Marquess of Mayhem

by Scott, Scarlett

  As they parted and swirled about each other once more in the course of the dance, she stumbled, catching herself before she tripped. Stubbornly, she continued on, but he saw the pinched expression of pain on her countenance, noted the tightened knot of her otherwise generous mouth.

  She was in pain.

  Damn it, he intended to use her, not to humiliate her. A protective instinct surged within him, entirely unwanted. He did not know where it emerged from or why. All he knew was he did not want to see her suffer.

  The music reunited them, hands linked.

  “Do you need a respite, my lady?” he asked.

  Her brows snapped together and her shoulders stiffened, her countenance growing determined. “No, though I thank you for your concern, my lord.”

  “My lady,” he protested, uncertain where this vein of gentlemanly concern originated.

  Her fingers tightened on his. She twirled about with him, not gliding but not allowing her painful limb to limit her. “I am perfectly capable of dancing, my lord.”

  The flash of pride in her gaze hit him. He wondered, then, at the reason for her never having danced.

  “Of course, my lady,” he reassured her to assuage her pride.

  Why had she ordinarily kept stuck to her seat at such events? Was it because no man had ever gathered the courage to approach her blinding beauty and ask? Or was it because every man before him had been reluctant to ask because of her perceived infirmity?

  The leg gave her pain, he could plainly see as much from her drawn mouth and the occasional grimace tightening her countenance. But she was determined to persevere, to force her mind to overpower any weakness.

  And he could not help but to inwardly applaud her tenacity. Lady Leonora Forsythe continued to surprise him. If she had been empty-headed or silly, if she had thrown herself at him in an effort to become his marchioness, if she had been anything other than what she seemed to be—an innocent beauty with a fierce determination—he would have already led her away from the dance and the ball with nary a prick of guilt.

  Morgan would have convinced her to enter a darkened chamber or alcove with him. He would have lifted her skirts, his hand gliding beneath to touch her, from ankle to cunny. Christ, he would have ruined her already.

  And he would have damn well enjoyed it.

  Why was he tarrying? Why was he, even now, playing the noble courtier when all he needed to do was to convince her to escape from the ballroom and meet with him in private?

  They worked their way back to each other, hands clasped, gazes meeting once more. Her face was more carefully devoid of expression this time, though her limp was growing a bit more noticeable.

  “You dance beautifully, my lady,” he praised, rather than inquiring after her welfare once more, something he could sense she would not wish.

  Her face reflected her astonishment for a brief moment, before a flush stole over her pale cheeks. Damnation, she stole his breath. She was like a fae creature walking among mere mortals. Too beautiful to be real. He tried and failed to find any physical resemblance to her evil-bastard-of-a-brother. If only she had looked like the dark-haired, dark-hearted one, El Corazón Oscuro. It would have rendered what he must do so bloody much easier.

  “I dance beautifully for a lame-legged spinster, you mean to say, my lord,” she responded tartly. “You need not sound surprised. I am as capable of dancing as I am of walking. Unfortunately, my weak limb does not wish to allow me to cultivate grace, regardless of how much I would prefer it.”

  Devil take it, he was mucking this up badly. His dubious reputation as a war hero aside, he was aware of the manner in which most ladies viewed him. He was handsome. There was no reason why his overtures ought to be failing so abysmally.

  Except he had underestimated Lady Leonora.

  He forced a charming grin to his lips, recalling some of the old Morgan. The devil-may-care man who had been a silver-tongued rogue, carefree and unabashed in his pursuit of skirt. The original Morgan, before war had carved him out and left him a hollow shell.

  “I said precisely what I intended, my lady,” he parried smoothly. “You dance beautifully, and I consider myself fortunate indeed to have the loveliest lady in attendance as my partner.”

  They parted once more, circling each other and winding their way through the dance floor before coming together for a final turn. This time, when their hands clasped, her gaze was bright and glistening.

  “Thank you, my lord,” was all she said.

  And he knew then and there, he would win.

  He would have this woman however he wanted. Sadly, the capitulation left him feeling as numb as ever. Not even a shred of relief or satisfaction could sweep aside the deadness within.

  The dance ended, and he bowed to her as she dipped into a perfect curtsy, the concentration on her expression revealing how much control she exerted. He offered her his arm and began leading her slowly back to the turban.

  Here was his chance, and he needed to seize it.

  “I want to get to know you better, my lady,” he told her quietly. “I confess, you intrigue me in a way no other lady has.”

  “In the manner of a spinster—”

  “In the manner of a beautiful woman,” he corrected, not wishing to hear her disparage herself once more.

  Because, though he had sought her out with impure motives, he could not help but to suspect the old Morgan would have been enamored of her, intrigued by her. The man he had once been would have noticed her on the periphery of the ball, and he would have been determined to win her. But his reasons would have been pure and true.

  She swallowed, keeping her face averted when he would have dearly loved to search her gaze and take a guess at her emotions, her vulnerability.

  “Was this dance the product of a wager, my lord?” she asked at last. “You would not be the first, though I must admit, you are the gentleman who has brought the most charm along with him for the duty.”

  A sharp pang, something akin to regret mingled with anger, struck him in the chest then. Others had used her for a lark or to line their pockets with some betting, book-won gold. The notion made him sick twofold: one, that she had suffered such thoughtless and careless attentions when she was so clearly deserving of far more; and two, that he was no better than the nameless, faceless bastards who had transgressed against her.

  He stopped them, well on the outskirts of the ballroom floor, but far enough away from her mother, they could still speak with candor. For he needed her to know. He needed it with a ferocity that threatened to tear him apart, and he neither understood it nor could avoid it.

  He faced her, falling into her light-blue eyes. “I did not dance with you because of a wager, Lady Leonora. I danced with you because I have been watching you from afar, and I had become desperate to make your acquaintance. When my old friend, the Duke of Whitley, mentioned he was an acquaintance of yours, I could not stop myself.”

  She searched his gaze, and he knew not for what. It wasn’t just her beauty that made him ache as he gazed down at her upturned face. Nor was it the sure knowledge he had found the one woman who would be able to help him achieve the revenge he so desperately needed.

  He was a man broken, and in that moment on the outskirts of the Kirkwood ball, he found himself within the glittering depths of Lady Leonora Forsythe’s eyes. Her scent wafted to him then, gentle and sweet.

  Or, at least, he found the version of himself he had been forced to become, vicious and merciless, even against the innocent. He would destroy this delicate flower, and he would do so without compunction. She could not possibly hold a candle to the blinding force of rage swirling within him.

  She raised an imperious, ice-blonde brow. “My lord, you are the most eligible bachelor in London, a war hero freshly returned from rescuing yourself from Boney’s soldiers, horridly handsome, and here I am, a spinster firmly on the shelf, nine-and-twenty and suffering from the aftereffects of the limb I broke as a girl.”

  Her impassi
oned speech answered one of his many questions. She had suffered a bone break as a girl, and that was the reason for her pain. Likely, it had never healed with proper care. He had seen more than his fair share of broken bones on the field of battle, and he knew all too well how difficult recovery was, ofttimes impossible given the grim panorama of war.

  “My lady,” he returned with equal passion, merely one that originated from a vastly different source. “I have no wish to be the most eligible bachelor in London, and I most certainly am not a war hero. Nor are you anything less than the loveliest woman I have ever seen.”

  Everything he had uttered was true. The only impurity was in his motivation and in his goals. But he could not allow himself to feel guilt over his intentions. Lady Leonora was his enemy. She was the sister of the man who had singlehandedly caused Morgan’s imprisonment with his rash, stubborn, stupid posturing.

  For a moment, he wished she was turnip-faced, or a bitter harridan, or an arrogant wench. Anything other than the humble, timid, gloriously beautiful lady who had lived her entire life on the periphery of everyone else’s.

  But he could not change her any more than he could change himself. And he could not quench the burning need within him, the raging fire, with anything other than her complete sacrifice.

  “You pay me a great compliment, my lord,” she said then, disrupting his inner war.

  Enemy, he reminded himself with lethal force. This woman is your enemy as surely as her brother.

  He would not be weak. With great effort, he summoned up a Lothario’s smile. She was the sort of woman he could not cozen into meeting him in a darkened alcove or an abandoned chamber, and he realized that now. He would have to woo her in a different manner—first a few shots fired, then retreat, and then the final charge.

  “The compliment is all mine, Lady Leonora,” he assured her, forcing his gaze to seek out the turban, who watched their interchange with unabashed maternal curiosity and calculation.

  The mother would not be a hindrance to his cause, at least. She had already decided he was the matrimonial prize her daughter required to save her from spinsterhood. How wrong she was. He was no prize. If anything, he was a curse.

  “More words,” Lady Leonora said, giving him another start.

  His gaze snapped back to hers. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

  “You offer me words, my lord,” she elaborated, giving him a half-smile that made him want to crush her mouth with his. “But I find the greatest indication of anyone’s true intentions is through action alone. The tongue tends to be the easiest muscle in one’s body to use, does it not?”

  Bloody hell. He would like to use his tongue. Upon her.

  He swallowed against a sudden rush of lust caused by Lady Leonora indicating she preferred action to words and referencing her tongue. By all that was holy, he would show her action, and he would show her the manner in which he preferred to use his tongue against her. There would be no words. Only deeds.

  “Perhaps you are correct, Lady Leonora,” he said softly. “But I dare not keep you from Lady Rayne any longer. I would not wish to tarry with you overly long and cause any hint of scandal to attach itself to your name.”

  What rot. In truth, he had every intention of causing her scandal. Of forcing her to wed him by compromising her so thoroughly she had no other option save becoming his marchioness. But not now. Not quite yet. First, he needed to convince her his intentions were pure and true. He would wait for the right moment to strike.

  “Yes,” she said, her tone growing subdued, her expression freezing, becoming guarded once more. “Of course, my lord.”

  He guided her in the direction of her mother, a new plan formulating in his mind. After all, there had to be a manner in which he could draw her to his side sooner rather than later. He only needed to be wise and to play his cards like a proper gambler.

  *

  “Did he say anything else?” Mama prodded.

  A lengthy span of time had passed between the Marquess of Searle returning Leonora to her mother’s side and now. In that time, she had watched him dance with no less than three other ladies. All of them had been debutantes, younger and more beautiful than she. One of them, Lady Sarah Bolingbroke, was the toast of the Season. A diamond of the first water. She was everything Leonora was not, dark-haired and regal, elegant and graceful, beautiful, sought after…not suffering from a limp.

  Of course, everything he had said had been mere flummery.

  Why would it be anything else? Why would the Marquess of Searle, the most sought-after bachelor in London, be interested in a spinster who could scarcely manage one minuet without embarrassing herself?

  “Leonora?” Mama asked once more, reminding her of her silence.

  The Marquess of Searle robbed her of thought. It was as if he had entered her realm and lit all the candles and lamps within, only to flood the chambers with water thereafter.

  “He said nothing,” she lied flatly.

  In truth, he had spoken empty promises. Precisely what one would expect of a handsome man who had all London kneeling at his feet. He was a hero unparalleled. He had defeated the French menace with nothing but his own bare hands and determination. He had saved himself.

  And for one enchanted dance, she had dreamed he was the saving grace of her as well.

  Now she knew differently. He was the same as every other gentleman.

  “It did not seem like it was nothing,” Mama added. “You were engaged in conversation for quite some time following the minuet. It seemed, at the very least, promising.”

  Leonora closed her eyes for a moment as she inhaled deeply. Her mother had been pressing her for additional details from the moment Lord Searle had bowed and taken his leave. She supposed she could not blame Mama, for no gentleman had shown such an interest in her in some time, not since that horrid wager. When she opened her eyes at last, Mama was watching her with an odd expression.

  She sighed. “I am sorry to disappoint you. His lordship was courteous and kind, but I cannot help but to feel he only danced with me and exchanged pleasantries out of some sense of duty. Perhaps an obligation to exert a kindness toward an unfortunate—”

  “Do not,” Mama interrupted, “suggest you are cause for charity, because you most assuredly are not. You are the daughter of the Earl of Rayne, and you are beautiful.”

  And she also had an errant half-brother who was the subject of scurrilous gossip and her limp, which could not be hidden, to say nothing of her advancing years. But she could not fault Alessandro for the latter, only the former. His letters had grown increasingly sparse, and she missed him dearly.

  She scanned the dancers, searching for Searle’s tall, commanding form against her will. Irritation pricked at her, both for the manner in which she had so easily fallen prey to his charms and for the way she still looked for him even now. The way her eyes traveled through the throng of revelers, as if drawn to their home. All these years of hoping for a husband, and how easily she was felled by the silver tongue of one man.

  Meanwhile, he was either amusing himself at her expense, or he had been lying to her when he had claimed he had not asked her to dance as the result of a wager. Tears of humiliation stung her eyes.

  “But I am a cause for charity,” she told Mama. “I have no suitors, and I shall never have a husband of my own.”

  How her heart ached when she said the last, for though it was a fear that had lived within her for the last few years, this was the first time she admitted it aloud. Doing so heightened the veracity of her trepidation.

  Her failure was utter and complete. She would never have children, which she wanted with such desperation the desire had become a blazing, all-consuming force within her. For what man would want the burden of a wife who was the laughingstock of polite society?

  “Hush now,” Mama scolded quietly, her frown immense. “I will hear nothing more.”

  Leonora pressed her lips together, holding back the sobs that threatened to come. How foolis
h of her to be so affected by one dance with a gentleman she scarcely knew. What was it about the Marquess of Searle that pierced her flesh and went straight to her heart, to all the dark places she tried to pretend she did not possess?

  “Excuse me, Mama,” she forced past the lump in her throat. Her face felt as if it were aflame, and her eyes watered and burned. Despair was a weight in her stomach. She needed to flee. To collect herself. “I require a moment to myself.”

  “Leonora,” her mother protested.

  But she did not care to hear more. Ignoring the ache in her leg as she stood, she fled from her mother’s side and from the ballroom with as much grace as she could muster. She made her painstaking way from the chamber, cursing her leg for the pain radiating through her.

  In the several visits she had made to Freddy, they had always met within a cheerful salon, and Leonora made her way there now. The din of the ballroom faded farther away with each step, until at last she entered the privacy of the chamber she sought. Wall sconces were lit, bathing the room in a warm glow. She closed the door and then made her way to the beckoning comfort of a settee.

  The door opened once more, the sounds of the ballroom infiltrating the chamber—the chatter of the guests, muted laughter, faraway strains of the orchestra striking up a cotillion. Leonora turned, expecting to see Freddy standing there in defiance of her hostess duties, and froze at the sight of the Marquess of Searle instead.

  Her heart thundered, breath arresting in her lungs for a wild moment. His green eyes burned into hers, and she felt that gaze like a stolen caress. A smooth, buttery warmth slid through her, settling in her belly. The door closed once more at his back, deadening the sound.

  They were alone.

  Her mouth went dry. He seemed somehow taller and broader in this small room, his presence not just breathtaking but dominating. More handsome, too, the planes of his face rendered increasingly harsh and masculine, illuminated by the sconces in a way that made him almost feral. He looked as if he were starving.

  But not for sustenance. Rather, for her specifically. No gentleman had ever gazed upon her with such a dearth of concern for propriety. Or acted upon it.