Anne Stuart

by To Love a Dark Lord

  Nathaniel, however, might take exception to such a course. And being such a hothead, he’d doubtless challenge Killoran to a duel. For some reason, he didn’t want to kill the boy. More foolish sentiment on his part, he reasoned, but there it was. He didn’t want to kill Nathaniel, bed Lady Barbara, or jeopardize his plans for Jasper Darnley.

  That left him alone on a late winter evening with the doubtful comfort of brandy. He poured himself another glass, then stopped.

  The house was still and quiet. And somewhere, faintly overhead, he heard the sound of music. Emma was playing again, something soft and lilting and unexpectedly sad. A moment passed before he recognized it. It was an old Irish lullaby, one he’d heard from his nurse thirty years ago.

  And James Michael Patrick, the fourth Earl of Killoran, the man without weakness, honor, or decency, closed his eyes in quiet desperation.

  Lady Barbara descended the broad stairs of Killoran’s town house in an uncharacteristic rush, her wide skirts sweeping the steps as she ran. Nathaniel was close behind her, but she had no intention of allowing him to catch up with her. She felt breathless, uneasy, after that dance in Killoran’s ruined ballroom. Dancing was a social art, as meaningless as flirtation or afternoon tea. As meaningless as making love.

  And yet, when she’d put her hand in Nathaniel’s, felt the strength and warmth of his skin against hers, strange sensations had raced through her body.

  She’d fought them. While part of her wanted to pull away from him with a light, airy laugh, another part wanted to drift closer, ever closer.

  She’d been relieved and infuriated when Killoran had interrupted them. But sanity had taken hold once more, and she was running, from temptation, from despair.

  Nathaniel caught her near the bottom of the final flight, his hand closing on her arm, whirling her around to face him. His color was high, and his blue eyes were blazing with an emotion she didn’t dare try to identify.

  “Why are you running away from me?”

  “Running?” she echoed with a breathless laugh. “From you? La, sir, you flatter yourself. Your dancing wasn’t that inexpert.”

  She expected him to flush, but he didn’t; he continued to stare at her, mercilessly, his hand strong on her arm. “I won’t hurt you,” he said in a gruff, still voice.

  The words reverberated through her body painfully, and she yanked herself free. “I should think not,” she retorted coolly, arching her neck to stare up at him. “I would have to care about you in order for you to hurt me and I don’t care about you in the slightest. You amuse me,” she said, her voice high-pitched and undeniably nervous as she began to back away from him. “You’re like an importunate puppy, leaping up, trying to lick my hand.” He was following her, almost stalking her, and yet the threat was no real threat at all. “Such devotion is entertaining for a bit, dear Nathaniel, but after a while it grows wearing. I think I shall—”

  He silenced her by pulling her into his arms and kissing her.

  He didn’t touch her breasts or paw at her. He didn’t force her or hurt her. He simply pulled her startled, pliant body against his and kissed her, with far more expertise than she would have expected from a country bumpkin.

  She put up her hands, to ward him off, to push him away. But instead she clutched his shoulders, and allowed him to kiss her. What harm could it do?

  She knew the answer to that question almost immediately. She was beginning to like it. To like the feel, the scent, the strength, and the taste of him. A dangerous liking, which would lead only to disaster.

  Far above them, the sound of the piano drifted down, and Nathaniel marginally relaxed his hold on her as his mouth moved across her cheekbone.

  It was enough to effect her escape. She pulled away from him, staring up with startled, frightened eyes. And this time when she ran, he let her go.

  “What do you mean, you didn’t see her?” Darnley demanded harshly.

  His father’s second wife, a plump, pale-faced biddy who was frankly terrified of him, cowered. “I said I didn’t see her. I called, but she wasn’t receiving guests.”

  “How dare he?” he fumed. “To withhold that slut from a member of my family, instead of being properly grateful! I should like to thrash him.”

  “Jasper, don’t!” Aurelia pleaded. “The Earl of Killoran is a very dangerous man, and you’ve been ill...”

  Darnley thought he might explode in rage. “My dear stepmama,” he said with biting cruelty, “I am a very dangerous man as well. Killoran knows he can get away with slights, since I’ve been indisposed. But that time will pass.”

  “But I thought you wanted to heal the breach,” Aurelia said, confused as always. “You told me you wanted me to befriend the girl, as a step toward uniting our families.”

  He looked at her with withering contempt. “You really are a fool, aren’t you?” He noticed the family retainer, Bombley, hovering at the door. “What do you want, man?” he snarled.

  “A person has called to see you, sir. A female person.”

  Bombley’s contempt for the shocking occurrence of a female visitor was obvious, but Darnley was suddenly eager. “Is she young and beautiful with red hair?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then send her away.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “Jasper,” Aurelia had the temerity to say in a troubled voice, “why would Killoran’s sister come here?”

  “She wouldn’t,” he said, starting in on his second bottle.

  A moment later Bombley was back. “The person says you would wish to see her.”

  “Be damned to her impudence,” Darnley said drunkenly. “Thrash her from the house.”

  “She says it concerns a young lady.”

  “That’s what they all say. I haven’t debauched anyone in months—been too sick to get it up,” he said with deliberate coarseness. “Tell her she’ll have to bleed someone else.”

  “She said it has something to do with the Earl of Killoran’s sister.”

  For a moment Darnley didn’t move. “Get out of here, Aurelia,” he said thickly.

  “But, Jasper, dearest...”

  “Leave me alone. It appears that where you have failed, fate has decided to lend a hand. Bring the female person up here, Bombley. Is she pretty?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, it makes little difference. And bring me more brandy. Someone’s watered this dung.”

  He threw himself down to wait. The fire was too damned hot. Ever since his lingering illness he’d always been too hot or too cold, and nothing seemed to alleviate either condition. Despite Bombley’s words, the plain, badly dressed woman he showed into the drawing room was a sore disappointment.

  She must have been at least forty, with gray-streaked brown hair pulled back from a horsey face completely devoid of attraction or human warmth.

  Darnley raised his quizzing glass, staring at her with all the haughtiness at his disposal, only slightly marred by his inadequate state of inebriation.

  “Yes?”

  She wasn’t the slightest bit discomfited, which irritated him even more. She stood there, thin and bony and uncompromising, staring down at him. with complete disapproval. “Lord Darnley?”

  “Obviously.”

  “I believe we have interests in common.”

  “My dear woman, I find that impossible to comprehend.”

  The drab creature smiled. It was not a pretty sight. “I have my sources, sir. I’m interested in finding my young cousin.”

  “I didn’t lay a hand on her,” he said instantly. “I’ve been sick.”

  “You know my cousin?”

  “I doubt it. I don’t make it a habit to socialize with the bourgeoisie,” he said. “You told my servant you had information concerning the Earl of Killoran’s sister. What makes you think I’d be interested?”

  “Because that was when you agreed to see me, sir,” she said. “And she’s not Killoran’s sister. She’s my cousin, Emma Langolet, and she’s a whore
and a murderer.” There was a note of malicious triumph in her voice. “I intend to see her and her paramour in hell. With your assistance.”

  Her pale eyes were glowing with hatred and intensity. Darnley looked at her for a moment. And then he smiled.

  “Have a seat, dear lady,” he murmured. “Let me ring for tea.”

  Chapter 11

  Killoran hadn’t planned on taking her out again so soon. He’d given society enough to gossip about the night before, and Darnley’s response had been gratifyingly immediate. It had seemed the wisest course to absent himself from his usual haunts for the next few days and let the malicious gossip build to a crescendo.

  But he couldn’t do that. As much as he wanted the world to think he was immured in his own den of iniquity, debauching his half sister, he simply couldn’t sit back and wait. He told himself he was too restless, too easily bored, yet he knew the truth. James Michael Patrick, fourth Earl of Killoran, rake and dissolute gamester, care-for-nothing scoundrel with nerves of steel and a heart of ice, wasn’t sure he could keep his hands off his unwilling pawn.

  She said nothing when she arrived downstairs, suitably dressed. He looked at her critically, observing the bruising around her pale neck. “They’ll think I tried to strangle you,” he observed pleasantly.

  “Given your reputation, that should come as no surprise,” Emma replied. “It’s only unlikely that you didn’t succeed.”

  “Oh, I’m not noted for cold-blooded murder,” he said. “Dissolution, debauchery, and torture, perhaps. But the wholesale slaughter of virtuous young ladies has yet to be laid to my door.”

  “Am I considered a virtuous young lady?”

  He surveyed her thoughtfully. The stark black of her dress molded to her lush form, and the neckline, though demure by Lady Barbara’s standards, was scandalously low for a proper young lady. Her gorgeous hair hung down her back, and her mouth was soft, damp, abominably kissable.

  There were also her eyes. Honey-brown, staring up at him with an unassailable innocence that only a complete fool would miss.

  But then, how many people would waste their time looking in her eyes when there were so many other delectable attributes to gaze upon? “Not likely,” he said. “Anyone who spends time in my presence is tainted.” He advanced on her slowly, giving her time to run.

  She didn’t, but she wanted to. He could see the faint startled reflex in her eyes, the momentary flash of panic. But she held firm, tilting her chin up with just a trace of defiance. Poor child. Little did she know that her defiance enchanted him as much as her panic.

  He fastened the pearls around her neck, their rich luster luminous against her skin. He resisted the temptation to stroke her bruised flesh, the need to touch his mouth to that abrasion. He resisted the impulse to turn away from her, lock himself in his study, and immerse himself in brandy.

  He stepped back, a deceptive half smile on his face. “Lovely,” he said. “We’re going to a small dinner party and musical soiree tonight. Only a hundred or so of the most select people in London.”

  “Really?” she said coolly, her courage clearly mounting in proportion to his distance from her.

  “Are you wondering, then, why I am invited?”

  “No.” She looked genuinely perplexed.

  “I’m a peer, my pet. An Irish one, to be sure, but a peer nonetheless. Besides, our hostess, Lady Seldane, has a weakness for me, and she has the fortune and the lineage to get away with anything she pleases. Hence my invitation to the sort of affair where I’m usually not welcome. And, of course, my dear sister is invited as well.”

  He waited for her to deny the relationship. He was almost disappointed when she said nothing, merely accepted her black velvet cloak with deceptive grace.

  She wasn’t quite so ready to accept his arm. She didn’t like to touch him. He found that fascinating, and very hopeful indeed.

  Emma was not enjoying herself. Once again she was the object of everyone’s interest, both covertly and openly. Few people spoke to her, and Killoran kept his hand on her arm, a possession that was both nerve-racking and oddly stimulating. She was too nervous even to taste the food placed before her, and her dinner partners addressed only the bare minimum of polite conversation in her direction, consisting mainly of comments on the weather.

  After dinner, things grew worse. The musical soiree was ghastly, with an off-key tenor, a gasping soprano, and a young lady playing harpsichord with all the delicacy of a brawler. Emma sat in her gilt-backed chair, Killoran beside her, all the rest of the seats within her radius vacant, and suffered. It would do her little good to beg him to take her home. Killoran had doubtless come for a reason. At least tonight there was no sign of Lord Darnley, a fact for which Emma could only be profoundly grateful. The veiled animosity and open curiosity of the well-bred ton was hard enough to bear without the added onus of Darnley’s covetous gaze.

  Emma winced at a particularly crashing discord. The sound from Killoran might have been a laugh, except he didn’t laugh. “Young Miss Seldane doesn’t play nearly so well as you do, my dear,” he murmured, his mouth dangerously close to her ear. “Shall I offer your musical services? You would put them all to shame.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she whispered furiously.

  “It would be a waste of time. For one thing, your talents would be vastly unappreciated. For another, unless Lady Seldane happens to be nearby, the guests would most likely decline the honor of hearing you.” He moved his mouth closer, so that it glanced along her chin. Somewhere in the distance she heard a shocked gasp.

  He was doing it for show, for the perverse pleasure he received in horrifying people. He reached out his hand and moved her heavy mane of hair away from her neck, stroking her, and he shifted his chair closer, so that his leg pressed against hers through the heavy layers of black silk. His fingers slid lower, brushing against the neckline of her dress, drifting against the swell of breasts.

  “Stop it,” she hissed, trying to keep all expression from her face. “What will people think?”

  “Exactly what I want them to think, my pet” he said.

  She tried to scoot her chair away from him, but beneath the flow of her skirts, he’d managed to hook one foot around her chair leg, effectively trapping her against him. In the distance the soprano screeched, the accompanist pounded, and Emma felt uncharacteristically close to tears.

  “You said you were doing it for Darnley,” she shot back. “He isn’t even here.”

  “But he’ll be well informed.” He slid his hand up her neck and caught her chin. The strength in those long, pale fingers was palpable, but he wasn’t hurting her. Shaming her, arousing her, tormenting her. But there was no brute force in his touch.

  In a way, that almost made it worse, Emma thought. Cruelty, brutality, pain could be dealt with, shut out, endured. They were straightforward, something you could fight. But the velvet caress, the banked glance, the knowledge that it was all an elaborate game and she was nothing more than a convenient pawn, a toy to be moved back and forth on the chessboard, made the situation unbearable.

  She couldn’t help it. A stifled murmur of misery escaped her before she could stop it, and Killoran suddenly stilled. His fingers still cupped her chin, but they were no longer stroking her. He simply stared at her, and for once there was no mockery, no wickedness, in his dark green eyes. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, and if she didn’t know better, she would have thought it was his conscience making a belated appearance.

  And then the moment passed, so swiftly it might never have existed. He leaned forward and put his mouth against the swell of her breast. His hand caught hers, holding her there, and her eyes fluttered closed as she felt the shocking caress. He used his tongue.

  “Killoran, you devil!” The old woman’s voice broke through Emma’s mortification, and she opened her eyes, to stare at an immensely huge, immensely decorated woman of advanced age. “Leave go of the girl at once.”

  Killoran drew bac
k, and the malice returned to his gaze, the humor to his thin mouth. “And why should I?” he murmured, glancing up at the old lady.

  “Because I’m the only one you ever listen to,” the woman said sternly. “Introduce me to the gel, Killoran, and then absent yourself. Methinks you’re a bit overwhelming for the child.”

  “Lady Seldane, may I have the honor to present to you my... ah... relative. Miss Emma Brown?” he said smoothly, rising and pulling Emma up with him. She almost tripped over their entwined chairs. “Emma, this is our hostess, Lady Seldane.”

  “She knows that. The gel’s not a fool,” Lady Seldane said. “Why have you dressed her in black? Granted, it suits her. You make a striking pair, the two of you. But isn’t it a bit theatrical?”

  “I’m very fond of theatrics,” Killoran said gently. “It’s in my tainted blood. And my… dear Emma has suffered a recent loss.”

  Lady Seldane looked unimpressed. “Who died?”

  “Her beloved uncle,” he said, smooth as ever. “Murdered in a posting house just a few short weeks ago. It’s been very difficult for the poor child.”

  Emma wanted to kill him. His words were mocking and deliberate, a warning. He’d saved her once, no, more than once. But he could remove his protection anytime he chose.

  “Very sad, I’m sure,” Lady Seldane said with a sniff. “Though I hardly think a mere uncle is cause for casting off one’s colors. Nevertheless, I’m certain it suits your plans very well, Killoran.” She waved her delicately painted fan. “You come with me, child, and tell me about yourself. This monstrous creature will find us some champagne and leave us to talk about him.”

  “The thought unmans me,” Killoran said faintly.

  Lady Seldane slapped him with her fan, hard. “Nothing could unman you, Killoran. That’s what I like about you.” She gazed at Emma. She had small, dark eyes sunk into a broad white pudding of a face. Her towering wig was bedecked with birds’ nests and bits of lace, and her red silk gown would have been better suited to someone a quarter of her advanced age and half her weight. When she moved, she creaked. “Come along, child. We’ll find us a place to be private.”