A FATAL ATTRACTION
Fayne Carlisle is not yet ready to assume the title of Duke of Solitea, but his father's sudden death means that his lusty bachelor days are numbered. Is the fabled Solitea Curse to blame for this stroke of ill luck? Or is Lady Kilby Fitchwolf the poison? A violet-eyed beauty with a family scandal of her own, she has just arrived among the ton...and soon becomes the object of the duke's wildest fantasies.
... AND A FATEFUL PASSION
But are the rumors true? Was Fayne's father really found dead in Lady Kilby's very bedchambers? And if so, should that preclude the duke from keeping her company? Surely there's no more pleasurable way to perish. But as the duke comes to know the beautiful siren, it seems she couldn't be less interested in seducing him—and what begins for the duke as romantic sport escalates into a do-or-die courtship that brings the two lovers dangerously close to falling in love.
Ealkin, country house of Lord and Lady Nipping
Wiltshire County
August 5, 1808
"Kilby!"
One floor level above and hidden in the shadows of the dark stairwell, Lady Kilby Fitchwolf watched her half brother, Archer, as he kicked open a door and disappeared into the room. The breaking of glass had her cringing and shrinking deeper into the shadows. Whatever her supposed sin, her brother was determined to rind her and make her pay. She stifled a cry of surprise when he staggered back into view again. From his unsteady gait, she wagered he had not stopped with the second bottle of wine she had watched him consume at supper.
"Where are you?" he raged, his body heaving in frustration. At some point since their last encounter, he had discarded his coat and had untied his cravat. Leaning heavily against one of the tables, he scowled at the closed doors, attempting to guess where she was hiding.
"Stubborn bitch. Once I get my hands on you, I'll show you how to heel." He crossed the marble hall and shoved open another door.
Kilby used the noise he made below to cover her escape. Barefoot, she raced up the flight of stairs to the next landing. A part of her knew her actions were futile. Archer seemed intent on searching every room in the house. It was only a matter of time before he discovered her. Kilby moved down the dark hall, sliding her hand along the wall as a guide. Sadly, this was not the first time she had been forced to disappear during one of Archer's drunken tirades. If she could keep away from him until he sobered, she would be moderately safe.
"Damn you, Kilby, enough of this nonsense," her brother roared from below. "Show yourself!"
"Never," she whispered softly. Her hand closed over the latch to her mother's bedchamber. As far as she knew, no one had entered the rooms since her parents had drowned in a yachting accident thirteen months earlier. Even Archer, who had inherited their father's title, Marquess of Nipping, had avoided this part of the house. With luck, he would tire of his search long before he approached the third floor.
Slowly she opened the door, praying the hinges were well oiled. They were. Kilby slipped through the narrow opening and carefully shut the door, then leaned against it. Her breathing hitched as she fought back the sudden sting of tears. The room still held the lingering scent her mother used. Kilby could almost feel her mother's arms circling around her, her warm scented flesh wrapping her in love and security.
"All will be well, my little honeybee."
Kilby wiped the tears off her cheek. How often had her mother crooned those words to her, using the special endearment she had reserved for Kilby? A thousand? Tens of thousands? When she had been a child, she had believed in the power of her mother's assurances. Her safe, happy world had never been the same since word had reached Ealkin of her parents' deaths.
And then there was her younger sister. Her given name was Evelina, but the family had endearingly dubbed her Gypsy. At age two, she had been very adept at escaping the watchful eye of the servants and roaming the house and lands at will.
Gypsy had been such a vibrant child, with a heart-shaped face, wild black hair, and laughing blue eyes. That spirited child no longer existed. The sudden loss of her parents had devastated her seven-year-old sibling. When told the news of their parents' deaths, her sister had started screaming. For hours, poor Gypsy had cried and raged at the injustice of her loss. Too dazed by her own volatile emotions, Kilby had not been able to comfort her sister. As the hours passed, she had feared for Gypsy's sanity. In desperation she had summoned a physician. By then, her sister's scream had deteriorated to a hoarse, broken hiss. The physician had dosed Gypsy with laudanum to$alm her. He had promised Kilby that a few days of rest would restore her little sister.
The physician had been wrong. Gypsy had not spoken a single word from that day forward. Kilby had tried everything from rewards to threats to break Gypsy's silence. As the months passed, she realized her sister's silence was more than mere stubbornness. It was as if a part of her had died along with their parents. These days, Gypsy walked about the house like a ghost, not allowing anything, even grief, to touch her.
Kilby flinched as Archer bellowed her name again. He sounded closer. Perhaps he had moved on to the second level. Her eyes had already adjusted to the inky blackness of the room's interior. Reaching out her hands, she moved away from the door and used her hands and her memory to seek out her mother's wardrobe. The brass handles clanked together as her fingers brushed against the cold metal. Kilby opened one of the doors and slipped inside. The wardrobe was empty so she settled into it with little effort and shut the door so only a crack remained. If Archer thought to check his stepmother's bedchamber, Kilby prayed he would only give it a cursory glance as he had all the other rooms.
Kilby threaded her fingers through her hair and held them there while she rested her forehead on her raised knees. Her nerves were raw from this hide-and-seek game her brother forced her to play almost nightly. What was she going to do about Archer?
He had not always been the drunk, angry man who bullied and terrified her now. When they were children, they had been close. Archer was barely two years older than Kilby, and they had raced up and down the halls of Ealkin, playing pranks on the servants.
They did not resemble each other in looks. Kilby had inherited her straight black hair from her mother. She viewed herself unremarkable in stature and looks. What elevated her features beyond average were her eyes. Unlike her siblings, the blue eyes Kilby had been bestowed at birth had lightened to an exotic violet color. Once when she asked her father why she had violet eyes and her siblings did not, the marquess had told her that her uniqueness had been a gift from an angel.
There was nothing extraordinary about Archer. He was about the same height as their father had been. His dark blond hair curled slightly at the ends where it brushed the collar of his coats. He had blue eyes lighter than Gypsy's, and pale pink, narrow lips that hinted at his future uncompromising tendencies. Her father had always said that Archer had favored his mother in looks. The first Lady Nipping had died giving birth to Archer's brother. The infant had died three days later.
Lost in his grief and unsure how to raise his young son alone, Lord Nipping had quickly taken a second wife. Not long after their marriage vows had been spoken, the second Lady Nipping announced that she was breeding. Kilby did not know whether necessity or love had prompted her father to marry her mother. Her parents rarely spoke of their past. What was certain, though, was that Lord Nipping and his lady were devoted to each other until the end.
Archer had been so young when his father had remarried that he had thought of Kilby's mother as his own. The troublesome changes in Archer had begun when he had been sent off to school. Kilby recalled hearing her mother and fath
er discuss Archer's difficulties with his studies and his need for discipline. Her brother's scrapes had led to heated arguments with Lord Nipping and this eventually had created a rift between Archer and the familjs?
Once he had finished his schooling, her brother had moved to London, much to the dismay of their parents. Lord and Lady Nipping had always shunned London, preferring their tranquil life in the countryside. They had deemed town life too decadent for their children and the air quality unhealthy. Their parents' disapproval had made London all the more appealing to Archer.
On his rare visits to Ealkin, Kilby could see the changes in her brother and they were not flattering. Archer no longer seemed part of their little family and she had been relieved when he departed.
It was their parents' death that had forced Kilby to reach out to her wayward brother. At seventeen, she had been too young to care for the now mute Gypsy or manage the day-today decisions for Ealkin's upkeep. She had thought perhaps the mantle of his new title and his responsibilities to his sisters would settle her brother.
Alas, it had only brought out the worst in him.
Although Ealkin was his, Archer despised the isolation there. He had informed Kilby once that he remained only out of duty, but he did not have the patience their father had had. Alone in the library, he started drinking himself into a stupor each night. Most nights he simply passed into blissful unconsciousness.
Other nights, like tonight, he was the devil.
Lately, when his narrowed gaze settled on Kilby, his blatant, unnatural perusal sickened her. It was apparent that her brother had high ambitions for his sister, and she doubted her parents would approve. She certainly did not!
"Enough games, Kilby, my sweet sister," Archer called out, slurring his words.
His search had brought him to the third floor. Kilby lifted her head; her mouth went dry in terror. Through the crack in the wardrobe, she could see the hint of candlelight from under the door. She swallowed thickly, refusing to answer.
"Heed my words, you violet-eyed bitch. Come out of hiding or pay the consequences," he said, his booming voice echoing down the hall.
Kilby heard a distant door open and then close. She bit her lower lip to prevent herself from answering. In his present mood, she was too afraid of what he might do to her if she complied with his demands.
"Are you listening?" He paused, letting the question hang in the air. "Well, if you won't come out for me, perhaps you'll come out for our resident little mouse."
Oh, God. Gypsy.
Was Archer so villainous as to drag their sister from her bed and use her to gain Kilby's obedience? No. She shook her head in denial. Her brother was bluffing. Even he could not be so cruel.
"Don't believe me, eh?" he asked as if he had read her thoughts. "Let's see if I can get the mouse to squeak."
Kilby brought her hands to her mouth and sank her teeth into a knuckle. As she rocked back and forth, every passing second of silence fueled her fear and indecision.
The thin cry of a child in pain cut through Kilby like broken glass stabbing her heart. Pushing open the door of the wardrobe, she staggered out of the compartment, trying not to imagine what Archer was doing to Gypsy to make her cry out. In that moment, she hated her brother. The thought of him hurting their innocent younger sister was beyond her comprehension. Kilby shuddered, wondering what nefarious plans Archer had for her. A part of her wanted to stay hidden, stay safe. She walked over to the door and tugged on the latch. Whatever her feelings, she could not allow him to harm Gypsy.
Kilby opened the door and discovered Archer holding a terrified Gypsy by her fragile wrist. He obviously had heard her open the wardrobe. There was no one in the house who could help her and Gypsy. The servants had retired for the evening, and they had strict orders not to disturb the family. She felt so helpless and alone.
"I knew you would join me if I provided the right incentive," Archer said, tightening his grip on Gypsy's thin wrist. Her sister whined and twisted in his merciless hold.
Kilby lifted her chin in defiance. "Let her go."
The smile her brother bestowed on her in response to her harsh demand had her stomach roiling. "Why? I'm feeling playful tonight and little sisters can be so amusing when provoked." He gestured for her to lead the way.
It was difficult, but Kilby refrained from reaching out and pulling Gypsy away from Archer. Any attempt to thwart him now would encourage him to further punish the child for Kilby's defiance. Instead, she crossed her arms and glared at him. "What do you want from me, Archer?"
Her brother gave her a bawdy wink. "You'll see soon enough, pretty Kilby," he promised her. "You'll see."
CHAPTER 1
London, April 10, 1809
The Duke of Solitea was dead.
Naturally, his widow decided to throw a ball. To the eccentric duchess, it seemed the appropriate way to herald her husband's passing. Fayne Carlisle, Marquess of Temmes, tossed back the remains of the brandy in his glass and shook his head in lingering amazement.
Christ, a ball for a dead man! No one had ever accused the Carlisles of being typical. The duchess had even wanted the deceased to join in the festivities. Fayne had balked at the outlandish suggestion and flatly refused to indulge his mother's request. He could just envision it. The duke, resplendent in his funerary finery, dominating the drawing room as he had in life, while his two beloved apricot-colored mastiffs stood guard at each end of the mahogany coffin.
God save them all from his mother's whims!
Slouched casually against one of the farthest corners of the drawing room, Fayne broodingly watched as guests flowed in and out of the room. In the center of the room, his mother had ordered that a twelve-foot-high portrait of the duke be set up for display. The painting had been a gift from the duchess, and commissioned in celebration of his father's thirtieth birthday. Oversized black and gold porcelain vases stuffed with greenery and hothouse flowers were placed around the portrait.
Fayne sipped from his glass, barely tasting the brandy. It had been a god-awful day. His stomach still roiled when he thought of the slow, stately procession he and the family had endured earlier in the day to Westminster Abbey for the interment of the Duke of Solitea. While his younger sister, Fayre, had brokenly sobbed with her face pressed into his shoulder, the duchess had sat quietly beside him, her expressionless face reminding him of pale marble. She had done her grieving in private. For days after word had reached them of the duke's passing, her wild, inconsolable sorrow had seemed inexhaustible. She had slept only because the family's physician with Fayne's unrelenting assistance had poured the apothecary's soporific tincture down her throat nightly.
Fayne had not recognized the silent, pale woman who had sat next to him in the mourning coach. He had longed to see a glimmer of his mother's former spirit, some sign that she would survive her husband's passing. It was the main reason he had even consented to the ridiculous ball at all.
Fayne watched on as a lady dropped to her knees in front of the duke's portrait and cried into her lace handkerchief. He could not see her face, but he idly wondered if the grieving lady had been one of his father's former mistresses. His gaze roved contemplatively over the dozen or more people who had positioned themselves in front of the duke's portrait. Most of them meant well, Fayne assumed. If any of them thought it necessary to speak to him, his defiant posture and intimidating expression discouraged anyone from approaching. This was fortunate, because the duchess would never forgive him if he caused a broil by punching one her unwary guests.
"Still preferring your tea cold, I see," a masculine voice said from his left, interrupting Fayne's dark musings.
Any sane individual would have had the sense to respect a grieving son's privacy. Unfortunately, that left Fayne to deal with the not-so-sane.
He rubbed his right eyebrow with his finger, giving his blond friend a vexed look. "Ramscar. I was just thinking how irked the duchess would be if I am provoked into punching som
e well-meaning bastard," Fayne said, in lieu of a greeting.
Fowler Knowden, Earl of Ramscar, merely grinned at the threat of violence. At the height of five feet and ten inches, the earl was several inches shorter than Fayne's six-foot-one-inch stature; however, the man's confidence and lazy graceful movements warned the observer not to underestimate him. He watched expectantly as Ramscar retrieved a decanter of brandy he had hidden behind his back and waved it before Fayne as others might use a flag of truce. "Your glass is dry, and the footmen are terrified of you. Byrchmore, Everod, and I cast lots. I was the loser," he added needlessly.
There was such an engaging sincerity to his friend's expression that it had Fayne shaking his head. Out of his three closest friends, Ramscar was the mediator of the group. The duchess had always called him the sensible one. Hidden beneath his mischievious nature were un-plumbed depths of sensitivity, and a desire for fair play lurked in his intelligent hazel-colored eyes. It tended to surface at odd moments.
"You will get no argument from me." Fayne's mouth curved into a sarcastic smirk as he held out his glass. Secretly, he welcomed his friend's intrusion. In spite of the lively music playing in the ballroom, the atmosphere in the drawing room was utterly maudlin with the guests staring at his father's portrait in blank shock or sobbing uncontrollably into their handkerchiefs, like several of the female guests had done.
Fayne could not fault his mother's efforts. With the assistance of his sister, the duchess had honored the duke's request that they celebrate the life he had led, and not mourn his demise. It was a fitting sentiment for a man who many believed had enjoyed more than his fair share of decadent living.
Ramscar brought him back to the present with the clinking of crystal as he filled Fayne's glass. Muttering to himself, the man rummaged a hand into one of the inner pockets of his coat and retrieved an empty glass. He poured himself a generous portion of brandy and then placed the decanter on the floor between them.
Barbara Pierce - Sinful Between the Sheets Page 1
