Marquess of Mayhem (Sins & Scoundrels Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  “It was not a show of force. I am feared enough without needing to take one English lord prisoner.” Rayne’s expression turned mocking. “I was carrying out orders. My men were to take you behind French lines.”

  Morgan thought of the cutthroats who had taken him captive. They had fought back against the French soldiers. Two of them had been killed, the others taken captive along with him. He had never seen them again. It had never occurred to him Rayne had acted in accordance with orders.

  But there was also the very real—indeed, likely—possibility Rayne was lying to him now in order to allay the repercussions of his actions. Even if Chapin had somehow misled him about the true nature of the mission, however, the fact remained that Rayne’s men had failed. And Morgan had been taken prisoner, tortured, and would have swung on the gallows if not for his desperate escape.

  One man and one man alone had sent Morgan to what would have been his bloody, vicious death. One man was responsible for the scars on his back, the demons in his blood, the rage in his soul. And that man was the Earl of Rayne. That man deserved the retribution Morgan would feed him. That man deserved to know suffering, agony, and guilt.

  “I do not give one good bloody goddamn what your orders were that day,” he growled, a fresh tide of anger swelling within him. “You are responsible for what they did to me, and you must pay for your sins.”

  “If I must pay for my sins, then why the hell did you marry my sister?” Rayne growled.

  He thought of the beatings, the lash of the whip upon his flesh, the smell of his own flesh burning, bitter and acrid. Of his fingers clawing through the soil, tunneling himself free, the darkness and the terror, the fear his tunnel would collapse, burying him alive, the realization spending his last moments breathing in dirt would be better than enduring another day of torment.

  “So I could destroy you,” Morgan answered with grim and brutal honesty. “If I make her miserable, her misery will be your misery. I will keep you from seeing her and any offspring we have together. She is completely in my control now, and you have no rights where she is concerned. I will do everything in my power to make certain you have no contact with her for the rest of your life. I want nothing more than your suffering. I was tortured and nearly killed by the French because of you, and if I must sacrifice your sister to bring you low, so help me God, I will.”

  A gasp tore through the chamber in the silence following his impassioned decree. Not his own, but female.

  Familiar.

  This time, the boulder crushed him as he met the gaze of his wife, who stood on the threshold of the study, freshly changed in a sprigged muslin afternoon gown that was as pale as her lovely face.

  She had overheard his exchange with Rayne. He knew not how much, but he knew it was enough. Jesus, the hurt in her eyes. The accusation, the disbelief. It made him ill.

  “Leonie,” he said, moving toward her instinctively. He needed to explain. The words he had spoken had been meant for her brother. Not for her. Never for her. “It is not precisely as it seems.”

  She held up a staying hand. “No. Do not come any nearer to me, Searle. I demand an explanation.”

  “The explanation is simple, hermanita,” Rayne said before Morgan could begin. “He married you to have his revenge upon me.”

  *

  Leonora felt as if she had received a blow to her midsection. As if all the air had been knocked from her lungs. She felt, for one sickening moment, the same way she had years ago as a girl during her fall from the banister at Marchmont Hall. Plummeting, the realization she could not save herself, the inevitable end awaiting her with all its horrible pain…the knowledge later, when she had wakened with the splint on her leg, knowing she would never again be the same. But now, she was more broken this time than she had been after that fall.

  He married you to have his revenge upon me.

  Her brother’s words echoed in her mind, adding to her mounting misery. She would not have even believed them had she not just walked into the words of the man she loved, overhearing the vitriol in his tone, bitter as poison.

  She is completely in my control now, and you have no rights where she is concerned… I want nothing more than your suffering…

  It was almost as if another man had spoken those words, as if another man stood before her now. The Marquess of Searle was even more of a stranger than she had supposed. Colder and more dangerous than she had feared. Vicious, just as she had always known.

  And she was a fool. A hopeless, wallflower spinster, so green in the ways of men and women, she had fallen quickly beneath his spell. He had kissed her and touched her, held her, made love to her. He had made her feel wanted for the first time.

  But he had not wanted her at all, had he? No, he had wanted to use her. He had wanted her only to gain some sort of vengeance upon Alessandro. He had used her and manipulated her, and she had given him her heart.

  She pressed a hand to her stomach, the sudden urge to retch so strong and so violent she nearly lost control of herself. There was only one question she wished to ask her husband, for it would answer all the others, and it would tell her what she must do.

  Leonora inhaled slowly, then exhaled, looking only at Searle. His green gaze was dark. Impervious as ever. “Did you marry me with the intention of gaining some sort of revenge upon my brother?”

  He did not hesitate. “Yes.”

  She cried out, unable to contain the sound of her own anguish even though she could not bear to appear weak before him. Or at least, not any weaker than he already supposed her to be.

  “Leonie,” he said softly, stepping closer.

  The mere sound of her name on his lips—nay, she reminded herself, not her name, but the one he had given her, the one that had begun to feel like hers—filled her with disgust, with rage.

  With a crippling sadness.

  “No.” She took a step in retreat, making certain she was beyond his reach. “I do not want you to touch me. Not now, and not ever again.”

  “Leonie, you are my wife,” he persisted, his jaw going rigid. “I can offer an explanation.”

  As she saw it, there was not one explanation he could offer which would not break her heart into tiny shards before grinding them beneath his boot heel for good measure. She swallowed against a humiliating rush of tears. “I do not wish to hear it, Searle.”

  “Leonora, come back to London with me,” Alessandro urged.

  She turned to her brother, a fresh ache in her heart. It had been too long since she had last seen him, far too long. He looked older, more lines bracketing his dark eyes and his mouth. His countenance was harsh and grim. He looked like a man who had stared into hell and could not forget what he had seen. Much the same as Searle did. But then he moved toward her as well, his brown eyes glittering with sympathy, his arm extended, and she found comfort in that gesture. Comfort in the familiar warmth of the brother she had always known and loved.

  She nodded, thinking of nothing but her need to escape. To put distance between herself and Searle. “Yes, Alessandro. Take me back to London, if you please. I cannot remain here with him.”

  “No,” Searle denied, his tone cold. Flat. “You will not leave me, Leonie.”

  Her gaze went back to him as a horrible realization hit her. “You planned this all along, did you not?”

  Dear God, she was an even greater fool than she had supposed. So easily led astray by a handsome man paying her court. It would seem she had learned nothing from all the years she had spent as a wallflower, living her life on the periphery. Handsome war hero marquesses did not dance with crippled spinsters, did they? Nor did they ruin them and then marry them.

  He stared back at her, a muscle ticking in his jaw, before he responded at last. “I planned to wed you, yes. But everything that came afterward, Leonie, I did not plan. I could never have planned that.”

  She felt as if she were seeing him for the first time. He was a monster. She had married a heartless, cruel, bitter man. “You ruined me
intentionally.”

  It was not a question but an accusation, though she need not have said it aloud, for she already knew the answer.

  He inclined his head, his sensual lips flattened into a thin, grim line. “Yes. I did.”

  Alessandro clutched Searle by his rain-flattened cravat. “What the hell did you do to her?”

  Searle smiled grimly, calmly, almost as if he took pleasure in Alessandro’s lack of control, as if it was what he wanted. “What do you think I did to her, Rayne?”

  Alessandro growled deep in his throat. “I will see you on the field of honor for that, cerdo.”

  “No,” Leonora cried out, hastening forward in an effort to separate her husband and her brother, to defuse the situation before Searle could accept her brother’s challenge. She had no wish for a duel to be fought between the two men, regardless of how much hurt and humiliation she had endured at the marquess’s hands. “You will not fight a duel in my name. The two of you will settle whatever rancor lies between you in some other fashion.”

  “Name your second,” Searle said, ignoring her.

  There was a fire in his eyes she had never seen before, a finality to his tone. He had planned this as well, she realized. The satisfaction in his voice could not be mistaken, for she had heard it often enough to recognize. There was no question. Searle wanted to fight her brother in a duel.

  Her desperation reached a new crescendo, and as she increased her pace, determined to break up their glaring match and standoff before it was too late, her injured leg gave out on her. She fell to the carpet in a mortified heap of muslin and petticoats, her humiliation complete. Pain radiated from the old break, shooting up her leg.

  “Leonie.”

  “Leonora.”

  Two men fell at her side, and she had to choose which one of them to seek for aid. Which one she dared to trust. She turned away from Searle, arms reaching toward her brother instead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  His opportunity for revenge had arrived sooner and swifter than he had anticipated. Morgan should have been well-pleased. Rayne had challenged him to a duel. They would meet on the field of honor. Morgan could put his bullet between Rayne’s eyes, precisely where it belonged. He could end his quest for vengeance.

  But as he sat alone in the study that still looked as if his hateful father may walk over the threshold at any moment and demand Morgan vacate his chair, he felt none of the satisfaction he ought to feel. Instead, he stared at a half-drained brandy snifter, still wearing his riding clothes though they had long since dried upon his person. No, he did not celebrate the achievement of his goal, success so close.

  He should be thinking of the return trip to London on the morrow, the duel he would fight several days hence. He should be sending word to Monty, who would act as his second, asking him to prepare his pistols. He should be happy, envisioning the look of surprise on Rayne’s face as he took his last, halting breath.

  But all he could think about was the sight of Leonie in a heap of skirts upon the floor. Her leg had given out on her, and she had collapsed, had been in physical pain to rival the emotional pain he had already inflicted upon her, and he had wanted nothing more than to soothe those aches. Of course, she had not turned to him for aid. He had not been the one whose hands she clasped. He had not been the man who gently helped her to her feet and escorted her from the chamber.

  No, that honor had gone to the Earl of Rayne. Her brother. His nemesis. The man he was going to kill.

  He lifted the brandy to his lips and took a long, satisfying draught. His plans continued to unfold with flawless, almost effortless precision. Forcing Rayne into challenging him had always been his plan. In truth, he had supposed such an accomplishment may have required a more extensive foundation to be laid by him. He had not imagined the earl would be so easily manipulated into taking action.

  Nor had he imagined how badly it would hurt to see his wife’s reaction as her facile mind quickly and cleverly surmised the ugly truth he had done his best to avoid since wedding her. He had not married her with good intentions. He had sought her out, hunted her down much as his hated father had done with countless game. And how easily he had routed her. How effortlessly.

  She had danced with him, been alone with him, and with her reputation at risk, she had capitulated instantly, agreeing to become his wife. What had happened after their vows had taken him by surprise, however. He had never intended for her to develop tender feelings for him, and nor had he intended to become so besotted by her that the sight of her hurt caused him a physical pain, as if someone had gutted him with a bayonet.

  Their earlier ride and subsequent idyll in the gamekeeper’s cottage seemed a world away now. She had told him, once again, that she loved him. He had never wanted to hear those words. Nor did he wish for those words to affect him as they did, settling deep inside him, finding their home in a place he had no longer believed capable of emotion.

  He drained the remnants of his brandy and rose from his desk, stalking across the Aubusson to pour himself another. After securing the next futile attempt at abating the guilt threatening to drown him, he grasped the ormolu bell pull—crafted in the likeness of a fox, also chosen by the former Marquess of Searle, naturally—and rang for Huell Senior.

  The faithful retainer appeared promptly. “How may I be of service, my lord?”

  “Did Lady Searle accept the tray I sent to her chamber?” he asked.

  Leonie had refused to dine with him, and he had been forced to share a demoralizing meal with no one but himself for company. Rayne, too, had eschewed the meal, but Morgan did not give a damn if the bastard perished from starvation. His only thoughts were for his wife. When he had inquired after her welfare, he had been told she had not wished for sustenance, that her ladyship was feeling ill.

  An illness he had caused.

  He wondered if her love for him had already withered and died, turning into hatred. Should Rayne somehow get lucky with his aim when they met on the field of honor, she would likely not even mourn his death.

  “It was declined, my lord,” Huell Senior replied.

  Damn it. Surely, furious with him though she was, she must possess some hunger.

  “See that another tray is taken to the marchioness’s chamber, and this time make certain the servant who delivers it insists that it is taken inside.”

  She needed to eat, and he refused to allow her to make herself ill because she was being stubborn. She could already be carrying his babe, and if she was, she needed to keep her strength. An idea occurred to him then. “And Huell? See to it that strawberries are delivered with the meal, if you please.”

  “Of course, my lord. Will there be anything else, sir?” Huell Senior was expressionless as ever. If he noted a disparity between the flushed, happy marchioness who had returned with Morgan from their ride earlier and the pale, joyless woman who had retreated to her chamber as if it were a shield behind which she could hide, he did not show it.

  “That will be all, thank you,” he forced himself to say, waiting until the domestic had gone once more to drain the remainder of his brandy.

  Let the fruit be a reminder to her of all they had shared. It was the only gesture he dared, and even this symbolic offering he knew he should avoid, but he could not help himself. Before she had left his study in the company of the odious Rayne, she had told him she never wanted to see him or speak to him again.

  The coldness of her voice still shook him now. She had not yelled, had not railed against him. Instead, she had been passionless, as though all the life and vibrancy had been stolen from her.

  And he was the one who had stolen it, he supposed. He had taken what was not his, her love, her trust, her innocence. Everything she possessed. Even her dowry, meager though it had been, was his.

  He had manipulated and used her. He had also deceived her.

  Her whispered words from their moment of tender passion in the gamekeeper’s cottage earlier returned to him, mocking, reminding him of
all he had lost.

  Morgan, I love you.

  But he had destroyed that love. Just as he had destroyed her. She had been the only light in his darkness. The best damn thing to have ever happened to him. And he had ruined her. Ruined whatever tender feelings she once possessed for him.

  He poured another brandy, took a sip, and then he hurled his full snifter into the fireplace, savoring the crash as glass collided with brick. It shattered into a thousand jagged slivers. All the glittering pieces that remained were useless and dangerous.

  Just like him.

  *

  Leonora told herself she was prepared for siege.

  She had locked the door between her chamber and Searle’s. She had refused to descend to dinner and sit at her husband’s side as if nothing had occurred. She had also refused the tray which had been sent to her following her polite—and disingenuous—refusal. The supper tray had almost certainly been his doing, and she did not wish to eat a morsel of food if her husband was the source of its offering.

  She was not ill as she had claimed, but she felt as if she were. Her heart ached. Her stomach was a sea of sickness. Her head pounded, and in all, she had never felt more miserable than she did now. She could blame it on getting caught in the unexpected thunderstorms during her ride. She could claim a lung infection had settled upon her, and it would do as an excuse.

  For the moment, at least. She would not feel guilty for the deception she was perpetrating upon the household. After all, the Marquess of Searle had never known a moment of guilt for the deception he had perpetrated upon her.

  The uncomfortable settee in the sitting area had become her haven in the last few hours. A place she had eschewed altogether, for its outmoded and rigid furnishings—from thirty years prior or more, unless she missed her guess—had been uninviting in the extreme. The old and faded wall coverings, the worn rugs, the tired pictures on the walls, and grim furniture had not been worthy of her concern before, because she had never intended to spend her evenings trapped within the confines of the chambers.