When the Earl was Wicked: Forever Yours Series

by Reid, Stacy

  “Forgive me, Marissa,” he said with a rueful smile upon reaching her. He lightly touched her cheek with the back of his hand, not wanting to abrade her skin with his rough callouses. “You are a lovely woman, but you should not be here. I will arrange for you to be discreetly taken home to your lord.”

  Her blue eyes spat fire before narrowing. “Who is she?”

  He swallowed back the sigh of impatience. “Marissa—”

  “I heard voices. A woman’s one. I saw from the upstairs window as she left and I waited for you to come up to me. Who is she?”

  James lowered his hand. “No one of your concern. She has nothing to do with me realizing this is a mistake. Now let me take you home.”

  Her eyes searched his and then she sighed. “We will not have an affaire de coeur, will we?”

  “No,” he said with another smile to lessen the sting. “It was a moment of insanity which passed before we both did something foolish.”

  “I am entirely aware of what I wanted to do…of what I still want to do,” she purred, running a finger over his bottom lip.

  His lack of reaction was quite evident, and with a disdainful sniff, she twirled around and marched away from him. Almost an hour later the lady was finally presentable and ready to depart. James arranged for a carriage to take her home, but she haughtily informed him that she would be going to Lady Trenton's ball. He bid her good evening, had his valet draw a bath, and soaked his bruised body for a very long time before retiring to bed.

  Shortly after dawn, he finally abandoned bed to call upon his good friend Viscount Shaw who resided in Mayfair with his lovely viscountess. The butler delivered James to a drawing room with a lit fire and then went to summon his master.

  They had met in one of the many fighting pits that peppered London. Not the fancy places like Gentleman Jackson’s, but those rings where men laid bets on the outcome of a fight as if they were in a gambling den. Many lords trained at Gentleman Jackson’s and took their skills to the underground ring—where fighters did not follow the London Prize Ring rules, hoping to make enough money to pay off their debts or become solvent again. Many did not find honor in it, for it was raw and gritty, the blood and the pain a reality that was hard to shy from. James had been desperate years ago when he had taken to those rings, and those rings had given him money, a backbone made of steel, many cuts and bruises, and lasting friendships he had never thought he would find. For a time, many had also referred to him as the bare-knuckle king for never losing a bout.

  Almost half an hour later, the drawing room door was pushed open and Sebastian Rutledge, Viscount Shaw strolled inside. The man did not look pleased to see him.

  James stood, tugged off his gloves, dipped into his pocket for two thin leather straps and started to bind his hands.

  Sebastian scowled. "You pulled me from the wonderful warmth of my wife's arms for a bout of boxing at 6 a.m.?" he growled, looking ready to knock out James’s light.

  "And also for a spot of conversation." He paused on a sigh. "You are normally an early riser, and I need…I need a round. My mind could not quiet."

  “I heard you went to The Club only last evening and had a prizefighting match with Lord Hartington.”

  The Club, as everyone referred to the gambling den owned by Viscount Worsely, another lord who stood on the edges of acceptance because of the manner in which he had made his money. At the back of the gambling halls, there was a room solely dedicated to prizefighting matches. When he'd climbed into the ring last night, the crowd had been pleased one of its bare-knuckle kings had returned after so long. The fight had been vicious and had lasted several rounds. James’s satisfaction had been hollow, and he had been mildly shocked by how much Lady Susanna's rejection had affected his composure. “It did not suffice.”

  “So you won then?”

  He had won the match and a purse of six thousand pounds. “I did.”

  Sebastian considered him for a few seconds then nodded.

  James grunted, stripping from his jacket while moving toward a room in the viscount’s townhouse dedicated to sparring. Soft footfalls and muttered curses followed, and James smiled, feeling quite pleased to be lucky in a friendship with a man who enjoyed a good bout of boxing just as much as he did.

  A few moments later, they circled each other, dancing and weaving with ease.

  “What happened?” Shaw asked. “It is unlike you to show up without announcing. God knows you’ve tried to be very proper and exact even with friends.”

  James ignored the jibe that he had tried to be an ideal gentleman and was ridiculous at it. “I had an unexpected visitor. A woman at my home a few hours ago.”

  “You visited to provide the details of an interlude?” Sebastian asked with a jab toward his midsection.

  James danced out of his friend’s reach, bobbed, and slammed his fist into his side.

  “My wife will not take kindly to any bruises on me, and my Fanny can be quite fierce.”

  He grinned and before James could shift away, Sebastian delivered a nice slam to his side. With a grunt, James backed away, liking that he was working up a sweat, that his muscles were already burning, and that primal need shifted through his system.

  “Are you familiar with a lady who has been away from society these last four seasons, but has resurfaced, say, about the last five to six months?”

  Sebastian faltered and stared at him with a measure of surprise. “Well, that was very precise.”

  “A lady fitting that description came to me, in disguise, with a very peculiar request.”

  An eyebrow winged upward. “Which is?”

  James hesitated slightly. “To teach her to fight, to defend herself.”

  Sebastian smiled. “You do know I teach my wife how to fight. My factories are in rough areas of London, and she insists on visiting me at times. With the conditions as they are, many justifiably angry workers and the union-encouraged strikes which lead to rioting, I have taught her to fight. I daresay with the right incentive my Fanny can lay you flat on your rear, Maschelly.”

  This was said with a good deal of pride and admiration for his viscountess. But James already knew his friend’s lady had the courage of a lion. Only last year she had jilted a powerful lord and left the dishonorable bounder at the altar. She had done that, knowing the scandal that would forever be attached to her name. That showed a strength of character that was rare, and more than once James had thought how lucky his friend was in his choice of partner.

  Sebastian continued, “And the sport is an excellent exercise for young ladies, the general thought is that it keeps them fit and healthy. And I know many take lessons at their home.”

  “I assure you it is not those gentle lessons she seeks.” He thought of his veiled lady. “For her, it would not be a form of exercise.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. Someone hurt her, and she needs this to feel safe again. I suspect everyone who should have protected the lady disappointed her, and she now feels she can rely on no one but her own ingenuity and strength.”

  “It sounds as if you admire the lady,” Sebastian observed.

  “I do in some fashion, but I refused her.”

  “But you’ve since changed your mind?” Sebastian asked archly, and with some amusement. “And here I thought the wickedest earl in London was trying to be proper…a gentleman. How odd you would willingly help a lady to ruin, casting yourself in more negativity for the vultures.”

  James grunted. “Do you have any notion of who she could be? A young lady who has been away for the last four seasons, and only recently returned to town? I cannot fathom there could be several such ladies.”

  “I will ask my dear Fanny. You know I am not up to date on the latest on dits. My wife though seems to be too aware of most of the ton’s business. And I am delightfully obliged to listen when she imparts all the news.”

  And that would have to do. “Please tell your viscountess I would appreciate any insight she could offer.
”

  “Did you receive an invitation to Lady Springfield’s ball?”

  James usually ignored most of the invitations sent to his home, especially the frivolous variety. This had been the first season he had tried to dip his toes into the tricky waters of the ton to net himself a lady of quality. Foolish of him to believe a young lady would appreciate his checkered past. His title and wealth seemed to have little meaning to the one lady who had caught his fancy. He was not quite refined enough for her sensibilities. Now he couldn’t stop thinking that many, if not all, ladies would have a similar opinion. A gentleman. What had Lady Susanna accused him of tearily when she'd rejected his suit? Ah yes, …he had never asked her to dance, nor had he written her poems, or personally delivered flowers. James scowled recalling her hysterical nonsense. “How is Lady Springfield’s ball relevant?”

  “The Countess likes scandal and anything society deems as too wicked, so I am sure she sent you one.”

  “I am assuming you have a point.”

  “According to my lovely wife, everyone who’s anyone will be at Lady Springfield’s ball tonight. Perhaps your mysterious lady will be present.”

  James felt bewildered at the waves of anticipation that buffeted him. “Then I shall endeavor to be there.”

  They resumed their friendly sparring, and almost an hour later, James departed and made his way home. He headed straight to his chamber, the weight of the evening before—the sleepless night, and his sparring settling on his shoulder like a boulder. He removed all his clothing and unmentionables until he was naked, then he dropped himself onto his bed with a deep groan of relief. Sleep beckoned, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a sense of profound anticipation at attending a ball.

  Chapter 4

  “You retired early from Lady Balfour’s ball last evening,” Albert, Earl of Sutcliffe, and Verity’s brother said in a very disagreeable tone. “Lord Aldridge was considerably disappointed he’d not been able to dance the supper waltz with you.”

  “I had a headache and had to leave. Surely mamma informed you?” Verity said, spreading strawberry preserves atop her bread.

  Their mother took a delicate sip of her tea, before speaking. “I did inform your brother, he is determined to be contrary. And, my dear, you missed an excessively diverting evening.”

  “You left within half an hour of arriving,” Albert said. “What did you do upon arriving home?”

  For a wild moment, she wondered if he knew of her clandestine activities. Surely not? For then there would have been threats of banishment to the country, or God forbid, to a mental house. “I find it quite odd you need the details of my evening, Albert. But if you must know, after having a few relaxing cups of tea, I had a very agreeable evening reading,” she said with a polite smile.

  Her brother nodded as if he approved heartily as to how she spent her time. "You'll rest and ensure you come with mamma and me to Lady Springfield’s ball tonight. Viscount Aldridge is interested in courting you, he made his sentiments known to me.”

  Verity stared at her brother for several moments. “I am three and twenty, Albert. I am quite able to decide on a gentleman I am comfortable with for marriage. Lord Aldridge does not suit my temperament, and I am certain he could not be interested in me since we have never spoken beyond polite queries about the weather.”

  Her brother slammed his fist on the table, startling her. “You will listen—” Albert broke off, controlling himself with a visible effort, setting his teeth. “I am only doing what is best for you, Verity. He has an estate in Berkshire, and in Kent. His income is twenty thousand a year, and I have seen how he admires you. It is prudent to give the viscount a chance, and I'll not allow any silly excuses for you. You are three and twenty, and it is time you live on another's benevolence.”

  She dabbed her lips with a serviette, trying to control the anger twisting through her. “The viscount is…he is friends with the marquess. I could not endure such a connection, nor will I pretend to.”

  Verity did not need to name him. It lingered in the air…the marquess who attacked and hurt me.

  A grimace of anger crossed her brother’s face. He did not like whenever Verity mentioned the “distasteful incident,” the sobriquet he’d applied to her greatest shame and pain.

  "We have agreed to leave that distasteful in—"

  “In Bedfordshire, I know. So you and mamma repeatedly inform me with little regards to my feelings and well-being.”

  “Verity!” her mother scolded, disapproval crinkling the lines at her mouth. "There is no need to castigate your brother. We are supporting you in not speaking of your behavior and how it almost ruined a connection with Lord—"

  “Do not speak his name!” She tried to steady her voice. In another moment she would be weeping, she realized with panic. It would kill something inside of her if they realized how much the entire dreadful encounter still scared and pained her. Not when they had not cared. Not when they cared more about their connections in the ton than her safety and happiness. Not when they held no belief in her honor. “If you will excuse me.”

  She pushed her chair back, stood, and sedately made her way from the breakfast room before she did something shocking like throwing the dish of strawberry preserves into her brother’s face. Pausing, she turned around and lifted her chin. “Father would have been abjectly ashamed of both of you for he would never have permitted anyone to escape the consequences of such vile actions.” There, before she’d not have the courage to say it to their faces.

  Her mother called her name, and Verity pretended not to hear the admonition. She made her way to her room and over to her writing desk. There she lowered herself into a chair and reached into the small drawer for a sheaf of paper. She would pen a letter to the earl, but what could she say? She had already revealed so much of her fears and vulnerabilities to a man she did not know. The awareness had left her sleep troubled, an unknown desperation lodged inside her heart.

  Tonight, she would see Marquess Hartington. Bile rose in her throat. Courage, Verity, she reminded herself. They were of the same society, and she had to learn how to be in the vile cur’s presence without fighting the urge to cast up her accounts.

  A knock sounded, and her lady’s maid Anna entered. “The Duchess of Carlyle has called for you, my lady.”

  A swift rush of pleasure claimed Verity, and she forgot about writing a letter to plead with the earl. She and the Duchess had only become friends recently, after the scandal which had blasted through the ton just a few months past. Miss Pippa Cavanaugh, now the Duchess of Carlyle, had been a notorious gossip columnist who had snared herself one of society’s beloved dukes. Society had been a party to their love affair as some of their laundry had been aired in the newspapers to the delight of the ton.

  The couple had been infamous, and even her mother had scrambled to invite the duke and duchess of Carlyle to their dinner parties and intimate circles. It was at Lady Somerton’s ball however Verity had made Pippa’s acquaintance. Verity had informed the new duchess how much her courage had inspired her, and they had become close. It was a friendship Verity treasured. She quickly changed into a more presentable gown, a light blue plaid taffeta dress, with its tight waist and elegant ruffled elbow-length sleeves.

  Verity then made her way to the drawing room where the duchess awaited her. Pippa lowered her teacup when Verity entered and smiled brightly. The Duchess was draped in a dark yellow gown which flattered her curvaceous figure to its best advantage. Her dark hair was fashioned in an intricate chignon and several strands of lustrous pearls encircled her neck, with matching ear bobs.

  “How did last night go?” she asked archly without indulging in any pleasantries.

  Verity had been comfortable in confiding her plans to Pippa, and the duchess had been present at tea when Lady Caroline had named the earl as the gentleman to help Verity.

  She laughed softly, even if without humor. She lowered herself beside the duchess on the sofa and shifted slightl
y, so they faced each other. “Disastrous. The earl refused. But I was not seen, and my family believes I spent the evening in my room with a book.”

  Her gray eyes went soft with sympathy. “Oh Verity, I am terribly sorry. The notion had been hare-brained, but I did so hope for your sake he would agree.”

  She leaned forward and poured herself another cup of tea from the service trolley. “My brother also seems determined to hand me off to Viscount Aldridge, a man whom I’ve no affection for. I do wish to marry and move away from this dreadful family, but I would like my husband to be my own choice.”

  Pippa frowned. “I’ve every reason to believe that Viscount Aldridge is a fortune-hunter, and I should speculate on it and warn this season’s crop of fresh debutantes,” said the duchess. “The viscount and his younger brothers are notorious for their profligacy. I am at a loss as to why your brother would think such a match suitable! I daresay the viscount is after your inheritance.”

  Her eyes held a great deal of intelligence as she stared at Verity. “What will you do?”

  “About the Lord Maschelly or Lord Aldridge?”

  The duchess popped a piece of cake and chewed thoughtfully before answering, “Both.”

  “I will not marry Lord Aldridge even if they drag me kicking and screaming to the altar. I know who I want to marry. Not his name, but his character. Someone kind and gentle. Protective. Safe. A man who does not make me feel threatened.” An image of the earl’s brawn and the peculiar heat she’d felt upon looking at him brought a surge of discomfort through Verity. Oddly she hadn’t felt frightened in his presence, more of an awareness of his male appeal.

  “As for the earl, perhaps I will be able to find myself another lord to assist.”

  “I suppose there is more than one wicked rogue that could be convinced of your madness,” Pippa said.

  The idea had been to approach a man on the fringe of society’s good graces, one wicked and scandalous enough that he would not care she was breaking the rules of propriety. He wouldn't care that she was being reckless and independent. He wouldn't care that she was trying to be bold. But he would have enough honor not to take advantage of her pain and need to learn. Only the earl of Maschelly had seemed to fit the type of man she needed.