’s tone was casual. The question was not.

  “Oh, undoubtedly.” Montford seemed about to say something, then hesitated.

  Xavier was surprised. It was not like the duke to be indecisive. “What is it?” said Xavier.