Seven Wicked Nights

by Courtney Milan

  J.M.K.

  P.S. I will endeavor to keep you abreast of any developments concerning the hydrangeas. As for my elusive beloved, only time will tell whether anything will come of it. But while I cannot recommend falling in love—the yearnings will prove my undoing—I have become most enthusiastic about falling in friendship.

  Clarissa turned the conch shell around in her hands. It was surprisingly heavy. And when she put it to her ear, she heard a low hum, almost like the soughing of distant waves.

  Falling into friendship, she liked that. She set the conch shell on the mantel, picked up her pen, and began her reply to Miss Kirkland.

  Chapter Two

  Algernon House

  Four years later

  CLARISSA ALMOST COULD NOT RECOGNIZE HERSELF in this dress.

  There was nothing extraordinary about the fabric or the construction—it was a simple day dress of wool poplin—but oh, the color, like a glorious sunrise, set off by trimmings of cobalt blue.

  The saturation of the hues was intense; her younger self would never have worn such eye-wateringly brilliant colors. Then again, her younger self hadn’t had to wear mourning for two entire years.

  But as of today, her regulation mourning period had ended and she was once again free to dress as she wished, dance as she wished, and even marry as she wished—if she wished it.

  A few days ago she had said as much to Miss Kirkland, confessing that the house party she was hosting at Algernon House was actually a secret plot to assess all the gentlemen of her acquaintance for matrimonial possibilities.

  Clarissa had been joking, of course, but perhaps not entirely, for she had invited Mr. Kingston, and he had arrived at Algernon House an hour ago, according to her servants. She had seen little of him since their first meeting, but she had not been able to put him out of her mind—and there was no better time than now to find out whether there was anything to substantiate the spark that had ignited in her all those years ago.

  She walked to the open window. The fruit trees in the kitchen garden had begun to bloom, the soft buzz of honeybees hard at work vibrated the air, and the breeze that fluttered the curtains, though still cool, carried the first shimmer of warmth.

  Spring had returned.

  A movement caught her eye. A rider charged across the expansive grounds, weaving amid copses of chestnut and hazel. He followed the bank of the stream that bisected the large meadow behind the house. And when he whipped off his hat, the wind rushing past him ruffling his thick, glossy hair, she bit her lower lip at the sharp dig in her chest, as if her heart had been dented.

  Mr. Kingston, in the flesh.

  Her logical mind knew that she was doomed to disappointment: She had not forgotten that even in the days immediately following their meeting, she had felt let down by his reticence and his seemingly resolute lack of interest in her. But whether one happened to be a wife deprived of a husband’s affection or a widow shut off from society, the nights were long. And in the dark, alone, her thoughts had all too often turned to Mr. Kingston.

  This house party, for example, she had thought about for an entire year. The house was so big. Even with dozens and dozens of guests there would still be sections devoid of occupants, where her footsteps would echo as she walked down a long corridor.

  What if she were to come upon Mr. Kingston in such an empty corridor? What if, as they passed each other, instead of nodding politely, he reached out and took her hand? And what if he then lifted her hand to his lips?

  At least she was somewhat realistic in her fancies, not attributing to Mr. Kingston any kind of romantic verbiage that she had never heard from him. Only a silent, simmering passion.

  It was possible, wasn’t it?

  “I had no idea you could stare with that much intensity, Stepmama,” said a voice at her elbow.

  She started. “Christian! When did you come back?”

  “Just now.” The current Duke of Lexington was lanky, handsome, and all of two days past nineteen.

  “What happened to Port Mulgrave?”

  He was supposed to spend the last few days of his Easter holiday on the North Yorkshire coast—with his father’s passing, he was no longer restricted to the quarry or just the countryside surrounding Algernon House for his excavations.

  “Terrible weather on the coast, and the locals don’t expect it to improve anytime soon. I will have to content myself with the quarry—there is an amphibian skeleton that might prove interesting.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be off, then. And don’t worry about rearranging the seating chart for dinner—I shall feast in the splendid solitude of my room.”

  “You should be more sociable,” she admonished. The boy was perfectly amiable in private, but terribly aloof before company.

  He grinned at her. “The Duke of Lexington will be as sociable as he chooses to be—and not a bit more. Especially not with the ancient crowd his stepmother prefers.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. He pecked her again on the cheek and sauntered out.

  She had been a new bride of seventeen when she’d first met him, a sturdy, bright-eyed little boy of four. Now he was a man nearly full-grown and she a widow thirty-two years of age. Where had all the years gone? And when?

  Her attention returned to Mr. Kingston, who had dismounted and was leading his horse along, his hat dangling from the fingers of his free hand. The gait of that man, unhurried and confident—and the way the fabric of his trousers moved with each fluid step…

  She blew out a breath of air.

  He crossed a stone bridge and turned onto the path that would take him to the stables. If he looked up, he would see her before the open window, lusting after such inconsequential qualities as the shape of his brows, the width of his shoulders, and the—

  He looked up, as if he had known all along that she was there. Her hands gripped the windowsill, but she did not look away.

  Their gazes held until he disappeared behind a bend in the path.

  Clarissa remained at the window until a knock came at the door. It was a footman, delivering a letter from Miss Kirkland.

  My dear Duchess,

  I am more than a little surprised to see you thinking of marriage so soon—somehow I had received the impression that it might be years yet before you willingly walk down the aisle again.

  Are you certain you are ready?

  But I suppose you must be, if you have already invited all these gentlemen—and ladies, of course—to Algernon House. In light of that, I shall reverse my earlier decision: It seems I had better be there, since the occasion is turning out to be far more momentous than I had thought.

  Yours devotedly,

  J.M.K.

  Clarissa exclaimed in both surprise and delight. Miss Kirkland, as it turned out, was something of a recluse who always found excuses to decline Clarissa’s invitations to meet. Had she known that a little misunderstanding concerning her matrimonial intentions would bring Miss Kirkland to Algernon House, Clarissa would have made such jokes much sooner.

  P.S. I fear that in person I shall prove to be a sore disappointment. With pen and paper I am at ease; in the solitude of my own company my thoughts and ideas flow without obstruction. But before others it takes me the greatest effort to string two words together, and more often than not my words emerge awkward and off-putting.

  P.P.S. By the time you read this, I should already be on my way.

  P.P.P.S. And if I should say anything to upset you terribly, please do believe that I have never meant to hurt you—or to put our friendship in jeopardy.

  The first postscript Clarissa had more or less expected—one did not become a recluse by being perfectly at ease in the company of others. The second postscript had her smiling. The third one, however, made her frown. They had written more than a thousand letters apiece to the other, exchanged countless ideas and gifts, and enjoyed years of closeness—intimacy even. And Miss Kirkland was afraid that Clarissa would take offense because she was less than accomplished at
small talk?

  Clarissa read the letter once more, then carefully slipped it into a thick portfolio dedicated to their correspondence—the third one, in fact, such had been the volume of their dispatches.

  As she often did, after filing away Miss Kirkland’s latest, she extracted another letter at random, to see where they had happened to be in their years-long conversation on life, love, and everything else under the sun.

  It was a letter dated shortly after the duke’s passing.

  My dear Duchess,

  I daresay I have no idea your state of mind just now, having such an enormous change thrust upon you all of a sudden. But if I may, I’d like to offer you a few words of counsel.

  Do not be shocked if you are struck by a greater grief than you had anticipated, for no matter what, His Grace was and will always be the man you once loved.

  Do not let futility seep into your heart that in the end there was no grand reconciliation to make up for years of neglect and casual cruelty.

  And do not let guilt bother you, should relief—or even hope—wash over you. The duke breathed his last because of the will of God, not because his wife wished she could start her life anew.

  While no one can predict what the future will bring, rest assured that I pray fervently for your happiness, and long to do what I can to help ease you into your new life and many new possibilities.

  Yours devotedly,

  J.M.K.

  It never failed to move Clarissa, this particular letter—the fineness of Miss Kirkland’s understanding, the stalwartness of her support, and, between the lines, the unspoken but staunch optimism that things would turn out all right.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Yes?”

  A footman bowed. “Mr. Kingston would like a moment of your time, Your Grace, if it is agreeable to you.”

  Her chair scraped audibly as she rose.

  In their entire acquaintance, Mr. Kingston had never sought her company. But a man acted very differently, did he not, when he perceived carnal curiosity on a woman’s part? Her long gaze upon him from the window—had he interpreted it as an invitation? Was this why he wanted to see her now, when he had been otherwise content to not approach her and not speak to her?

  In her mind she experienced a silent, unsmiling Mr. Kingston pressing her against a wall, his body hard and muscular, his kiss ardent, almost bruising.

  Her heart thumped. She took a deep breath. “You may show Mr. Kingston to the solarium. Tell him I will be there shortly.”

  Chapter Three

  IN THE SOLARIUM, Mr. Kingston stood near the fireplace, reading a horticultural guide Miss Kirkland had sent Clarissa. He looked up as he sensed her approach.

  Clarissa nearly came to a dead stop. She had believed that in her mind she must have exaggerated the degree and intensity of his beauty. But the clarity of his eyes, the angularity of his brow, the carved precision of his high cheekbones—if anything her memories had been but a pale imitation of the reality of him. And the day coat of deep green he had changed into only served to emphasize a physique of spectacularly perfect proportions.

  He bowed, still holding on to the book from Miss Kirkland.

  She took a seat and spent a few seconds assiduously rearranging the folds of her skirt, to give herself time to recover from his effect on her. It would not do, would it, to speak to him all breathless and moon-eyed?

  “Mr. Kingston, how do you do?” she said, perhaps a bit too severely.

  He took a deep breath. “I am well, thank you. And you, Your Grace?”

  Mesmerizing, the way his lips moved, beautifully sculpted, yet mobile and soft. And his voice, low and rich, was perfect for the whispering of sweet nothings.

  She swallowed, her tone turning even cooler. “I understand you wished to see me, sir?”

  His fingers tightened on the book. “I wanted…to thank you for your kind invitation.”

  “When I invited Miss Elphinstone I thought of you, since you had enjoyed her company when you were last here at Algernon House four years ago.”

  An outright lie, that; it had been quite the other way around.

  He rubbed a thumb against the spine of the book. “I’m sure I will find her company equally gratifying this time.”

  Neither of them said anything for some time, leading to an uneasy silence. Abruptly he set down the book and bowed again. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. Please don’t let me take up any more of your time.”

  When he was gone, Clarissa rubbed her temples. It had been a strange encounter, to say the least, at once nerve-racking and deeply unsatisfying. But really, what had she expected?

  That he would come up to her, cup her face, and kiss her.

  She sighed. And that was why she didn’t think such thoughts outside her bedroom or in the light of day. That was why it was the one secret she had kept even from Miss Kirkland.

  It would be quite a hopeless business with Mr. Kingston. But at least soon Miss Kirkland would be here. Clarissa crossed the solarium and picked up the book she had sent. The horticultural guide had been a bit of a joke, as Miss Kirkland was self-acknowledged to be an execrable gardener, unable to keep anything alive except the lavender hydrangea she had obtained from Clarissa.

  But it had been inscribed in all sincerity. On the first page, in Miss Kirkland’s familiar hand: Some turn the soil and plant seedlings. We garden with words and nurture affinity.

  And how. From a dozen hydrangea cuttings, they had grown a beautiful friendship.

  And it was this friendship from which Clarissa would derive solace and pleasure when all her hopes about Mr. Kingston had proven to be made of mirages.

  After presiding over tea, Clarissa set out for the still little-used east wing, to check on the room she had asked to be made up for Miss Kirkland. She had decided to place her friend far from the rest of the guests so that the latter could enjoy a semblance of peace and quiet—seclusion, even—in the midst of a lively house party.

  Preoccupied, she didn’t realize until she was about to turn into the main upstairs passage of the east wing that someone was behind her.

  Mr. Kingston.

  Really, if he was not going to kiss her, he should not waste her time.

  And then, of course, she was ashamed of her uncharitable thought. He did not know of the countless hours she had spent turning him into a shorthand for all the excitement and passion missing in her life. Besides, he was a gentleman, and a gentleman did not simply grab a lady and kiss her.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be lost, would you, Mr. Kingston?” she said over her shoulder. “Your room is on the other side of the house.”

  “No, Your Grace,” he answered, drawing even with her. “I know where I am.”

  “But there is nothing of interest here, other than some of my stepson’s fossils.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said, his voice low but firm.

  Flustered, she stopped before the room she had assigned to Miss Kirkland. “Do please excuse me, Mr. Kingston. I need to inspect this room.”

  He opened the door for her. But when she had walked through, he followed her inside and closed the door. Her heart careened. Did this mean he wanted to be alone with her after all?

  And was this not altogether wrong? Had they spoken five sentences to each other in their entire acquaintance? How very arrogant and brazen of him to presume that she would welcome such—

  He settled a hand at her nape. She shivered with the sensation of his bare skin on hers, zigzags of electricity that shot deep into her spine. The searing heat spread. He was now touching the underside of her jaw, the tender skin just beneath her ear, and—

  She gasped aloud as he pressed his lips into the shell of her ear.

  “Clarissa,” he murmured.

  Was she dreaming? Was it likely, or even possible, for mirages to suddenly prove themselves true oases after all? Her lips moved, but no response emerged. His hands were on her arms, their warmth seeping through the fabric of her sleeves.
Slowly, he turned her around. Then he cupped her face and kissed her.

  She couldn’t tell whether his lips were soft as rose petals or rough as sandpaper. She couldn’t seem to feel anything but this fire that scorched any and all nerve endings, as if she had grazed the corona of the sun.

  She moaned. Her hands plunged into his hair. She returned the kiss roughly—if he was made of flames then let her be a fire-eater. Lips, teeth, tongue, she wanted everything.

  Vaguely she felt herself lifted. She didn’t care. As long as she could continue to kiss him, nothing else mattered. Even when her back touched the softness of a mattress, it didn’t matter. Of course he must carry her to bed; she couldn’t be expected to remain on her feet forever while she kissed him.

  Now there came the warmth of his fingers at her throat—he was unbuttoning her bodice. Yes, she wanted this, his weight pressed upon her, the feel of it as solid and sinewy as she’d always imagined. More, if anything. And he smelled wonderful, of cedar and cypress, and—

  All of a sudden it dawned on her what she was doing: allowing a virtual stranger to make love to her. She might have fantasized about him for years, but she did not know him. Not at all.

  “Mr. Kingston, please, please stop.”

  He grunted and kissed her again. “Clarissa—”

  “Mr. Kingston, no! Please listen to—”

  The door burst open. Before she could quite comprehend what was going on, Christian, his face grim, wrenched Mr. Kingston off her and shoved him aside.

  She struggled to her feet, stunned by this development. Christian yanked the counterpane from the bed and wrapped it around her, though she was hardly indecent—she had evening gowns that exposed more of her bosom and back.

  Briefly her stepson embraced her. Then he punched Mr. Kingston in the face, as she cried out in alarm.

  “How dare you?” Christian spat out. “How dare you come into this house and abuse Her Grace’s hospitality. Get out. Or next time I’ll use a pickax on you.”

  She rushed to stand between the two men. “No, Christian, you are wrong! Mr. Kingston wasn’t doing anything that…that I didn’t gladly permit him to do.”