The Dark One (2 page)

Armond had spent the past few months trying to prove his family's innocence regarding the matter, but the trail to find the woman's murderer had grown cold. Society was right about their parents, however. They had both gone insane; society just didn't know what had pushed them over the edge to madness. Armond knew. All of his brothers knew.

“Lord Wulf?”

The sound of his name being spoken interrupted Armond's conversation with the dowager. The lady who'd spoken stood behind him and her voice raised hackles on the back of his neck. Something in her tone, the softness of it, the slightly husky texture of it, flowed over and around him, inside of him, and touched a nerve. He turned slowly and came face-to-face with ruin.

Whoever the vision in white before him was, she was pure sin packaged deceitfully in the guise of innocence. If ever a woman existed who could make a man forget his principles, his pledges, his dark promises, this was one. Armond's blood turned to fire, his groin tightened, and heaven help the lady, she managed to do what none before her had accomplished. In the space of a heartbeat, she totally captivated him.

“I hate to be forward,” the young woman said. “But I
cannot find anyone to provide me with a proper introduction to you. I fear I am forced to take matters into my own hands.”

Armond had something he'd like for her to take into her hands . . . and her mouth and the deepest, sweetest part of her. Words failed him. He could only stare . . . mesmerized.

Her hair was the color of midnight. Her lips, full, red, ripe, inviting, would tempt a saint. Eyes the purest shade of violet, and slightly slanted, stared up at him from thick, dark lashes. Her skin was pale, soft and smooth—creamy as the froth on the top of a bucket of milk. He wanted her immediately. Not a reaction a man who prided himself on control cared to admit.

“You are forward, dear,” the dowager said, since Armond's voice seemed to have deserted him. “I daresay whatever finishing school you've spent time in has failed you miserably.”

Still staring boldly up at him, the young woman replied, “I've resided in the country for most of my life. Forgive my rude manners, but time is of importance. I require Lord Wulf's assistance in a matter of urgency.”

With his blood on fire, his senses reeling, Armond momentarily forgot his vows, his pacts, his pledges. This was a woman who could have the world at her feet if she but crooked her little finger, and she needed his assistance? What could he possibly do for her that her flawless complexion, her lustrous dark hair, and her sinful mouth could not?

He managed, with difficulty, to slow his racing heart and present a false facade of control. “How may I assist you, Miss . . . ?”

“Rutherford,” she provided, her voice a tad breathless. “Lady Rosalind Rutherford.”

“Ah, your new neighbor,” the dowager interrupted,
reminding Armond that the old woman still stood a party to their conversation. “The young heiress I was just telling you about, Armond.”

“The breeding stock,” Lady Rosalind corrected, and then blushed as if she realized she'd revealed her resentment. She quickly recovered. “Since we are indeed neighbors, Lord Wulf, I don't feel that it would be inappropriate if we danced together.”

His complete attention focused upon the young lady, Armond hadn't noticed that the music had begun. His thoughts ran rampant with all the things he'd like to do to and with Rosalind Rutherford, but dancing did not top his list.

Armond never danced. There didn't seem to be a point. Men only danced to please women or to woo or seduce them. He had no intention of doing any of those things. Or he hadn't up until tonight.

He couldn't keep his eyes from roaming her generous curves, curves displayed a bit scandalously by the low cut of her neckline. She noticed his interest and possibly the lust he felt certain was stamped across his face and took an involuntary step back, which proved she had a measure of common sense. Then she straightened her shoulders and stepped forward again, which was the worst thing she could have done.

His infatuation grew, if indeed, infatuation could be likened to the reaction taking place in the front of his trousers, which in this instance seemed to be the case. What was she doing to him? Whatever it was, he had to put a stop to it.

“I'm sorry, Lady Rosalind, but I do not dance, and I am not the neighborly sort.” He thought to rudely turn away from her, but she touched his arm.

The slight contact sent a jolt through him. His senses sharpened to a painful point. Armond was aware of everything
about her—even the fast pulse beating at the base of her throat. Especially the fast pulse beating at the base of her throat. She was frightened but determined, and again, the combination intrigued him.

Armond allowed the young woman to pull him a short distance from the dowager, who pouted over being denied further witness to the conversation.

“Would you make me beg?” She paused to moisten her lips, and the sight of her small pink tongue sensually caressing her lips made him feel like begging indeed. “Would you see them all snicker at me over your obvious cut? Regardless of what they say about you, surely not even you are that cruel.”

“What do they say about me?” he challenged. If she knew much, she knew that according to rumor, Lord Wulf had no qualms about making women beg, and that a suspected murderer, a man cursed by insanity, could hardly be expected to possess a trait like compassion.

“I know that you are Armond Wulf, the Marquess of Wulfglen—one of the wild Wulfs of London. The oldest of four. Feared by men. Forbidden to women. A man no decent young debutante would associate with.”

Armond blinked down at her. “And you want to dance with me?”

She straightened her shoulders and thrust out her breasts, he supposed in a show of courage. His gaze lowered to those twin mounds on the verge of spilling forth, and his hands itched to catch them.

“I more than want to dance with you, Lord Wulf,” she announced. “I'd be most grateful if you'd ruin my reputation.”

Armond struggled to maintain his bored expression, although he felt as if one of his spirited horses had just kicked him in the gut. “Here?” he asked.

The lady tilted her dimpled chin up to him. “Now,” she insisted. “This very night. In this very room in front of all these people.”

Was this some bizarre dream? Armond was almost tempted to pinch himself. Women didn't proposition him, at least not
this
kind of woman. Lady Rosalind Rutherford, tempting morsel that she was, was either as insane as his family was rumored to be, or up to something. He glanced away from her sinful mouth and tried to gain control of himself. It was something he did well . . . control.

He didn't lose his head over dark-haired angels. Losing one's head could go hand in hand with losing one's heart, and Armond couldn't afford to do that . . . ever.

“Did you hear me, Lord Wulf?”

Since it seemed as if everyone in the grand ballroom had ceased their own business and now stared at them, Armond took her arm and steered her toward the dance floor. Her waist was incredibly small beneath his hand. He swept her into the dance.

People were shocked, as they should be, to see a Wulf dancing, but Armond tried to concentrate on the steps so long ago taught to him. He was surprised that he remembered, but he did, and together, he and the young lady twirled, their bodies in perfect accord, almost as if one were an extension of the other.

“You dance very well,” his new neighbor commented, nibbling at her full lower lip. “But I had hoped for more.”

“More?” He suddenly felt like an idiot who couldn't string an intelligent sentence together in her presence.

“You're holding me quite properly,” she pointed out. “Given your reputation, I assumed you'd be less formal. There's not much to find shocking about your manners.”

Armond felt it was his duty to enlighten her upon the subject. “The fact alone that you are dancing with me, I as sure
you, is shock enough for those present this evening.” When his comment didn't seem to satisfy her, he asked, “Would you have me ravish you?”

Her raven brows, perfectly set upon her forehead, furrowed. She pressed her lips together as if in consideration. “I had hoped to avoid such drastic measures but now realize that might indeed become necessary. Could you? I mean, would you mind terribly?”

He nearly missed a step.
Would he mind?
Was the young lady daft? No, she wasn't daft? No, she wasn't daft; her lovely eyes sparkled with intelligence.

“What game are you playing, Lady Rosalind?”

Rather than answer, she scanned the crowd. He naturally did likewise, his gaze falling upon a group of young debutantes staring at them, their faces flushed with obvious excitement over seeing him dance. Was her earlier approach some sort of bet among friends? A dare? Had she decided to make her debut into society on a grand scale?

Perhaps she simply wanted notice—a night that would set her apart from every other beautiful, eligible young lady who'd come for a season in London.

“My wishes are most sincere, Lord Wulf,” she said, her gaze returning to him. “I am very disappointed in your good manners thus far this evening. Your reputation falls short of my expectations. If you have no desire to assist me, perhaps I should find someone who will.”

His infatuation diminished somewhat. Armond had spent the past ten years being the brunt of society's jokes. He didn't mind being feared or whispered about, but he wouldn't be made to look the fool. When the lady started to pull away, as if she meant to leave him standing alone like a throwaway, he jerked her up flush against him.

“If it's compromised you want, you've come to the
right man,” he assured her. “And I promise that you won't be disappointed. There's nothing short about me, Lady Rosalind.”

He steered her toward the edge of the dance floor, plans of where they could find privacy uppermost on his mind. Lady Rosalind had foolishly fired his ardor. She had thrown down a gauntlet, and if she wanted something to giggle about with her silly friends, he'd damn sure give it to her.

Lord Wulf led her through two side doors left open to allow the night air into the stuffy ballroom. Dazed by her own daring, Rosalind followed him past a small garden and out to the street, where carriages sat lined and waiting for their occupants to return from the ball. Her heart pounded so loud and fast she thought it might leap from her chest. Despite her bold actions, her knees shook. She was desperate, and desperation could often be disguised as bravery.

When Rosalind had first spotted Armond Wulf among the guests at the Greenleys' ball, she imagined her mouth might have dropped open and drool might have dribbled down her chin. She'd never seen a more handsome man. He was tall but lean, like a great hunting cat. His hair brushed the shoulders of his finely cut coat and was a rich golden color, reminding her of her home in the country, of wheat ripening in the fields. His eyes were blue—dark, turbulent like the sky during a thunderstorm.

His face was finely etched, his jaw strong and square. His mouth could only be described as disturbing, his lips neither too full nor too thin but sensually shaped. His brows and lashes were surprisingly dark for a man with his blond coloring, and his skin was tawny colored, as if he spent a great deal of time out-of-doors. When
he'd arrived at the Greenleys', every woman in the ballroom had turned to admire him. . . . Then the whispers began.

Once she'd learned his name, Rosalind realized he was the neighbor her stepbrother, Franklin, had warned to stay clear of. Wulf had been missing since her arrival in London, but his return tonight couldn't have worked out better for her. Rosalind had formed a plan. A plan to ruin her stepbrother's schemes for her and, she hoped, to find herself banished back to her late father's country estate, where she longed to return.

“Thomas, jump down and find something to do,” Wulf called to the driver upon reaching his carriage.

Rosalind's cheeks blazed. What must the driver think? She couldn't worry about that. Not at this point.

“For how long, Your Lordship?” the man asked.

Wulf ran his stormy blue gaze the length of Rosalind and back again. “For a while.”

Nervous, Rosalind glanced behind them toward the house. Franklin might come looking for her and spoil everything. “Could we drive during, that is, while we . . .” She couldn't complete the question.

“Interesting,” he said. “Change of plans, Thomas. Take us around a few times; then bring us back when you hear me rap upon the ceiling.”

Thomas nodded. “Briggs is off sharing a pint with a few of the other footmen. Should I get the door for you, My Lord?”

“No.” Wulf opened the carriage door and, rather than assist Rosalind up, lifted her in a no-nonsense manner and deposited her inside. He climbed in and slammed the door.

The moment grew awkward. Rosalind had no idea what to expect. She sensed that Lord Wulf was angry, but angry about what? She'd offered herself to him. Wasn't
that what all men wanted? To climb beneath a woman's skirts given the first opportunity?

According to her stepbrother, that was exactly what men wanted. The carriage lurched forward. Rosalind glanced at the door. They weren't moving fast enough to cause her serious injury were she to jump.

“You have made your bed now. You'll have to lie in it.”

She looked at him. The interior of the carriage was dark, the lamps unlit, and she couldn't see his expression. “My offer was sincere. I will see my end of the bargain fulfilled.”

Lord Wulf sighed. “We are no longer within eyesight of anyone at the Greenleys'. No need to keep up the pretense.”

Pretense? Had he mistaken her invitation? Rosalind needed him to perform a service and thought he understood the exchange. He'd looked at her as if he was willing enough earlier. Everywhere his eyes had touched she'd burned, not with the heat of embarrassment but with something else. Something her sheltered existence had not prepared her for. Something wicked.