A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1)

by Patterson, Stephanie

  ***

  Sarah Jane Melbourne was a dawdler, Rafe thought, and her escort was remarkably inattentive. He smiled coldly. This was going to be much easier than he expected. She’d already succeeded in separating herself from her group without any assistance from him. He watched her as she paused to look at this, or that flower, or to listen to a bird sing. Her mouth was curved in a pleasant smile as if she hadn’t a care in the world. He noticed how the sunlight streaming through the trees dappled her mahogany-colored hair, bringing out streaks of copper and gold. She really was a fetching little piece. When she arrived at the fork in the path he acted quickly, rushing towards her, swiftly capturing her arm and covering her mouth with his other hand. He pulled her down the fork that led deeper into the woods and away from her friends. Sarah struggled against him, but he held her firm until he knew it would take time for someone to come to her aid should she cry out – time enough to create a scandal.

  “Forgive the intrusion on your constitutional, Miss Melbourne, but I wanted to have a word with you in private.” He released her and Sarah spun away from him.

  “You,” she said flatly. She didn’t ask what he meant by snatching her off the path. She didn’t plead, nor did she run screaming at the sight of him. Rafe was impressed by her fortitude in spite of himself. He was even more impressed when she stood her ground and raised two fists in true pugilistic style, thumbs lying curved on the outside of her fists and one fist raised slightly higher than the other. “Touch me and I will plant you a facer,” she hissed. “I’m quite capable of doing it too.”

  Rafe chuckled. He couldn’t help it. “Did you really think I brought you here to box with you, Miss Melbourne. I can assure you that was not....” His words were cut short by his howl of pain as he walked straight into her very fast and very powerful right jab. He took the hit square in his nose. Rafe doubled over, his hand covering his face as he hollered a string of curses. Damn the chit. She’d drawn blood and now it gushed through his fingers. He turned to glare at her as he tried to prevent the mess from spilling onto his cravat and coat. The girl looked stricken. She should. In short order he’d tear her head off.

  Miss Melbourne covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, Mr. Kingsford I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to punch you, truly – at least not before you’d actually done something to deserve it. Here, let me help you.” She rushed forward with a handkerchief. Rafe looked at her in disbelief. Had the girl a lick of sense she’d be running as fast as she could. Instead, she stood beside him with her hand resting tentatively on his arm, her lovely face, a study of genuine concern as she offered him help. In that moment Rafe Kingsford smiled to himself behind his hand, because he knew to a certainty that he’d won and that Sarah Melbourne’s days of innocence were numbered.

  ***

  “Don’t tell me your faithful spaniel has left you unattended,” Michael whispered close to her ear. Her reaction was immediate. She jumped and whirled away from his reach with a startled cry. They were alone in the folly by the lake and both of her friends and their escorts, as well as her own, were out of sight.

  “Get away from me,” she hissed. “You’ve caused me more than enough trouble today. Anyone could come down that path and find us alone together.”

  “I suppose that’s one way to take care of you,” Michael remarked easily. “I could compromise you and that would end your reign quite effectively. Judging from that kiss earlier, you’d enjoy it, too.” She looked appalled and backed further away from him. She collected herself within a moment and she lifted her head to look down her nose at him. For some absurd reason that only made him want to plant a light kiss on the tip, but that would undoubtedly send her into a right stew. Still, remembering this morning’s kiss it might be worth it.

  “I hardly think you’d want to be shackled to me,” she said.

  “What makes you think I’d marry you if I did compromise you?” He chuckled at the shocked expression on her face. “I don’t give a damn about my already disreputable reputation and I certainly wouldn’t care about yours.”

  “I think Lord Iredale might view the situation differently,” she declared and turned to leave. He caught her arm firmly, just above her elbow. Araby glared at his offending hand, but Michael ignored her.

  “I don’t doubt you’d enjoy watching men fighting over you, but I don’t fight over women. They’re not worth the effort – far too unreliable with their affection. If a man wants fidelity he should raise hunting dogs.” Her eyes widened in shock.

  “No one could ever mistake you for the chivalrous sort, sir. Drew on the other hand....”

  Michael tightened his hand on her arm and he saw real fear spring to life in her eyes. The notion that she might fear him galled him and he dropped her arm as if it had suddenly turned into a snake. “You needn’t flinch. I might have a jaundiced view of the fairer sex, but I don’t strike women. Nevertheless, be warned, I won’t stand for you crying to Drew about my misdeeds.”

  They stood watching each other warily. At length Araby said, “I wasn’t threatening to tell Drew anything. I was simply going to say that he enjoys playing the part of a knight errant whether it’s in his best interest to do so or not.”

  “True, he’s very naive for his age. That’s why it’s so easy for someone to take advantage of his better nature.” Michael took in the pretty picture she made and thought again of how sweet she’d felt in his arms, how soft and welcoming her lips had become. He moved further away from her. “Where is Iredale?”

  “Lord Phillip asked for his assistance. He’ll return shortly.” She plucked nervously at her sleeve.

  “No doubt. He’s not the man for you at any rate,” Michael blurted out, wondering why he should care who in hell she married. “He’s a besotted fool. You can twist him around your finger and you’ll only end up hating him for it. Marry him and you’ll take a lover before a year is out.” He didn’t mention that he’d be waiting for just such an opportunity.

  She stepped towards him, her eyes flashing with anger. “You're absolutely beastly. Just because you don’t hold with finer feelings like admiration and honor doesn’t mean that no one else does.”

  “You? Doubtful. Like all your sex you’re hanging out for a title and a large income to go with it. Where’s the honorable in that?”

  He watched the fire leave her eyes as if someone had thrown a bucket of water on glowing embers. “It’s realistic,” was all she said.

  Michael felt his anger spike, not only for Drew, or himself, but for all second and third sons. “So you’ll take a lover to ease the loneliness of your bargain and men will stand in line for you once more.”

  “No,” she declared, some of her spirit returning at his accusation. “If a gentleman is gracious enough to offer me the protection of his name I will remain a dutiful and faithful wife. It will be the least I owe him.” Her odd emphasis of the word protection caught Michael’s attention.

  “Faithful marriages are not common in society. What if he strays first? Will you follow suit?”

  “No.” She spoke with passion. “He can stray, that is a man’s province, is it not? I shall remain faithful. It is the honorable thing to do.”

  Michael stepped closer. Damn it, she was intriguing him again. “What if you fancy yourself in love?”

  “Then I shall be unhappy, but I will remain faithful to my husband.”

  “And what of passion?” he whispered as he closed the gap between them.

  “I’ll have my home and my children – things which count a good deal more than a few stolen moments, Mr. Lassiter.”

  He gave a short, jaded laugh. “You speak with the righteous conviction of a woman who’s never been bedded.” Araby breathed sharply and her cheeks colored. He couldn’t fault her reaction. It was an outrageous thing to say.

  “I speak with the assurance of a lady who knows how quickly fortunes can change, as well as a reputation. If you’ll excuse me, I must find my friends.” She turned to leave.

  “Why
did you do it?” Michael asked. He would have no further reason to seek her out for the rest of the day and he didn’t want her leaving – not yet.

  She sighed. “I told you that Drew....”

  “No, I mean the flower girl. You paid for her damaged flowers and then told her to come to the theater that night.”

  She looked startled. “How did you know about that?”

  “I was there, but at a discreet distance. You reduced Cathcart’s little sister to tears and then gave the flower girl money. I repeat, why? Don’t bother telling me it’s none of my business.” She opened her mouth to vent her fury at his intrusion, but his last words forestalled her tirade.

  “If I tell you, will please keep your observations to yourself?”

  “Afraid your friends might not find an act of kindness very witty?”

  “Something like that,” she muttered looking at her feet. She raised her eyes and he was struck anew at the clarity, the brilliance of her golden eyes. “Muriel Cathcart is a heffer,” she said succinctly. Michael raised an eyebrow and she continued. “Muriel and her friend, Susannah Grantham have been trying to storm the walls of my set for the past two Seasons. Membership is a dubious honor at times, I’ll admit. Still, they incited Edmond Bennet and his friends to behave in a particularly foul manner to someone who couldn’t defend herself.”

  “I would think you’d find their actions amusing.”

  She regarded him steadily. “So did they, but I didn’t. I took it upon myself to remind Muriel that the Furies hold tremendous sway in the ballrooms of London and if she ever wished to leave Wallflower Corner again she’d refrain from hurting my friends. Then I made one or two pointed remarks about her looks.”

  “Justice dispensed.”

  She lifted her chin, giving him a haughty look. “Yes, I think so.”

  Michael grinned at her. “And the flower girl?”

  “It would have taken her days to earn enough money for even a basket, let alone the nosegays to fill it. Who knows what she might have had to resort to. I don’t like senseless cruelty.”

  “So I’m to assume there’s always a point to your cruelty.”

  “Yes.” She spoke in a whisper, a hint of desperation in tone as though the admission both shamed and frightened her. Michael’s amusement at her peculiar sense of honor waned and irritation took its place.

  “I wonder what Damaris Kingsford would say about your notions of honor and justice,” he said quietly. She looked as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, but she recovered herself quickly.

  Her voice trembled a little when she spoke. “Perhaps not as much as you think, Mr. Lassiter. After all, she landed herself a future duke, didn't she. Good day.”

  Michael watched her go, his anger building – anger at her for whatever she’d done to Kingsford’s sister and anger at himself for caring that he’d hurt her.

  Chapter Five

  Michael handed his hat and cane to the footman and followed Lord Ambrose’s butler upstairs to the study. He felt a pang of guilt for being the reason the elderly retainer made the slow and obviously painful journey up the stairs to Lord Ambrose's study. The man should have been pensioned off long ago.

  “His lordship will join you momentarily,” the older man announced, his voice as dry and brittle as a leaf on a hot desert wind. Michael acknowledged him with a nod before drifting towards the middle of the room as the butler quietly closed the door behind him. It was a heavy room, both in style and atmosphere. Although a fire burned in the large, stone fireplace, it accomplished little in removing the chill from the air. The cool grayness of the day permeated this house. It must he damned cold in winter, Michael reflected.

  “Would you like a brandy?” Rafe Kingsford inquired from a chair by the fire. He saluted Michael with his glass. “It helps keep out the chill. This room feels more like a cave than a study, doesn’t it?”

  “Is it always this cold?” Michael asked as he poured himself a glass. He held up the amber liquid to the firelight briefly before taking a swallow. Her eyes were a similar color.

  “So you’ve decided to join our little group? Seek a little retribution of your own?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Michael replied smoothly. “I’m simply here to determine facts at this point. I’ll make my decision after I know more.” Kingsford unfolded himself from his chair. He was a tall, large-framed man, but Michael had seen him move with lethal precision in the boxing ring of the athletic club they both frequented. More than one man regretted his decision to step between the ropes with Kingsford, though Michael had always held his own against him. Kingsford crossed the room to splash more brandy into his glass giving Michael his first good look at him in the library’s murky light.

  “What happened to you?” He indicated Kingsford’s swollen nose and the bruises shadowing the skin underneath his eyes.

  “The damned chit nearly broke my nose.”

  “Araby Winston?” Michael couldn’t imagine her raising a hand to anyone in case it soiled her glove.

  “No. It was her friend Sarah Melbourne.”

  Michael chuckled. “I wonder what made her do that,” he drawled.

  “Not nearly as much as I intended, I assure you.” One corner of Kingsford’s mouth curled up in a half smile. “She’s a feisty little thing. She could be more of a challenge then I originally thought.”

  “What is your intention to the girl?” Michael asked more out of idle curiosity than anything else. Miss Melbourne was nothing to him other than a clue to this business between Kingsford and Lord Ambrose. She was also a good friend to Araby Winston, a young lady who interested him much more than was prudent.

  “I intend to ruin her in a very public and permanent way,” Kingsford replied easily.

  “Why would you care enough about the silly child to do that?”

  “For the same reason you care about your brother,” said Lord Ambrose from the doorway. There was a fierceness in his eyes, a fervor that made Michael wary. “The Melbourne girl is one of The Furies. They are not merely a group of high-spirited debutantes, Mr. Lassiter. They are representative of the lack of moral character that blights good society and as with any blight, it must be eradicated if the orchard is to remain strong and fruitful.” He indicated for the other men to join him at a grouping of chairs by the window. Michael wished there had been a third seat by the fire. It would have been much warmer.

  When they’d seated themselves, Lord Ambrose continued. “The Furies could be ignored when they confined themselves to making some young girl cry, or a young man make a fool of himself.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Every season has young ladies of that nature. What these girls have done, however, speaks of a maliciousness of spirit, an unwholesomeness that can no longer remain unchecked.” Personally, Michael thought the old man was pouring it on a bit thick, what with his orchard metaphor and talk of unwholesomeness, but he kept his opinion to himself. The young ladies he spoke of were full of themselves, granted, but once they’d married and started breeding, their reign would end.

  “You and Arlington were very curious about my reaction to those witches when we happened upon them in the park, weren’t you, Lassiter?” Kingsford asked. Michael nodded. “Lord Ambrose has persuaded me to take you into our confidence,” Kingsford continued, “not only because you are a good friend of my sister’s husband, but your brother Andrew has been made a laughing stock by Arabella Winston more than once. Your setdown of her caused a minor stir at the Grantham’s affair, but if you think to scare her off from her sport by embarrassing her, Lassiter, you’ve another think coming. My sister made the same assumption and lived to regret it.”

  “Just what did Lady Arabella do to your sister, Kingsford?”

  “She arranged to have her kidnapped and delivered into the hands of that degenerate, Roger Dilby, Lord Elkhorn.”

  “Good God,” Michael exclaimed. Elkhorn’s reputation was well known to any man who went about society. Calling the man a degenerate was a kindness.
His sexual appetites were unsavory and his gaming habits bordered on madness. One day they’d find him outside some tupney whore house or gaming hell with his throat slit. How the hell could Araby Winston even know such a man existed, much less enlist his help for such a vile purpose?

  “I’m certain the actual arrangements were made by her stepfather, Baron Seaton, but the fact remains that Lady Arabella and Lady Katherine persuaded my ward to meet them in the park knowing full well what would become of her,” Lord Ambrose stated. “Damaris was quite clear on that subject.”

  Michael remembered Araby’s pale face when he’d mentioned Kingsford's sister. Surely the girl couldn’t have had any idea what she was doing at the time. He said as much to the other men in the room. Rafe Kingsford swore.

  “She knew all right,” he snapped. “I saw the note she sent Mari requesting that they meet and make peace before their animosity grew out of hand. Mari wanted to believe it and she went to meet her.” He tossed down his drink. Lord Ambrose watched the Kingsford with a disapproving eye. That was something else Michael remembered now. Ambrose was not only snobbish and a stickler for punctuality, but he was also stringently moral and intolerant of excesses as well. Forgiveness was not in his nature. Michael realized that Araby Winston and her friends had made themselves a very dangerous and relentless enemy.

  “And how have you planned to repay Lady Arabella?” he asked, keeping his tone detached.

  “My primary concern is repaying Baron Seaton, her stepfather. He wishes a wealthy and entitled match for Lady Arabella to improve his own consequence and to aid in repairing his fortune. I intend to see that does not happen.”