by Liz Carlyle
Nash stepped from the shadows to block her path. “Looking for your Odysseus, Madame Circe?”
The woman in purple looked him up and down boldly. “Ah, but Odysseus was immune to Circe’s spell, was he not?” she said, her voice sultry. “I should prefer a man who can be entranced by my magic.”
“Very wise, Madam Circe,” said Nash. “Have you someone in mind?”
“Alas, I did have,” she murmured. “But the man I seek does not attend such foolish entertainments.”
“Then he is unworthy of you, fair sorceress,” Nash replied. “Might another man tempt you in his absence?”
“I daresay the devil could tempt a woman to be quite wicked indeed.” Madame Circe’s eyes swept over his costume again, and a faint half-smile curved her lips. “I am impressed by your fine horns, Lord Lucifer, and your flowing black robes. But tell me—have you brought your staff? I should need to see it, of course, as proof of your powers of temptation.”
It was she. No one else could be so witty, and yet so bold.
“Come with me, my sorceress,” he growled, grabbing her by the arm, “and I will show you my staff, so that you may judge its worth for yourself.”
Praise for National Bestselling Author Liz Carlyle and Her Sizzling Romantic Novels
“Hot and sexy, just how I like them! Romance fans will want to remember Liz Carlyle’s name.”
—Linda Howard, New York Times bestselling author
THREE LITTLE SECRETS
“In her usual brilliant fashion, Carlyle brings her Sins, Lies, and Secrets trilogy to a splendid conclusion with a dark, deliciously sensual, richly emotionally story…. Exquisitely complex characters and luscious writing…simply superb.”
—Booklist (starred review)
TWO LITTLE LIES
“With effective, emotional writing and a complex heroine, Carlyle’s story stands out in a crowded field of Regency-era romances.”
—Publishers Weekly
ONE LITTLE SIN
“All of Carlyle’s signature elements—deliciously clever dialogue, superbly nuanced characters, gracefully witty writing, and sizzling sexual tension—are neatly placed.”
—Booklist (starred review)
THE DEVIL TO PAY
“Intriguing…engaging…an illicit delight.”
—Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author
“Sensual and suspenseful…[a] lively and absorbing romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
“Sinfully sensual, superbly written…nothing short of brilliant.”
—Booklist
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
“Sweep-you-off-your-feet romance, the sort of book that leaves you saying, ‘More, please!’”
—Connie Brockway, award-winning author of Bridal Season
“Rich and sensual, an unforgettable story in the grand romantic tradition.”
—Christina Dodd, New York Times bestselling author
NO TRUE GENTLEMAN
“One of the year’s best historical romances.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Carlyle neatly balances passion and danger in this sizzling, sensual historical that should tempt fans of Amanda Quick and Mary Balogh.”
—Booklist
A WOMAN OF VIRTUE
“A beautifully written book…. I was mesmerized from the first page to the last.”
—The Old Book Barn Gazette
ALSO BY LIZ CARLYLE FROM POCKET BOOKS
Three Little Secrets
Two Little Lies
One Little Sin
The Devil to Pay
A Deal With the Devil
The Devil You Know
No True Gentleman
Tea for Two
A Woman of Virtue
A Woman Scorned
My False Heart
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Susan Woodhouse
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4564-4
ISBN-10: 1-4165-4564-6
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
Never Lie to a Lady
Prologue
An Assignation in Crescent Mews Late Winter 1828
T he library was hushed in every possible way, its heavy velvet drapes long since drawn against the flickering gaslight beyond. The lush Turkish carpet silenced every footfall, and the room’s cavernous depths would have swallowed every whisper, had there been any. Certainly there was no light, save that which was cast in a pool before the hearth.
Lord Nash was many things, but he was not remotely naive. The stage was set, and he knew it. He kept his back to the fire and his eye on the door, which was barely discernible in the shadows.
The door, when it opened, was as soundless as it had been upon his arrival. The Comtesse de Montignac came toward him, her fine, frail hands outstretched as if she were greeting her dearest friend. She wore a red silk peignoir, which was far more suited to the boudoir, and her heavy golden hair swung seductively about her waist.
“Bonsoir, my lord,” she purred, the red silk shimmering in the firelight as she moved. “At long last, I am to have the pleasure, oui?”
He did not take her hands, forcing her to let them drop. “This is not a social call,” he said. “Show me what I have come for.”
Her smile deepened almost mischievously. “I like a man who knows his business,” she purred. Before he knew what she was about, the comtesse’s elegant fingers went to her shoulders, and drew the silk peignoir down her arms. It caught on her fingertips just an instant before it slithered to the floor.
Nash cursed the little stab of lust which needled him. But by God, the woman was beautifully made, and she wore a negligee so thin it served but one purpose. Beneath it, her delicate, milk white breasts rose as the breath shuddered expectantly out of her. She touched one hardened nipple through the gossamer fabric.
“Many men have paid well for this,” she said throatily. “But for you, Nash—oh, mon dieu! A woman almost wishes to give it away.”
Nash slid a hand beneath her left breast, and squeezed—not hard enough to hurt her. Not quite. A strange mélange of fear and lust sketched across her face. “The papers,” he gritted. “Get them. Do not toy with me.”
She backed away, cutting him a dark, sidelong glance as she moved into the shadows. He heard a drawer slide open, then slam shut again. She returned with a thick fold of foolscap. Nash took the papers and unfolded them toward the firelight. His eyes swept over the first, then the others, more quickly. “How much?” he asked emotionlessly.
“Ten thousand.”
He hesitated.
The comtesse stepped so near he could smell the scent of jasmine in her hair. “This bargain was hard earned, my lord,” she said. “My every feminine wile was required in order to obtain what you needed.”
“All save one, I daresay,” murmured the marquess.
The comtesse did not so much as blush. “And I am sure I need not tell you, my lord, the political ramifications which this could have,” she purred, drawing a w
arm hand down his arm. “Ten thousand, and the pleasure of my body for the evening?”
Nash tried to divert his eyes from the rise and fall of the woman’s breasts. “I cannot think your husband would appreciate being cuckolded beneath his own roof, madame.”
She smiled, pressed the length of her body to his. “Pierre is very understanding, mon cher,” she murmured. “And I have…particular needs. Needs which I will gladly demonstrate—if you can be persuaded into my bed?”
“I cannot,” he said.
She drew her hand from his arm—in surrender, he thought. Until it settled firmly and warmly in an altogether different location. To his humiliation, his rigid cock twitched insistently against her palm. “Are you quite sure, mon cher?” she whispered. “You feel very firmly persuaded—and I cannot but wonder, Nash, if you are all that rumor claims.”
He tossed the papers aside. “You play a dangerous game, madame.”
“I live a dangerous life,” she returned. But with a muted smile, she dropped her hand and stepped away.
He watched her in silence for a time, as one might watch a snake in the grass. She cut an uncertain glance at him. “Mon dieu, do not look so sanctimonious, Nash!” she finally snapped. “We are alike, you and I. We are not of this restrained, oppressive English world. We never shall be, you know. Come, why may we not learn to pleasure one another?”
Nash did not answer, but instead bent down and picked up the red silk peignoir. “Just put it on, comtesse,” he answered. “There is very little anyone could teach a woman of your experience.”
Again, the coquettish smile. “Oui, my lord, c’est vrai,” she agreed. She took the red silk robe from his outstretched hand.
They concluded their transaction swiftly enough, the comtesse making no further overtures, save for the occasional torrid, sidelong glance—and not at his face. Nash was relieved to make his way back through the house and out into the damp, silent streets of Belgravia. The mist had grown heavier now, rolling in off the Thames with a cutting January chill. Nash turned up his collar and set off along Upper Belgrave Street. Behind him, the newly minted church bell at St. Peter’s tolled twice, the sound oddly sharp in the drizzle.
The broad, elegant thoroughfares were empty at this hour, at this time of year. No one observed Nash as he made his way soundlessly into the rabbit warren of Crescent Mews. This was an old place which the new perfection of Belgravia had swallowed up and risen above. A place not easily found, which made it perfect for his purpose.
In the distance, Nash could see a lamp swinging from its brass bracket, casting a feeble light down the steps of a small and unimportant-looking establishment. As he neared the entrance, a man in a brilliantly hued Guards uniform staggered from the shrubbery, hitching up the fall of his trousers. They nodded politely, and Nash pressed on. From the foot of the steps, Nash could hear raucous laughter ringing out. He stepped beneath a tree just beyond the lantern’s glow, lit a cheroot, and settled in for a wait. He had long ago learned patience.
From time to time a military man or a gentleman would burst from the laughter to make his way down the narrow stairs and stagger up the mews. But eventually, a man came out and made his way to the tree. He was slight and quick, and his gait held the sureness of sobriety.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” said Nash. “Is every drunken soldier from the Guards’ barracks in there tonight?”
The smaller man smiled faintly. “It would seem so, my lord,” he said. “Swann says you wish to engage my services?”
Nash withdrew his purse and jerked his head toward Wilton Crescent. “Do you know the woman who lives in the third house this side of Chester Street?”
“Who does not?” he answered. “The Comtesse de Montignac.”
“Yes,” said Nash. “Is that her real name?”
The smaller man smiled faintly. “It is thought unlikely,” he said. “But she has well-placed friends, and her husband is an attaché to the French embassy. What is it you wish, my lord?”
“Three men observing the house night and day,” said Nash, his voice emotionless. “The names of everyone who comes and goes, from the chimney sweep to the dinner guests. Should she leave the house, I wish to know where she goes, with whom, and for how long. Report to Swann once a week. I shan’t seek you out again.”
The smaller man bowed. “It shall be arranged.” Then he hesitated. “My I speak frankly, my lord?”
Nash’s dark, harsh eyebrows went up a notch. “By all means.”
“Have a care, sir,” he said quietly. “The diplomatic corps is a nest of vipers—and the Comtesse de Montignac writhes at its center. For a price, she would betray her own mother.”
The marquess’s mouth curved with bitter satisfaction. “As I am too well aware,” he said. “But I thank you for the warning all the same.”
Chapter One
A Gala in Hanover Street Spring 1828
M iss Xanthia Neville was thinking of having an affaire. Thinking of it quite vividly, in fact, as she watched the tide of handsome, elegantly attired gentlemen sweep their partners through the intricacies of the waltz. Cutaway coats and diaphanous skirts swirled and unfurled beneath the glow of a thousand candles. Champagne glasses clinked, and sidelong gazes lingered. Everyone was lighthearted. No one was alone.
Well, that was not quite true, was it? She was alone. At the great age of not-quite-thirty—a brittle precipice indeed—Xanthia was a confirmed spinster. Nonetheless, tonight she had worn red; the deepest, most daring shade of claret-colored velvet to be found in the whole of Pall Mall, as if doing so might send some subtle signal within the rarefied confines of Lord Sharpe’s ballroom.
Ah, but perhaps she was just deluding herself. Perhaps she’d had too much of Sharpe’s champagne. In this country, unmarried ladies did not have liaisons. They had weddings. Even her cynical-hearted brother would not tolerate a scandal. Moreover, Xanthia, the consummate negotiator, had no notion how one went about parlaying that sort of deal. She could finesse the flintiest of customs agents, consign cargo in three languages, and spot a thieving purser with a doctored manifest at fifty paces. But this—her personal life—so often felt beyond her.
So this romance of hers was just another fantasy. Another unattainable thing which, while painfully absent from her life, simply came at too great a price.
Was she lonely? She hardly knew. She knew only that her life had required hard choices—and she made them, for the most part, with her eyes open. Lord Sharpe’s ballroom was awash in pretty, virginal debutantes. They were not wearing red. Life’s many possibilities were still open to them. Xanthia was envious, and yet she would not have traded places with even the most beautiful amongst them.
She turned away from the ocean of beautiful men and pretty virgins and went out onto the terrace in search of solitude. The heels of her slippers sounded softly on the flagstones, until at last the strains of the orchestra faded, and the murmur of voices quieted. Even the illicit lovers had not ventured so deep into the gloom as this. Perhaps she ought not have, either—the English ton did seem to frown on the oddest things—but something in the silence drew her.
At the distant end of the terrace, Xanthia at last paused to lean against the brickwork and let her shoulders relax against the masonry, which still held a hint of heat from an unseasonably sunny day. She had been all of four months in London now, but never once had she been warm. She let her head tip back and her eyes close as she savored the faint heat, and swallowed the last of her champagne.
“Ah, if only I were the cause of that expression!” murmured a deep, rueful voice. “Rarely do I see a woman so enraptured—unless she is in bed with me.”
Xanthia’s eyes flew open on a faint gasp.
A tall, elegantly built man blocked the terrace before her, and even in the dark, she could feel the heat of his gaze drifting over her. She recognized him vaguely, for she had noticed him earlier, reclining languidly in a chair deep inside the cardroom—and she ha
d seen the female heads turning as he left it, too. He was the sort of man who caught a woman’s notice; not for his beauty, but for something far more primitive than that.
Xanthia lifted her chin. “Sharpe has a dreadful crush tonight,” she said coolly. “I thought my escape had gone unobserved.”
“Perhaps it did.” His voice was a low rumble. “I could not say. I have been hiding out here all of a quarter hour myself.” There was chagrin in his voice, which unexpectedly made her laugh.
He stepped fully into the shaft of moonlight and glanced down at her empty flute. “Sharpe has unimpeachable taste in champagne, does he not?” he murmured. “And your intriguing expression aside, my dear, I wonder if it wouldn’t be prudent for you to return to the ballroom?”
Xanthia, however, caught neither his suggestion, nor its subtle implication, for she was absorbed in the study of his face. No, he definitely was not beautiful. Instead, his features held a remarkable ruthlessness, with a hawkish nose, a too-hard jaw, and extraordinary eyes, which were set at just the slightest angle. His hair was dark, and far too long to be fashionable. More disturbing still, there was just the slightest aura of danger about him. Inexplicably, Xanthia did not heed it.
“No,” she said quietly. “No, I think I shall stay.”
He lifted one of his solid-looking shoulders. “Suit yourself, my dear,” he said. “You looked like a cat soaking up warmth just now. Are you cold?”
Fleetingly, Xanthia closed her eyes and thought of the Bajan sun. “I am always cold,” she answered. “I haven’t been warm in an age.”
“What a pity.” He leaned nearer and offered his hand. “I believe I have not had the pleasure, ma’am. In fact, I am quite persuaded you are new to Town.”
She looked down at his hand, but did not take it. “And do you know everyone?”
“It is my business to do so,” he said simply.
“Indeed?” Xanthia set her glass down atop a nearby baluster. “What sort of business are you in?”
“The business of knowing people.”
“Ah, a man of mystery,” she answered a little drolly. “And from whom, I wonder, are you hiding? An angry husband? A woman scorned? Or that little coterie of matchmaking mammas which keeps eyeing you so greedily?”
