Nicole Jordan (18 page)

Some ladies considered it a fashionable diversion to attend a gaming hell, but she had never done so, unwilling to risk her reputation when she was so close to achieving her goal of marrying into the nobility.

Now she had far less to lose. So why did she feel as if she were engaged in a forbidden sin, her heart beating as if she had run a great distance? She didn’t like to think it was in anticipation of seeing her husband again. More likely, her erratic pulse was caused by her remembrance of the passionate night she’d recently spent here in Kell’s bed.

A brute of a doorman opened the door. His hulking frame resembled O’Malley’s, but this man might once have been a pugilist, for his nose was set crookedly and he was missing a front tooth.

She wasn’t required to deal with him, however, for a stately majordomo appeared directly.

“May I help you, madam?” the august servant queried.

“I am Mrs. Lasseter. I should like to speak to my husband.”

A flash of surprise and disapproval crossed his face before he schooled his features to impassivity. “I will ask if Mr. Lasseter is receiving.”

Refusing to be rebuffed, Raven stepped inside. “I prefer not to be kept waiting on the doorstep.”

“Very well, madam. If you will come with me.”

She followed him, not upstairs as she expected, but to the nether reaches of the large gaming house. Along the way, she passed several elegant chambers, similar to those of the more famous gentlemen’s clubs like White’s and Boodle’s she had heard described: a library boasting gleaming mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound tomes; a large dining room with several tables set with gleaming crystal and china; three smaller rooms arranged, possibly, for private games of cards; and finally what must be the public gaming room, where vast fortunes were won and lost.

Raven would have liked to explore the gaming room, but her curiosity would have to wait. She had to quell her surprise, however, when she found herself in the kitchens, of all places.

Despite the chill of the winter day, the room was warm from the great hearth fire and ovens. Kell was seated at a worktable, dressed in breeches and a flowing white cambric shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to expose muscular forearms, while his collar was opened at the neck to reveal the soft whorls of black hair that sprinkled his chest.

Raven came up short at the unmistakably pleasant shock that rippled along her spine. She kept forgetting how strikingly handsome he was, despite the harshness of his features and the scar that marred his high cheekbone.

Then he looked up and his dark eyes met hers. The ripple turned to a sizzle, with all the impact of a bolt of lightning. Raven had difficulty catching her breath, very much like when she had interrupted him at his bath.

“Mrs. Lasseter, sir,” the majordomo said.

“Thank you, Timmons. That will be all.”

The servant’s exit left them alone, for the kitchen staff was nowhere to be seen, Raven realized.

It was then she noticed the deadly blade in Kell’s hand, which he was polishing with a cloth. Any number of weapons, both rapiers and pistols, lay spread across the table—

“What are youdoing ?” she was startled into asking. Her heart leapt to her throat as she thought of the most likely possibility.

“I prefer to care for my own weapons,” Kell replied, his face inscrutable.

“You aren’t preparing for a duel? Halford hasn’t challenged you?”

His eyebrow rose at the obvious panic in her voice. “Not as yet. Did you expect him to?”

Raven’s hand went to her breast in relief. “I wasn’t certain. When I spoke to him last week, he threatened to call you out at first….”

“Did he now?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, remembering. “Halford was so furious. He blamed you for my abduction, even though I swore I went along willingly.” She felt another stab of guilt for what she had led Kell into. “I truly am sorry.”

Yet he didn’t seem to want her apologies. “How touching that you are so concerned for my welfare,” he murmured, his tone holding a hint of mockery.

She made a face. “To be truthful, I was more concerned for Halford. You do have the more dangerous reputation, after all.”

Kell’s features grew cool, and Raven immediately regretted her impetuous tongue. “I didn’t mean to jest about it. I admit, Halford frightens me. He says he means to ruin you.”

“He can try.” The words were spoken casually, but there was an edge of steel in his voice that boded ill for his opponents.

“Why have you come?” Kell asked, abruptly changing the subject. “You shouldn’t be here. It won’t do your reputation any good to be seen in a gaming hell.”

He didn’t invite her to be seated, but Raven did so anyway, taking the end of the bench opposite him. “My reputation could hardly be more tarnished at the moment. And I cannot distance myself from your club completely, now that I am your wife. Besides, my visit is for a good cause. I had to speak to you, yet I’ve seen very little of you since we wed.”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t involve yourself in my life, nor I in yours.”

“We also agreed we should keep up appearances for the time being. Ours was supposed to be a love match, remember?”

He bent his head to his task, removing a speck of dirt from the deadly blade. “We both know what a spurious tale that is.”

“The rest of the world doesn’t realize that. And I require your presence to maintain the charade. My friends Lord and Lady Wycliff are planning a ball in our honor, to celebrate our nuptials.”

Kell didn’t even hesitate. “I will have to decline the honor.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t care to move in your elite social circles.”

“You keep away by choice, Lord Wolverton says.”

Kell looked up; obviously she had surprised him. “You know Wolverton? The greatest rake in all England?”

“He is a family friend,” Raven admitted without embarrassment. “Dare claims this is his favorite hell.”

“I am honored,” Kell said wryly, although without his usual sardonic sting.

“I asked him about you. He says you would have been welcomed by the ton had you chosen to exert yourself.”

Kell lowered his long, black lashes—those thick lashes any female would envy—while his hard, beautiful mouth curled. But he didn’t speak. Instead he examined the blade for imperfections.

“Dare says you are an expert swordsman,” Raven said into the silence. “Is that how you came by your scar?”

He shot her a dark glance. “You have a great deal of curiosity for a mere wife of convenience.”

“I suppose so,” she replied, unfazed by his scowl. “Aunt Catherine considers it a prime failing of mine.”

Absently he reached up and touched his scar, running his finger along the jagged ridge. “My disfigurement was courtesy of my uncle’s signet ring, if you must know.”

The uncle he had supposedly murdered? Raven wondered. The question must have shown in her eyes, for Kell nodded.

“I could cheerfully have killed him. He sent my mother to an early grave, after taking her sons from her. There was no love lost between us.”

“And hestruck you? In the face?” Her outrage was evident in her tone.

“Among other places. It’s no secret that we fought regularly.”

Raven studied him, wondering at his truthfulness. Had he told her that story merely to put off her questions? Or to gain her sympathy? Perhaps he used his scar to his own advantage, to hide the secrets he kept locked inside. Secrets that admittedly she was dying to know. She searched Kell’s face. His eyes were like polished obsidian, darkly reflective and damnably unrevealing.

How many other secrets was he hiding behind those fathomless eyes?

“Is that why you despise society so?” she said finally. “Because of your mother?”

Something hot and dangerous flared in those dark depths. It was a long moment before he answered. “Primarily. As an Irishwoman she was never good enough for my father’s kin—or most of the English Quality, for that matter. I want nothing to do with their ilk.”

“Then we have something in common,” Raven murmured with all seriousness. “I have no more admiration for many of the ton’s members than you do. On the whole they are cruel, soulless, unbelievably shallow. Certainly I have no desire to suffer their contempt and condescension. If I had my way, I would tell them all to go to the devil.”

His eyebrow shot up. “The toast of London professing to disdain the haute monde? Why don’t I believe you?”

“It’s true,” Raven insisted. “One doesn’t have to admire a set in order to aspire to their ranks.”

“Then why were you so eager to marry one of their scions?”

She hesitated, wondering how much to reveal. “In large part because I promised my mother. In her youth, she…had a falling out with her father and was banished to the West Indies for life. But she always regretted losing her position in society and denying me the chance for that sort of life. It was her dream for me that I marry a title and become accepted by the ton. Indeed, it was almost an obsession with her. She made me vow on her deathbed—”

Raven felt her throat close on the familiar pain. “My promise was all that let her die in peace,” she added, her voice uneven with emotion.

Kell’s face took on that familiar, enigmatic look. “I understand vows like yours,” he murmured. “I vowed to my own mother that I would care for Sean.”

Raven suddenly flushed, realizing she’d exposed far too much of herself for comfort.

“Please”—she returned to the subject at hand—“won’t you consider making an allowance just this once? I must face the wolves sometime if I’m to have any hope for redemption. And Brynn—Lady Wycliff—thinks a ball is the best means. But I can’t possibly succeed unless you stand beside me.”

“Stand? That alone is a good enough reason to eschew your ball. My leg is injured—far too painful for me to stand on it, let alone dance.”

“Do you even know how to dance? It is a gentleman’s skill, after all.”

She had meant to be provoking, and from the flash of irritation in his eyes, she judged she had succeeded.

A long moment passed while he contemplated her.

Raven held her breath, waiting for an explosion of wrath, but it never came. Instead a glint of reluctant amusement entered his eyes, the warmth softening the intensity. “You are treading a fine line with your temerity, vixen. Aren’t you the least afraid your ‘dangerous’ husband might throttle you?”

Raven smiled. “Just this once, and I will never again ask for your presence. After the scandal dies down, we can give up any pretense of being in love.”

Kell grimaced. “Very well, I’ll attend your damned ball. But after that, you are on your own. Now take yourself out of here and try to salvage what little is left of your reputation. And leave me the hell in peace.”

When she was gone, however, Kell sat there without returning to his task of cleaning weapons. He had no desire to attend Raven’s blasted ball, but he still felt an unwilling sympathy for her. He did indeed understand the kind of promise she had made to her mother. He’d sworn a promise of his own to his mother.

Absently Kell reached up and touched his cheek, tracing the scar Raven had inquired about. He could could still feel his rage when he’d discovered his uncle’s crimes against his young brother, still feel the slashing sting of being wounded that day.

“You vile bastard! I’ll kill you if you dare touch him again.”

He’d attacked his uncle blindly, raining physical blows and receiving punishing ones in return. He eventually won the violent fistfight, but William’s signet ring had struck him viciously in the face, splitting his cheek wide open.

That night he had fled with Sean, stealthily making their way to Dublin, hoping to disappear. Those were desperate days on the streets, and they barely survived. With no time to seek medical attention, Kell’s cheek had healed raggedly, leaving the skin forever marred. Yet his scar was nothing compared to the scars William had left on his brother. Sean’s shame was a raw wound, festering in the dark depths of his soul.

And six months later William had tracked them down—

Forcing his thoughts away from that grim memory, Kell picked the foil he had been cleaning. Their uncle William had been an expert swordsman and should have won any contest with rapiers. Instead he’d wound up dead, slain by his own blade.

A fitting turn of events, Kell thought, setting his jaw. Even if he hadn’t been the one responsible.

Chapter

Ten

The night of the ball arrived with chilling swiftness. After donning her armor, Raven dismissed her maid and stood staring at her reflection in the cheval glass. She saw a patrician young lady gowned in an elegant confection of peach and gold, her ebony hair piled high on her head and secured with a gold bandeau.

A comforting sight, she thought, encouraged. She was about to do battle and she would need every advantage she could muster. She glanced at the mantel clock. Shortly the hostilities would begin….

Defiantly Raven lifted her chin and turned to pace her bedchamber while she waited for her husband’s escort. Kell had returned home to dress, she knew, for she’d heard him moving around in the adjacent dressing room, speaking to his valet.

In only a few moments a knock sounded on her bedchamber door. When she opened it, a ruggedly beautiful stranger stood there. She stared at Kell, breathless.

“Well, do I meet with your approval?”

He looked dark and diabolically handsome in a blue superfine coat, pristine white cravat, silver brocade waistcoat, white satin knee smalls, and black patent pumps with silver buckles.

“Y-yes…” she stammered. “Yes, of course.”

His own glance raked her briefly, displaying merely a flicker of acknowledgment of her own appearance, before he offered her his arm. “Shall we go then?”

He escorted her downstairs, where they retrieved cloaks and gloves and Kell’s tall beaver hat before braving the chill winter night and settling into his barouche.

They were the first to arrive at the Wycliff mansion. As she alighted on the silent street, Raven felt her disquiet rise. Had she made a grave mistake, thinking that anyone at all would attend her ball?

The house was quietly magnificent, adorned with winter roses and hothouse flowers, the crystal chandeliers sparkling with candleflame.