Barbara Pierce (2 page)

Lost in his grief and unsure how to raise his young son alone, Lord Nipping had quickly taken a second wife. Not long after their marriage vows had been spoken, the second Lady Nipping announced that she was breeding. Kilby did not know whether necessity or love had prompted her father to marry her mother. Her parents rarely spoke of their past. What was certain, though, was that Lord Nipping and his lady were devoted to each other until the end.

Archer had been so young when his father had remarried that he had thought of Kilby’s mother as his own. The troublesome changes in Archer had begun when he had been sent off to school. Kilby recalled hearing her mother and father discuss Archer’s difficulties with his studies and his need for discipline. Her brother’s scrapes had led to heated arguments with Lord Nipping and this eventually had created a rift between Archer and the family.

Once he had finished his schooling, her brother had moved to London, much to the dismay of their parents. Lord and Lady Nipping had always shunned London, preferring their tranquil life in the countryside. They had deemed town life too decadent for their children and the air quality unhealthy. Their parents’ disapproval had made London all the more appealing to Archer.

On his rare visits to Ealkin, Kilby could see the changes in her brother and they were not flattering. Archer no longer seemed part of their little family and she had been relieved when he departed.

It was their parents’ death that had forced Kilby to reach out to her wayward brother. At seventeen, she had been too young to care for the now mute Gypsy or manage the day-today decisions for Ealkin’s upkeep. She had thought perhaps
the mantle of his new title and his responsibilities to his sisters would settle her brother.

Alas, it had only brought out the worst in him.

Although Ealkin was his, Archer despised the isolation there. He had informed Kilby once that he remained only out of duty, but he did not have the patience their father had had. Alone in the library, he started drinking himself into a stupor each night. Most nights he simply passed into blissful unconsciousness.

Other nights, like tonight, he was the devil.

Lately, when his narrowed gaze settled on Kilby, his blatant, unnatural perusal sickened her. It was apparent that her brother had high ambitions for his sister, and she doubted her parents would approve. She certainly did not!

“Enough games, Kilby, my sweet sister,” Archer called out, slurring his words.

His search had brought him to the third floor. Kilby lifted her head; her mouth went dry in terror. Through the crack in the wardrobe, she could see the hint of candlelight from under the door. She swallowed thickly, refusing to answer.

“Heed my words, you violet-eyed bitch. Come out of hiding or pay the consequences,” he said, his booming voice echoing down the hall.

Kilby heard a distant door open and then close. She bit her lower lip to prevent herself from answering. In his present mood, she was too afraid of what he might do to her if she complied with his demands.

“Are you listening?” He paused, letting the question hang in the air. “Well, if you won’t come out for me, perhaps you’ll come out for our resident little mouse.”

Oh, God.
Gypsy
.

Was Archer so villainous as to drag their sister from her bed and use her to gain Kilby’s obedience? No. She shook
her head in denial. Her brother was bluffing. Even he could not be so cruel.

“Don’t believe me, eh?” he asked as if he had read her thoughts. “Let’s see if I can get the mouse to squeak.”

Kilby brought her hands to her mouth and sank her teeth into a knuckle. As she rocked back and forth, every passing second of silence fueled her fear and indecision.

The thin cry of a child in pain cut through Kilby like broken glass stabbing her heart. Pushing open the door of the wardrobe, she staggered out of the compartment, trying not to imagine what Archer was doing to Gypsy to make her cry out. In that moment, she hated her brother. The thought of him hurting their innocent younger sister was beyond her comprehension. Kilby shuddered, wondering what nefarious plans Archer had for her. A part of her wanted to stay hidden, stay safe. She walked over to the door and tugged on the latch. Whatever her feelings, she could not allow him to harm Gypsy.

Kilby opened the door and discovered Archer holding a terrified Gypsy by her fragile wrist. He obviously had heard her open the wardrobe. There was no one in the house who could help her and Gypsy. The servants had retired for the evening, and they had strict orders not to disturb the family. She felt so helpless and alone.

“I knew you would join me if I provided the right incentive,” Archer said, tightening his grip on Gypsy’s thin wrist. Her sister whined and twisted in his merciless hold.

Kilby lifted her chin in defiance. “Let her go.”

The smile her brother bestowed on her in response to her harsh demand had her stomach roiling. “Why? I’m feeling playful tonight and little sisters can be so amusing when provoked.” He gestured for her to lead the way.

It was difficult, but Kilby refrained from reaching out and pulling Gypsy away from Archer. Any attempt to thwart him
now would encourage him to further punish the child for Kilby’s defiance. Instead, she crossed her arms and glared at him. “What do you want from me, Archer?”

Her brother gave her a bawdy wink. “You’ll see soon enough, pretty Kilby,” he promised her. “You’ll see.”

London, April 10, 1809

The Duke of Solitea was dead.

Naturally, his widow decided to throw a ball. To the eccentric duchess, it seemed the appropriate way to herald her husband’s passing. Fayne Carlisle, Marquess of Temmes, tossed back the remains of the brandy in his glass and shook his head in lingering amazement.

Christ, a ball for a dead man! No one had ever accused the Carlisles of being typical. The duchess had even wanted the deceased to join in the festivities. Fayne had balked at the outlandish suggestion and flatly refused to indulge his mother’s request. He could just envision it. The duke, resplendent in his funerary finery, dominating the drawing room as he had in life, while his two beloved apricot-colored mastiffs stood guard at each end of the mahogany coffin.

God save them all from his mother’s whims!

Slouched casually against one of the farthest corners of the drawing room, Fayne broodingly watched as guests flowed in and out of the room. In the center of the room,
his mother had ordered that a twelve-foot-high portrait of the duke be set up for display. The painting had been a gift from the duchess, and commissioned in celebration of his father’s thirtieth birthday. Oversized black and gold porcelain vases stuffed with greenery and hothouse flowers were placed around the portrait.

Fayne sipped from his glass, barely tasting the brandy. It had been a god-awful day. His stomach still roiled when he thought of the slow, stately procession he and the family had endured earlier in the day to Westminster Abbey for the interment of the Duke of Solitea. While his younger sister, Fayre, had brokenly sobbed with her face pressed into his shoulder, the duchess had sat quietly beside him, her expressionless face reminding him of pale marble. She had done her grieving in private. For days after word had reached them of the duke’s passing, her wild, inconsolable sorrow had seemed inexhaustible. She had slept only because the family’s physician with Fayne’s unrelenting assistance had poured the apothecary’s soporific tincture down her throat nightly.

Fayne had not recognized the silent, pale woman who had sat next to him in the mourning coach. He had longed to see a glimmer of his mother’s former spirit, some sign that she would survive her husband’s passing. It was the main reason he had even consented to the ridiculous ball at all.

Fayne watched on as a lady dropped to her knees in front of the duke’s portrait and cried into her lace handkerchief. He could not see her face, but he idly wondered if the grieving lady had been one of his father’s former mistresses. His gaze roved contemplatively over the dozen or more people who had positioned themselves in front of the duke’s portrait. Most of them meant well, Fayne assumed. If any of them thought it necessary to speak to him, his defiant posture and intimidating expression discouraged anyone from approaching. This was fortunate,
because the duchess would never forgive him if he caused a broil by punching one her unwary guests.

“Still preferring your tea cold, I see,” a masculine voice said from his left, interrupting Fayne’s dark musings.

Any sane individual would have had the sense to respect a grieving son’s privacy. Unfortunately, that left Fayne to deal with the not-so-sane.

He rubbed his right eyebrow with his finger, giving his blond friend a vexed look. “Ramscar. I was just thinking how irked the duchess would be if I am provoked into punching some well-meaning bastard,” Fayne said, in lieu of a greeting.

Fowler Knowden, Earl of Ramscar, merely grinned at the threat of violence. At the height of five feet and ten inches, the earl was several inches shorter than Fayne’s six-foot-one-inch stature; however, the man’s confidence and lazy graceful movements warned the observer not to underestimate him. He watched expectantly as Ramscar retrieved a decanter of brandy he had hidden behind his back and waved it before Fayne as others might use a flag of truce. “Your glass is dry, and the footmen are terrified of you. Byrchmore, Everod, and I cast lots. I was the loser,” he added needlessly.

There was such an engaging sincerity to his friend’s expression that it had Fayne shaking his head. Out of his three closest friends, Ramscar was the mediator of the group. The duchess had always called him the sensible one. Hidden beneath his mischievious nature were unplumbed depths of sensitivity, and a desire for fair play lurked in his intelligent hazel-colored eyes. It tended to surface at odd moments.

“You will get no argument from me.” Fayne’s mouth curved into a sarcastic smirk as he held out his glass. Secretly, he welcomed his friend’s intrusion. In spite of the lively music playing in the ballroom, the atmosphere in the
drawing room was utterly maudlin with the guests staring at his father’s portrait in blank shock or sobbing uncontrollably into their handkerchiefs, like several of the female guests had done.

Fayne could not fault his mother’s efforts. With the assistance of his sister, the duchess had honored the duke’s request that they celebrate the life he had led, and not mourn his demise. It was a fitting sentiment for a man who many believed had enjoyed more than his fair share of decadent living.

Ramscar brought him back to the present with the clinking of crystal as he filled Fayne’s glass. Muttering to himself, the man rummaged a hand into one of the inner pockets of his coat and retrieved an empty glass. He poured himself a generous portion of brandy and then placed the decanter on the floor between them.

“So what’s the plan, Solitea?”

Fayne flinched. He had not given it much thought; however, the dukedom belonged to him now. From this day forward, he would no longer be thought of as Lord Temmes, but rather as the Duke of Solitea. With this new title came all its privileges—and curses. His hand was not quite steady as he brought the rim of the glass to his lips.

Ramscar shot his friend an exasperated glance. “You’re the old man’s heir, Carlisle. Surely you anticipated the day you’d claim that inheritance.” His gaze drifted over to the duke’s magnificent portrait where two young ladies were paying their respects. Regrettably, there was not a respectful bone in Ramscar’s head when it came to females. As he sipped his brandy, his friend’s hungry gaze gleamed appreciatively at the curvaceous backside of one of the mourners.

“Ram, my father died eight days ago. Pardon me if I find his sudden demise a bit unsettling,” Fayne said dryly. A flash of color caught his attention at the open doorway. He muffled an oath as he recognized the newcomers.

Holt Cadd, Marquess of Byrchmore, and Townsend Lidsaw, Viscount Everod, approached them with the confidence born of a friendship that had begun in boyhood. Their titles and noble bloodlines made them worthy companions for a duke’s heir. Through the years, they had played, fought, and studied together. Handsome, rich, and unmarried, the four had prowled London, daring the world to stop them from claiming all they desired. The
ton
affectionately referred to them as
les sauvages nobles,
the noble savages. It had been a sobriquet they had reveled in and reinforced by their drunken escapades, whoring, and reckless gambling.

“Since the furniture is still upright we assumed it was safe to approach,” Cadd said, using the wall to brace his muscular form.

At four and twenty, he was the youngest—and the easiest to provoke. Once he had been a pretty lad, and this had forced him to engage in countless fights when they were in school. During one of those exchanges, Cadd had broken his nose. The injury had ruined the youth’s prettiness. However, it did little to make his face less appealing. With gleaming black eyes and a slightly imperfect nose Cadd seemed to fascinate the ladies of the
ton.
Although his dark brown hair was long enough to be tied neatly into a queue, the marquess generally wore his slightly curling locks unfettered.

There was a reckless air about Cadd that always invited trouble. “What are you doing in here, Carlisle?” he asked in his provoking manner.

“Getting drunk,” Fayne replied, signaling Ramscar by shaking his empty glass. He had been avoiding the ballroom for the past hour. The notion of dancing or speaking to the sympathetic and the curious held no appeal for him. His mother and sister had more patience for such nonsense.

“Mostly there, I’d wager.”

Naturally, the sardonic comment was uttered by another one of his good friends, Viscount Everod. No one would ever describe the young lord as handsome. “Arresting” was a more appropriate word for him. A few inches taller than Fayne, Everod gave one the impression of a stern medieval overlord. His glossy black hair was long, the ends reaching several inches past his broad, muscular shoulders. Even the casual observer would recall the viscount’s amber eyes. Ringed with light green bands, they burned with an inner fire that could be either hot or cold. Though his cravat hid most of it, he possessed a wicked scar that curved from the left side of his neck and ended on the right underside of his jaw. No one mentioned the scar; not even his friends. They knew better than most that concealed beneath Everod’s biting wit, the man had a formidable temper. On numerous boisterous occasions the man’s disagreeable temperament had placed him right in the thick of things, with his friends protecting his back. Fayne doubted the viscount would have wanted it any other way.