In Bed With the Devil (2 page)

Luke cursed Jack soundly for tempting him, cursed himself for finding it so difficult to resist temptation. He'd never availed himself of one of Jack's girls.

“I'm not going to let Frannie see me walking out with one of your girls.”

“I'll send her 'round the back. Frannie'll never know.”

“You don't think your girls talk?”

“They're very discreet. I insist on it.”

Luke considered, then shook his head. “No, I'll not risk causing her to doubt my affection.”

“Are you saying you've been celibate all these years?”

“Of course not, but like your girls, I am extremely discreet.” Dodger's was not the only place to offer female companionship. Besides, Frannie was less likely to hear of Luke's liaisons if he sought them out elsewhere. For a few years, he'd even had a mistress, but they had parted ways when Luke had decided that it was time to ask Frannie to be his wife.

“For God's sake, Frannie works here. She knows men have urges.”

“I'm not going to have her wonder about mine. You might understand if you had someone you favored.”

“I prefer my women bought. Ensures no misunderstandings.”

And in Luke's experience, no real passion.

“So shall we make the usual wager for tomorrow?” Jack asked.

“By all means.”

“It's been almost a year since you set yourself this task. I don't relish getting rich off my friends, so take care of the matter tomorrow, will you?”

“If you don't relish it then stop making the blasted wagers!”

“You know I have a weakness where wagering is concerned.” A corner of his mouth hitched up. “And I can seldom beat you at cards.”

“Tomorrow. I'll ask her tomorrow,” Luke said with renewed conviction.

Jack clapped him on the shoulder. “Bring another fiver just in case.”

It was all Luke could do to not punch that knowing smirk off Jack's face. But just as Frannie owed Luke, so he owed Jack a debt he could never repay.

Luke strode out of the building into the fog-shrouded night. His bones immediately began to ache, a reminder from too many nights sleeping in the cold. Now he kept the rooms of his residences unbearably warm simply because he could. Having spent his youth without many comforts, he indulged in all of them now. He'd developed a reputation for being eccentric and extravagant, for spending foolishly. But he could well afford to spend however he damned well pleased. Being in partnership with Jack ensured it.

Yes, investing in the vices paid handsomely.

Before he reached his coach, his liveried footman opened the door with a slight bow.

“Home straightaway,” Luke said, as he climbed inside.

“Aye, m'lord.”

The door closed, and Luke sat back against the plush seat. The well-sprung coach lurched forward. Gazing out the window, Luke could see little save the gray swirling mist. He didn't care for it much as it had a permanent place in his dreams.

Not that he dreamed often. In order to dream, one needed to sleep, and Luke seldom slept for any great length of time. He wasn't certain any of them did. Feagan's children. They were bound together by the things they'd done. Things the nobility could never comprehend being desperate enough to do.

It was one of the many reasons that he wasn't entirely comfortable with his place in the world. Shortly after the old gent's demise, Luke had attended a ball to publicly take his place as the new Earl of Claybourne, and a hush had descended over the crowd as soon as he'd been announced at the top of the stairs. He'd sauntered through the room, daring anyone to question his presence. No one had been able to meet his gaze.

An image flittered at the edge of his memory. One young lady had not only dared to hold his gaze, but had fairly challenged him. He wasn't certain why, but he thought of her on occasion. She was nothing like Frannie. Standing there in her elegant evening gown, with every strand of her blond hair tucked perfectly into place, she appeared spoiled and pampered. It was one of the reasons he abhorred the idea that he was now part
of the aristocracy. They knew nothing of suffering. They knew nothing of the humiliation of scrounging for morsels of food. They weren't familiar with the sharp bite of the cane when begging didn't bring in enough coins or slipping hands into pockets didn't acquire enough handkerchiefs. They didn't know the fear of being caught. Even children were sent to prison, sometimes transported on great hulking ships to Australia or New Zealand, and on rare occasions, hanged.

The coach came to a halt, the door opened, and Luke alighted. He always felt a tad guilty upon first arriving at his London residence. Two dozen families could live there comfortably. Instead it was only he and two dozen servants. Of course, that would change once he married Frannie. Children would roam these hallways soon afterward. They'd experience a far gentler life than their parents had known.

The massive front door opened. He was surprised to find his butler still awake. Luke kept all hours, came and went as he pleased, when he pleased. He didn't expect his servants to live their lives according to his late-night habits.

Fitzsimmons had seen after the residence long before Luke ever came to live there with the old gent. The butler had been fiercely loyal to the previous earl, and not once—as far as Luke knew—had Fitzsimmons ever questioned the old gent's contention that Luke was his grandson.

Once the door was closed, Luke removed his hat and handed it to the butler. “I've told you before that you need not stay up until I return home.”

“Yes, my lord, but I thought it best to do so this evening.”

“And why is that?” Luke asked, tugging off his gloves.

“A lady arrived earlier.”

Luke stilled. “Who?”

“She wouldn't say. She knocked at the servants' entrance, said it was of paramount importance—a matter of life and death were her precise words—that she speak with you. She's been waiting in the library ever since.”

Luke glanced toward the hallway. “And you have no idea who she is?”

“No, my lord, although I would venture to guess she is a lady of the utmost quality. She has that air about her.”

Over the years a few ladies of quality had sought out Luke's bed. He lived a life of abundance that many had wanted to embrace, but he always made it clear that he offered nothing permanent. Some had simply wanted to play with the devil for a time. But none had ever claimed visiting him was a matter of
life and death
. How dramatic. The remainder of his evening promised to be entertaining.

He handed his gloves to Fitzsimmons. “See that we're not disturbed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

His curiosity piqued, Luke strode down the hallway. No footman waited outside the door. He had no reason to believe his services would be required at this ungodly hour. Luke entered the library, slamming the door behind him, a grand entrance to disarm his visitor.

The woman standing at the window, gazing onto a garden hidden by darkness and fog, jerked around. The hood of her pelisse lay against her shoulders, its clasp interfering with what would have been a lovely show of skin from throat to bosom. Beneath the cloak, she'd dressed to seduce and for reasons he couldn't fathom, he was suddenly very much in the mood for seduction.

“Lady Catherine Mabry, as I recall,” he drawled, sauntering nearer until he could smell the expensive perfume that wafted over her skin like the fragrance of a delicate rose.

Her blue eyes widened slightly. “I'd not realized you knew who I was.”

“I make it my business to know who everyone is.”

“You consider me your business?”

“Ah, yes, Lady Catherine. Isn't that what you wanted when you challenged me that night at the ball?”

“Not particularly, no,” she muttered.

Mesmerized, he watched as her delicate throat moved ever so slightly as she swallowed—the only indication she gave that she was having second thoughts about being there. She was lovelier than he remembered—or perhaps it was simply that maturity agreed with her—and she still possessed the courage to hold his gaze. Or perhaps not. It wavered for a heartbeat as she glanced away while licking her lips. An invitation for something more intimate.

He trailed his finger along the soft flesh beneath her chin and her gaze jumped back to his. Beneath his touch, he could feel her pulse quick
ening, fluttering like a tiny moth that had dared to approach the flame and now realized it was left with no means of escape. It was obvious she was a novice when it came to the art of seduction, but no matter. He had enough experience to see them through.

“I know why you're here,” he said, his voice low, provocative, a prelude to their lying beneath the silken sheets that adorned his bed.

She furrowed her delicate brow. Her features were exquisite perfection, carved by nature with obvious care and never altered by the harshness of life.

“How—” she began.

“Do not think you're the first to try to trap me into marriage. I'm not easily caught.” He slid his finger along her flesh, down to the clasp at her throat. “I have little doubt your guardian stands just beyond the window, watching, waiting until the perfect moment to make his presence known.” With nimble fingers, he loosened the clasp and carefully slid the cloak off her shoulders until it pooled on the floor.

His body tightened with his unobstructed view of all she had to offer. He'd gone too damned long without a woman beneath him. Even if he were snared by her trap he would escape it easily enough. Cradling her face, he leaned nearer until his breath mingled with hers. “But even if he witnesses my removing your clothing, even if he sees you welcoming me with open arms and crying out in ecstasy, I will not marry you,” he whispered.

He heard her breath catch.

“I will not restore your reputation once tarnished.” He brushed his lips over hers. “If you get with child, I will not give you respectability. The price you pay for waltzing with the devil is residing in hell.”

He settled his mouth firmly over hers, not at all surprised that she acquiesced so easily. Even if she'd not come here to trap him, he knew what he was to her. A curiosity, nothing more. A bit of misbehavior before she settled into a respectable marriage with a lord whose lineage was never questioned behind his back.

She didn't resist when he urged her lips to part. She moaned when he swept his tongue through her mouth, leaving nothing unexplored. Her hands gripped the lapels of his jacket, and he thought for a moment that she swayed. He reacted with a need so strong that it almost brought him to his knees.

Even as he cursed her and his own weakness, he recognized that he had no will to resist temptation. He would have her. She'd brought this moment upon herself by arriving at his doorstep. He was a man who always took advantage of opportunities presented, and she was presenting him with an opportunity for passion. It had been too long since he'd unleashed his desires. She would benefit from all that he had to offer this night, but no more than that. In the morning, she'd take nothing from him except the memories.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he bracketed her face between his hands and held her gaze. “Be sure this is what you want, my lady, for there will be no undoing once this is done.”

Her breaths coming in short gasps, she shook her head. “You misunderstand my purpose in coming here.”

“Do I?” he asked mockingly.

She nodded. “I want someone dispensed with. And I hear you're just the man to do it.”

I
f Catherine hadn't been standing so extremely close to Claybourne that their hearts fairly beat in the same erratic rhythm, she'd have thought he'd received a brutal blow. Although he seemed to recover quickly enough as he released his hold on her and stepped back, his face once more an unreadable mask.

His expression had been just as inscrutable when he'd first walked into the room. While she was certain his butler had told him that a lady had come to call, Claybourne had not even looked surprised to discover
she
was the one waiting for him. It was only when he'd drawn back from the kiss that she'd seen any emotion at all, and she could have sworn it was desire. Desire for her specifically? Hardly likely. It was no doubt nothing more than lust unleashed and the particular woman standing before him of no consequence.

He was known for flirting at the edge of respectability, and he was no doubt accustomed to dragging others over the precipice with him.
But to her immense shame, she couldn't help but think it would be a lovely way to go. In the secret recesses of her mind where wickedness lurked, she'd dreamed of him kissing her, but never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined that his lips would be so soft, his mouth so hot, his tongue so determined to have its way. What their mouths had been doing was quite uncivilized, and even though she knew she should have stepped away, she should have objected, she should have slapped him, all she'd wanted was to deepen the intimacy. He tasted of a flavor she'd never before experienced. He was bold with his explorations, enticing her to forget all she'd learned of decorum.

With his mouth playing over hers, he'd succeeded in making her body thrum madly and burn with desire as it never had. She'd been halfway tempted to follow where he was leading, but more was at stake than satisfying her own yearnings. His earlier words had convinced her that he'd hold no respect for her if she succumbed to his charms, as no doubt many a woman had before her, and at this stage of the game she needed to have the upper hand.

Giving her his back, he walked to a small table where an assortment of crystal decanters rested. He took the top off one and poured amber liquid into one glass, and then another.

“Dispensed with? Such gentle words. I assume you mean you want someone killed,” he stated flatly.

“Yes.” Reaching down, she gathered up her pelisse, holding it close as though it had the power to stop her trembling. Dear God, but she wanted
to reach out to him, run her hands over his back, his shoulders. She wanted to comb her fingers through his thick, black hair. She wanted to press her body against his. Waltz with the devil, indeed. Lord save her, she wanted to lie with him.

Turning from the table, he held a glass toward her. Swallowing hard, forcing her body not to reveal its inner quivering, she reached for the glass, pausing as her gaze fell on the inside of his right thumb, scarred with a series of raised welts as though someone had repeatedly slashed at him. Upon further inspection, she realized more than a knife had been used. He'd been burned as well.

“Staring at it won't make it look any prettier,” he said.

She snapped her gaze up to his. “My apologies. I—” She could say nothing to make the matter right, so she simply took the glass he offered. “Thank you.”

His gaze roamed over her. Disdainfully. It was all she could do to keep holding her head high, but hold it high she did.

He brushed past her and dropped into a chair, lounging insolently. Gone was any semblance of him being a gentleman, any hint that he viewed her as a lady. Although in truth, he'd ceased to be a gentleman the moment his warm, pliant lips had met hers. Even now her body heated with the memory of his mouth urging hers to open for him, to welcome the thrust of his tongue. And in the welcoming she'd ceased to be a lady, but she could regain her footing easily enough by simply reverting back to her upbringing.

He took a long swallow, then with the hand holding the glass, indicated the chair opposite him. Not certain how much longer her quaking legs could support her, she gracefully sat, ever mindful of her posture, determined to remain a lady, even if he were no longer acting the gentleman. Since that first night, at least a thousand times, she'd imagined being in his presence, but not like this. They were always in a ballroom, their gazes meeting across the crowded room—

“Who?” he asked.

The brusqueness of his tone brought her back to the moment. She wrapped both hands around the glass. “Pardon?”

He sighed with impatience. “Who do you want killed?”

“I won't tell you until I know for certain that you're willing to do it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want you warning him if you're not going to take care of the matter—”

“No,” he interrupted brusquely.

Disappointment slammed into her. She considered arguing, but she felt almost undone by the kiss and his complete disregard for her plight. Despising the small tremors cascading through her and determined to make as dignified an exit as possible, she stood. “Thank you for your time then.”

“No,” he ground out. “I wasn't saying I wouldn't do it. I said no because you're answering the wrong question.”

“Pardon?”

“I wasn't asking why you wouldn't tell me
who he was. I was inquiring as to the reason you wanted him killed.”

“Oh.” She sat back down. Hope returned like a fledgling bird learning to fly. “I'm afraid I can't tell you that either.”

He took another swallow of his brandy, studying her over the rim of his glass. It was all she could do not to squirm. He wasn't what she'd call classically handsome. His nose was slightly bent and uneven across the top as though at one time it might have been smashed. Oddly, it added strength to a face that might have appeared a bit too elegant otherwise. He was in need of a shave, but at this time of night, she suspected most men were. She could still feel where his dark whiskers had abraded her chin and cheeks as he'd kissed her.

She closed her eyes and fought back those carnal images and her body's embarrassing reaction to them. Her lips were still tingling and swollen. She wondered if they'd ever again feel normal. Apparently being spawned from the depths of hell caused everything about a man to be exceedingly hot. She was surprised she'd not burned to a cinder.

“How many men have you kissed?” he suddenly asked.

Her eyes flew open, and—
Drat it!
—she squirmed. She considered lying, but what was to be gained by deception? She suspected he did enough deceiving for both of them. “Only tonight.”

He took another long swallow, scrutinizing her again. She didn't like when he studied her. She
didn't like it at all. She was reminded of that first night, at the ball, when she'd felt as though he'd been measuring her worth—and had decided she was worth very little.

“But I'm not here to discuss kisses. I'm here to discuss—”

“Yes, yes, whether I'll kill someone for you. And you expect me to take you at your word that he deserves killing without even telling me what he's done. For all I know perhaps he neglected to ask you for a dance.”

“Surely, you don't think I'm as trite as all that.”

“I know little about you, Lady Catherine, except that you have no qualms about visiting a gentleman in the dead of night. Perhaps you visited this gent, he rebuffed you, and you took offense.”

“I'm not in the habit of visiting gentlemen in the dead of night.”

“Your actions would speak otherwise.”

“Do you judge all by their actions?”

“They are more telling than their words.”

“And you no doubt have considerable experience with false words.”

One corner of his mouth eased up slightly, a mocking imitation of a smile. “Most women fawn over a gentleman when they wish him to do their bidding.”

She glanced down at the glass in her hands. She wondered if she drank its contents if she'd find her retreating courage at its bottom. “I meant no insult.”

“Did you not?”

She lifted her gaze back to his. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

His eyes widening slightly, he seemed surprised by the truth of her answer.

“So what did the gentleman do to earn your displeasure? Mock your gown? Step on your toes while waltzing? Present you with wilted flowers?”

“My reasons are my own, my lord. You'll not goad me into telling you. Our arrangement will involve nothing more than you're agreeing to take care of the matter at which point I'll tell you who is to be taken care of.”

“Why should I agree to this? What is the benefit to me?”

“I shall pay you handsomely for this service.”

His harsh laughter, echoing between the walls lined with shelves laden with books, somehow seemed at home here. As though masculinity ruled and no space was allowed for anything of a kinder nature. “Lady Catherine, money is the one thing of which I have absolutely no need.”

She'd feared that would be the case, leaving her in a weak bargaining position. What could she offer him? She'd heard enough rumors to know he wasn't a man who did anything as a result of having a charitable heart. “What are you in need of then, my lord?”

“From you—nothing.”

“Surely you are in need of something that your present circumstance can't provide.”

He stood. “Nothing that would cause me to kill a man simply because you wish him dead. You've wasted your time by coming here. Please see yourself out.”

Dismissing her, he walked back to the corner
and began refilling his glass. She wouldn't beg, but neither would she give up quite so easily. She rose to her feet. “Is there nothing you want so desperately that you'd be willing to do anything in order to acquire it?”

“If you want him dead that badly, kill him yourself.”

“I fear I'll botch it. I suspect it takes a certain type of individual to complete the act when the reality of it comes rushing home.”

“A man like me perhaps? A coldhearted bastard?”

“Did you—did you kill him? Did you kill your uncle?” She couldn't believe she'd asked the impudent question. The words had rushed out before she'd had a chance to stop them.

He downed the amber liquid and poured more into his glass. “What answer would satisfy you, Lady Catherine?”

“An honest one.”

Turning slightly, he met her gaze. “No, I did not kill my uncle.”

And in spite of his answer, which his unwavering gaze revealed to be the absolute truth, the fine hairs on the nape of her neck prickled, and she no longer had any wish to linger in his presence. She'd been a fool to come here, but then desperation often created fools.

“I'm sorry to have bothered you, my lord.”

“No bother, Lady Catherine. The kiss was well worth the intrusion on my evening.”

She angled her chin haughtily. “A pity I cannot claim the same.”

His dark laughter followed her out of the library,
and she had little doubt that the sound of it would filter into her dreams, along with the memory of his lips pressed against hers. Visiting the devil had been a mistake, and she could only pray that her actions wouldn't return to haunt her.

 

Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.

Lounging in the stuffed, brocade armchair, Luke drained the last of the whiskey from the bottle, before hurling it against the wall. Breathing heavily, he dropped his head back. The room was swirling around him, the darkness closing in. It was the third bottle he'd finished. One more should do it. One more should numb him to the gruesome images of innocence lost that were bombarding him. One more should shove them back into the darkest corners of his mind. One more should swallow the remorse, the guilt, the regret.

While others had prayed to God, he'd given his soul to the devil to find the strength to do what needed to be done. And now a stupid chit was asking him to do it again.

Damn her!

She'd sent him invitations to her silly balls as though they were important, as though an evening spent in her company was well worth his time. What did she know of torment? What did she know of hell? Doing her bidding would only serve to drag her down into it, and once there, she'd find no escape. He knew that truth well enough.

Reaching down, he grabbed another bottle from the little army he'd lined up on the floor beside his
chair. He'd had too many nights like this one not to know where to turn for comfort when a woman wasn't near.

Damn, he should have brought one of Jack's girls home. Not even Frannie would be able to offer him solace. He'd never be able to take her with the desperation that clawed at him now. What he needed was a woman strong enough to meet his powerful thrusts without flinching, a woman who wouldn't cower, a woman who could call to the beast in him and have no desire to tame it.

An image of Lady Catherine Mabry writhing beneath him filled his mind, and he flung the half-emptied bottle across the room. He cursed her yet again. He fought so hard to remain civilized, not to revert to his roots, and she'd managed to completely undo him. He should have lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bedchamber; he should have shown her exactly what he was capable of.

Murder? Dear God, as he'd proven, he was capable of far worse than that.

From the Journal of Lucian Langdon

I did not know the name of the man I killed. I did not know that destiny had proclaimed him to be heir to a title.

I knew only that he had harmed Frannie—cruelly and without mercy. So I took it upon myself to be his judge, jury, and executioner.

Unfortunately in my haste to see justice deliv
ered, I did not take proper precautions. There was a witness, and I was promptly arrested.

In hindsight, I can see that I was arrogant to believe that I alone had the wisdom to determine his fate. But I was intimately familiar with the judicial system, having been arrested at the age of eight. I served three months in prison. I bore the mark of my crime upon my right thumb. A T, for thief, burned into the tender flesh.