by Stacy Reid
Lucan exited without fanfare and jumped into his waiting carriage. His driver knew exactly where to carry him, and they rumbled into motion. No, he would show no mercy to all who had participated in Marissa’s ruin. He had already claimed vengeance on two of the men responsible for her demise. And in a very similar manner, Calydon would be the last. Lucan would not be swayed. No matter how tempting it was to pursue a different path with a green-eyed beauty.
…
An hour later, Lucan stood in bleak stillness in Kensal Green Cemetery, immune to the cold gust of wind at his sister’s grave. He stared at the carved letters on the monument: Marissa’s name, her date of birth and death—the sum of her existence. No withered flowers other than his to show anyone thought of her beyond the foul rumors that whispered of her demise.
Even now, years later, he could still unearth the whispers that had tainted her name. Marissa the pure, Marissa the lovely, had slowly become Marissa the mistress, Marissa the abandoned. Misused and abandoned by The Duke of Calydon.
When Lucan had started his hunt, old gossips had surfaced of the duke himself being her murderer and people were sure he had strangled Marissa with his own hands. Lucan heard of how Calydon had fought with Lord Stanhope in his country home over Marissa. Then later when Calydon had been spurned, they said he had killed her. Then the rumors changed, insisting Lady Stanhope had killed herself. Lucan, however, knew the full truth; he had dozens of her letters, which he read over and over again.
“You are tormented by the path you have taken,” the Reverend murmured.
Lucan grunted and placed the flowers on the grave. After saying a quick prayer, he walked off and the Reverend followed beside him silently.
“I had never thought it would be so. Is it because of Lady Constance?”
Lucan glanced at Westbrook, the second man he called friend and his partner in Decadence. Their relationship was very much a paradox. Westbrook was the rector at Lucan’s ducal seat in Suffolk. They were childhood friends who had known hardship and pain together. So when Westbrook had approached Lucan for the post, he had simply appointed Westbrook rector, despite Lucan’s surprise his friend desired such a position in life. He knew Westbrook understood about demons and wanting redemption for past failures, so Lucan never hesitated. Before he could even begin to formulate and express how Constance made him feel, Westbrook spoke.
“Since your return to London I have never seen you so free, so relaxed.”
Lucan grunted, unable to refute Westbrook’s observation.
“Are you still adamant on making Calydon pay?”
“I cannot release him from his debt.”
“No one forced Marissa to do what she did, Lucan,” Westbrook pointed out firmly. It was not the third or fourth time his friend had tried to make him see reason with that argument. But Lucan saw clearly enough. He was without illusions. They all failed her, and Lucan may have been the greatest culprit of them all, for he had not saved her. He had read the unhappiness in her letters, seen the path of destruction she had been on. But he had stayed in India, then sailed to the West seeking his fortune, thinking that was what she needed to be happy. He should have dropped everything and come home for her. Now he had more wealth than he could use in his lifetime, and she was far beyond his help. Nothing he could do would atone for her death, but he could ensure every party suffered.
He ignored the taunting whisper of his conscience proclaiming Constance to be blameless. God, she was beautiful. He did not like how she appealed to him. To court vengeance against Calydon would be to ruin Constance. Something Lucan doubted he could do. As if Marissa heard him from the grave, the yew trees rustled and swayed under a powerful gust, and the wind whistled a long mournful cry into the night. No, he could not turn back. He would not fail her so completely. But he could not bring himself to do what Calydon had done to Marissa. Woo her, bed her, and then abandon her.
Constance was too innocent. Lucan promised himself then and there, no matter the temptation, he would not make love to her. He gritted his teeth even as his body surged in denial. She was so responsive, her kisses so sweet and enticing. He hungered to be inside her more than how he had ever done with any other woman. And he feared he would never feel such a visceral desire for anyone again. But he would leave her untouched by him at least in that regard. He was a blackguard, but he was not that far gone.
He closed his eyes against the ache that bloomed inside his chest. He would have to execute his revenge against Calydon soon. He moved ahead of time, but he had to do so. Constance tempted him too much. He had to act now, or fall into her lures so deeply he would abandon his plans and fail his sister all over again.
Chapter Nine
Constance knew without a doubt Lucan was the man for her. She luxuriated in the thrilling knowledge. He was not exactly how she had dreamed her prince charming would be. She had always imagined someone fairer, closer to her own height, someone with a sweet and amiable disposition. She did not believe Lucan was of a sweet disposition. He was too intense. But he was a gentleman, kind and caring of her sensibilities, and he roused sensations and needs in her she had not thought possible. In short, he was absolutely perfect. She had determined she would not leave tonight’s ball without full knowledge of his intention toward her. A bold undertaking, but she was resolute. Her mother kept pressing her to accept Lord Litchfield’s hand and with the belief only marriage could salvage Constance’s reputation, her mother would soon convince her father and brothers of Litchfield’s suit.
Constance had ensured she would look fetching as she faced Lucan tonight. She wore a brilliant satin burgundy gown. Her hair was bound tightly, with plaits wrapped around her head like a crown, and it glittered with multitudes of golden threads. Her red satin dancing slippers sparkled under the chandeliers as she swept from the stifling heat of Lady Beaumont’s ball. It was a rousing success and the crush was more than Constance could bear. And as she stepped outside, she took a deep breath of the cool night air.
But her true reason for leaving had been seeing Lucan exiting through the side doors. She slipped outside into the gardens knowing she would have only a few moments before being found by her mother or Charlotte. Constance walked with nimble steps down the stone path and then paused. She was so sure the intent look he had given her before he slipped away had meant that she should follow him. She bit her lip, wondering if she was being silly. What if he had gone into the garden to meet with someone else?
She dismissed the thought instantly. He was a gentleman. He would never walk and share such kisses with her if he was interested in someone else. She rounded the bend and stepped into the garden. Its enclosure was intimate and secluded, and she saw no one. She walked a bit further into the garden and as she turned to return inside, she saw him standing at the edge of a bush.
He stepped from the shadows with a look on his face she had never seen on him before. It was intent and piercing. A scowl settled on his face. “Why did you come out here, Constance?”
Her heart sank. She had obviously misread his signals, but it mattered not. She needed to speak with him. She walked deeper into the gardens toward the stone benches. “I thought you meant for us to meet here. I noticed you had not sought me out for any dances. I thought mayhap you wanted to dance under the stars again.” He had not approached anyone else, either, but she thought it unusual given the attention he had been showing her. Even this morning, her mother had remarked upon how often His Grace called upon her for outings. Constance knew she was being forward, but she fancied they had at least become friends, and she needed to know if he wanted more than friendship.
He thrust his hands deep in his trousers and rocked on his heels observing her. “Return to the ball,” he said coldly.
A flicker of uneasiness went through her. Her fingers played nervously with her gloves. Something was dreadfully wrong. He seemed so aloof, so unlike the teasing rogue she had bantered with. “I see. I had wanted to speak with you on an important matter but I will ret
urn inside, Your Grace.” She offered a small smile. “I look forward to our ride tomorrow, Lucan, perhaps we can speak then.”
“No.”
She paused and looked back at him, startled.
His expression closed even more. “There will be no more carriage outings, no more dances or opera visits. I thank you for the gracious time you have shown me thus far, Lady Constance.”
Her heart slammed into her throat. “I do not understand, I thought we—”
“You thought what? That we were courting?” He inquired in a withering tone.
She could hardly breathe from the emotions tightening her throat. Had he heard some rumor? Since their last kiss at the theatre he had ridden out with her on several more occasions, and they had even stopped at a coffee house yesterday, a thing which had scandalized Charlotte. Why would he be so cold now?
He seemed determined to turn Constance away from him, and she would not stay where she was unwanted. With pride holding her tongue, she swept past him and then hesitated. She walked to him, searching his face. “I feel you when you stare at me, you know. I felt you tonight before I even saw you. That has never happened to me before. Is it the same for you, Lucan?”
“It is dangerous for you to be here in the gardens, Constance. A lady would not have followed me out here.”
She stepped closer to him. “Your gaze invited me. I know it, and you know it, Lucan. I am a lady, but I have desires too. And I believe in pursuing what I want. Don’t you?” He must know what she hinted. She held her breath as she waited for his reply.
“Where is your chaperone?” he all but snarled.
“Charlotte can be marvelously tactful whenever she needs to be.”
“You cannot be a lady and a wanton at the same time, Constance. Your eyes beg me to kiss you, to touch you, to take you.”
She stared at him fascinated. “Are you saying a lady does not have passion?”
A tick became apparent at his jaw. “A lady’s passion is for her husband. Anything that is given or shown to someone to whom you are not married is the surest path to destruction and ruination.”
She heard the pain and something darker in his tone. She tried to hold his unwavering stare. It was almost as if he warned her away from him, and she did not understand. The undercurrent of pain in his voice tugged at her. “You speak from experience?”
“I do.”
She jerked. “You have ruined someone?”
His mouth was edged with cruelty when he smiled. “No. Someone that I held dear was used, disgraced, and abandoned by someone who claimed to love her.”
“Oh my goodness.” Constance wanted to ask him who was this person he held dear, but knew he would not disclose such confidence. She noted the flash of pain beneath his cold exterior and wished she was able to draw it all from him. Her decision to leave was thwarted by his revelations. She courted a dangerous situation, but she would not remain long. Even though she now realized she dreamed about a man who had hidden depths she might never be able to reach. “Where is she now?”
“Dead.”
He said it so flatly it took her moments for the import of his word to sink in.
Dead? Constance moved closer to him and curled her hand around his arms, hoping to comfort him with her touch. “I am so very sorry, Lucan.” Her heart ached as she sensed the smoldering rage beneath his frozen demeanor. “How did she die, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“She was callously used, beaten, and driven to her death,” he said bluntly.
Constance stared at him incomprehensibly. She had expected something like a carriage accident or illness. Her eyes roved his face searching for some kind of guide to his thoughts. There was none. His emotionless façade scared her. “Beaten? Driven to her death, as in she killed herself?”
He watched Constance with an intensity that had fear rippling over her skin, and for the first time she became aware of how alone they were in Lady Beaumont’s gardens. Constance swallowed, forcing herself not to twitch or shift. She could not explain her sudden unease or the sensations that had her heart jerking. He had always seemed so charming and gentle. “I…”
“Let us not be morbid. This was years ago, Lady Constance.”
She felt him retreat, shutting her out. It mattered not that he remained in the same position, her dress curling around his leg in the most intimate fashion. He was no longer present. The teasing suitor she had known this past week had fled, leaving a cold, aloof man. He smiled, and nothing reached his eyes. What was it?
She wanted to ask him more of this woman. Who was she? What was her name? Constance had heard no whispers of the Duke of Mondvale having anyone close to him who had killed themselves. It seemed so improbable that the gossip mill would not be buzzing with such information. Though she had not heard he had two younger cousins and an aunt living in Hampshire, either, until he had shared it with her.
He walked over to the small fountain with a cherub spouting water from its mouth. Several stone benches were scattered about, and he sat on one.
Constance sat beside him. “If you ever wish to speak, know I would hold your confidence always.”
He stiffened. “Why are you still here, Constance? Why do you behave so recklessly when your reputation already has such a tenuous hold?”
She lifted her chin. “I know you would never hurt me, and no one is paying any attention to me in this crush.”
Everything in his face closed down, and her mouth went dry. She shifted closer to him. “What is it?”
The intensity of his stare had a piercing quality that was frightening. “You need to leave and return to the ball. I am sure Lady Ralston is looking for you as we speak.”
Anger snapped through Constance and she felt thoroughly provoked. “Why do you push me away? And without any explanation? I know you desire me. You disclose things to me I am sure you share with no other lady. Why don’t you speak with my brother about paying addresses to me instead of pushing me away? You must know how I feel about you.”
He raked his fingers through his hair in what looked like abject frustration.
“Constance, go inside. I—”
“I believe I am falling in love with you, Lucan.”
Shock flittered across his face so fast she wondered if she had imagined it. But what she was certain of was the desire and need that flared in his eyes at her declaration. He felt similarly toward her.
He surged to his feet, staring down at her, his face carefully blank. She rose and stepped close to him, so close that the swell of her breast pressed against him. “I am falling in love with you, Lucan. And I know you have affections for me as well. I would—”
He stole the remainder of her words in a kiss unlike any he had given her before. His lips roamed over hers in a hot, hungry surge of possession, sending waves of sensations through her. His kiss felt desperate and needy. He drew her closer to him, and she lifted onto her toes, responding to his kiss with a dizzying sense of freedom. With a muffled groan, he deepened it and stepped with her so her back rested against the fountain’s edge. He pulled his lips from hers, breathing raggedly. He whispered her name rough and gravelly in the dark and she trembled.
“Do not stop kissing me, Lucan,” she whispered.
He whispered something she did not hear and then took her mouth in another powerful kiss. She opened her lips to the thrust of his tongue, and pleasure stabbed to her heart. He had never touched her with such fierceness, such passion, and she sank into his embrace, entwining around him like a vine.
His fingers were not idle as they caressed her cheeks, her neck, and slipped down to the mound of her breast. She trembled at his touch. With a gentleness that belied the intensity of how his mouth ravished her, he pulled the buttons to her dress and unlaced her corset as much as he could. He tugged at her gown and revealed her breast to the cool air.
Shock stilled her body as heat flushed her skin. Never had she been this exposed to a man before—and in Lady Beaumont’s garden! He pulled his lips fr
om Constance’s, his head dipping to allow his tongue to lash at her sensitive nipple. He sucked her deep into his mouth, and her body jerked under the burn of pleasure, eroding all rational thought. Her breath caught on a surge of yearning so abrupt and intense it felt like pain.
He released her breast and traced kisses up her neck, nipping at her lips. “Why did you not stay away from me?” he demanded roughly, then pressed another deep kiss on her lips.
She pulled her lips away, confused. “Lucan, I—”
He swallowed her response, his hands kneading her hips. Her desire heightened as he dragged her dress up the length of her legs, conforming her petticoats to his will. He trailed his fingers up the length of her leg, and over her silken stockings. Then he explored farther, letting his hand drift up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. His long fingers slipped between the juncture of her thighs, parted her drawers, feeling her most intimate spot. It was decadent and wicked.
Oh, God. Constance ripped her mouth from his and pressed her head hard against his shoulder, her face hot with mortification. The clamoring of her heartbeat seemed to drive the air from her lungs, and confusion washed over her, as she tried to assimilate the feelings that throbbed so strangely between her legs.
She swallowed as he slid one long finger slowly into the heart of her, sending a bolt of exquisite sensation through her. Hot, drowning pleasure gripped her as he started a slow glide and retreat. Wetness coated his fingers, and her hips arced into his hands. Moans she could not control ripped from deep inside of her, and Constance bit into his shoulder to prevent herself from crying out, as her stomach tightened in painful need.
“You are so responsive.” The dark velvet rasp of his voice sank into her, promising unimaginable pleasures.
