The Wickedest Lord Alive (15 page)

Clare finally drew breath and Aunt Sadie said, “Well, really, Clare!” and Lizzie said, “Clare, you have it all wrong—“

“And,”
said Clare, triumphantly ignoring them both, “nothing would do for the marquis but that he must see Lizzie on the instant. So he left the party and drove off like the wind.”

There was a whirl in Lizzie’s brain. Try as she might, she couldn’t bring to mind a single reason why Steyne would have behaved in such a manner. None that would satisfy the present company’s curiosity, that was.

She merely said weakly, “Clare, you exaggerate. I am sure it wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, it was, I assure you,” said her friend with an earnestness that made Lizzie cringe. “But the best part,” added Clare, addressing Mrs. Worthington with a spark of uncharacteristic malice in her eye, “was what Lord Lydgate said to me at the picnic.”

For some reason, Clare had lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Every lady leaned in to hear.

Every lady except Lady Chard, who barked, “Speak up, gel. My hearing’s not what it was, you know.”

“Well,” said Clare with disastrous clarity, “Lord Lydgate said that the marquis was very taken with our Lizzie. He said, he wouldn’t be surprised if Lord Steyne cut Mr. Huntley out.” She clapped her hands in excited triumph, clearly expecting everyone to share her delight.

But she was the only one present who looked pleased at the disclosure. Even Aunt Sadie appeared doubtful, and she had always held Lizzie in great affection.

Miss Worthington raised her brows in polite incredulity; her mama curled her lip. Felicity looked plainly shocked.

Lady Chard summed up the general consensus with a loud snort. “Poppycock! That young rapscallion was hoodwinking you.”

“Why on earth should he?” demanded Clare. “Besides, I could see for myself. I didn’t need the viscount to tell me.”

After a pregnant silence, Mrs. Worthington spoke. “It is to be hoped that you would not encourage attentions from a man of
that
sort, Miss Allbright.”

Lizzie had been covered with mortification at Clare’s tactlessness, but at these words, she stiffened. Quietly, she inquired, “And what sort would that be, Mrs. Worthington?”

Mrs. Worthington sniffed. “Lord Steyne has the sort of reputation that does not bear speaking of. Suffice it to say that it would not be prudent to encourage his admiration.”

The speech was as much an insult to Lizzie as to Lord Steyne. Lizzie knew Mrs. Worthington meant to set her in a class apart from her own daughter and from Clare. The class of woman who might be vulnerable to improper advances from a rake like the Marquis of Steyne.

Lizzie was accustomed to such slights. Strangely, she was more furious on Lord Steyne’s account than her own.

The marquis might be steeped in vice, but she was reasonably certain he would never ruin an innocent woman, of whatever class or station. Indeed, it hurt even to think of him behaving in such a way.

How do you think he came by his reputation?
a small voice jeered inside her.

But no, she knew in her bones that he was not
that
sort of rake.

With a smile, she said, “I would not presume to know about such matters, Mrs. Worthington. But I do recall a saying in the Bible. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’”

Mrs. Worthington pokered up at that. Like many hypocrites, she prided herself on her piety.

Her daughter, however, was made of sterner stuff. “I believe what Mama is trying to point out to you, Miss Allbright, is that given his, er, proclivities, Lord Steyne’s notice of you is not perhaps so great a compliment.”

Lizzie placed her hand on her breast. “Can it be? Do you think the marquis does not mean marriage?”

A giggle escaped Clare, but Miss Worthington had never enjoyed much of a sense of humor. Or perhaps it was merely that she was so very eager to put Lizzie in her place.

She gave a short, dry laugh. “My dear Miss Allbright. A man of Steyne’s birth, breeding, rank, and fortune can look as high as he wishes for a wife.”

Her brows knit, Lizzie said, “But … but why should Lord Steyne pay me attentions if he did not wish to court me?”

Even Clare’s eyes widened at that.

The rest of the ladies present exchanged meaningful looks. Looks that said,
The poor girl is so innocent, she doesn’t even know when a man wants to give her a slip on the shoulder.

“I am sure I do not know,” said Mrs. Worthington at the same time as Aunt Sadie said, “I’ll explain it to you later, Lizzie, dear.”

So not one of them except her dearest Clare believed the Marquis of Steyne could want Lizzie for a bride.

“See that you do explain it, Sadie,” ordered Lady Chard. “Never does to keep girls in ignorance. Most likely to end in disaster that way.”

“But what about love?” Lizzie said softly, almost to herself. “What if a man of wealth and position and all the rest of it falls in love?”

What would that be like? she wondered. To wake every morning in Lord Steyne’s arms, knowing she was loved? Strangely, her treacherous imagination could conjure that picture all too vividly.

Mr. Allbright had told her she might be Lord Steyne’s salvation. A daunting task. He did not want to be saved. He wanted to beguile her into sin.

And she was oh so tempted to let him do just that. Only it wouldn’t be sin, would it? What her circle of acquaintances did not know was that any attentions Steyne paid her would be sanctified by marriage.

If only she could become properly acquainted with the real man behind the ice before he planted that heir in her womb. If only she could keep his interest long enough …

She came to herself with a small start, to see that even Lady Chard regarded her with a hint of pity. She struggled to recall what she’d said before falling into that reverie.

Then she laughed. “I am
teasing,
” she told them. “Why on earth should the Marquis of Steyne take the least interest in me?”

Chapter Eleven

The news his majordomo brought Xavier when he reached his London house made him swear viciously under his breath.

His mother was on her way back to England.

Nerissa was the only one besides him, Lizzie, Mr. Allbright, and Lizzie’s father who knew the truth about the marriage. And she would be back just in time to ruin his plans.

The old fury rose up in him, roiling and hot as lava. But there would be no resultant explosion, not for him. He never, ever lost control of his temper, and particularly not over Nerissa.

He would not tear the place up, kick the walls, overturn chairs, smash anything that was priceless and breakable. Not even as an impassioned teenager could he bring himself to vent his anger that way. He kept it all inside. Until it grew into something so hard and compacted, so monstrous, he could not set it free without destroying himself completely.

Damn the stupid, blind hubris that had led him to make plans without taking into account the she-devil who had spawned him. St. Petersburg had seemed far enough away for the threat Nerissa posed to be negated. He’d been a fool to dawdle so long before retrieving Lizzie from her self-imposed exile.

A throbbing pain took up residence at his temples. He picked up the post that lay awaiting his perusal and sorted through it without reading the words.

“What about the new husband?” he asked Martin.

“Dead, my lord,” said the majordomo without emotion. The man had been with him for far too many years to be surprised at Nerissa’s machinations.

Xavier tossed the post on his desk. “She wasted no time mourning him.” She’d probably done away with the poor sod.

The neat manservant remained silent. He knew better than to make any comment about Lady Steyne.

That was the Devil of it. Xavier hated the woman with all his being, primarily for the way she had tried to shame and blacken his sister’s name. But let no one else malign her—oh, no. A son must protect his mama from such slurs at all costs. No matter how well deserved those slurs might be.

Try as he might, he could not entirely eradicate the last vestige of chivalrous instinct where Nerissa was concerned. That particular weakness was the main reason she’d been able to do so much damage to him in the first place.

Now there was Lizzie and their proposed deception. His reliance on the fact that no one in England knew of their marriage.

He crossed to the window, which gave out onto the square. Why hadn’t he the wit to predict this? When, in his entire life, had his mother failed to twist the knife at the precise moment it would do the most damage?

He stared, unseeing out his window. “Where is she now?”

“She has left Vienna,” said Martin.

“She will stop in Paris.” Such a narcissistic, pleasure-loving woman could not resist. “If we are very lucky, she will spend the spring there.” She might even make her home in the French capital if she found a lover who was rich and powerful enough.

But he’d be a fool to trust to luck more than he’d done already. Even Nerissa’s monumental vanity did not get in the way of something she wanted. And she had a particular penchant for wrecking her children’s lives.

Lizzie would be on her way to Harcourt shortly. Given her “betrothal” to Huntley, there was no question that he must drive ahead with his plan. Now, he had even less time to secure her and get an heir than he’d thought. If only they did not have to wait nine months to discover the babe’s gender. And that was assuming one would be conceived straightaway …

Martin gave a discreet cough. “My lord, if I may, what are my orders should her ladyship wish to stay here while you are gone?”

“Admit her.”

Better to keep Nerissa under his eye in London than to wait and wonder. Too much to hope that she wouldn’t catch wind of the Harcourt party, though.

The only saving grace might be if she had another project in mind. She would, no doubt, be on the hunt for a powerful, wealthy man to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed. A man powerful enough to block Montford’s and Xavier’s plans to be rid of her.

“If her ladyship arrives here while I’m away, Martin, make sure you eliminate her staff. Send them to the Abbey if you have to. I don’t want my household overrun by pretty footmen.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Xavier spent the rest of the week engaged in various matters of business. In the summer months, the ton escaped the heat and dust of London for the country. Town was thin of company, and that suited him. He sped through urgent and important matters pertaining to his various financial interests and mercilessly delegated or rescheduled others.

On Xavier’s return to Steyne House after calling in at his club, he found Martin frowning over some sort of list.

“What is that?” said Xavier, tossing a package of rubies onto the desk.

“The guest list for your Brighton party, my lord.”

Martin hesitated. Since the fellow was not prone to uncertainty, Xavier gave him his full attention. “What about it?”

“Shall I cancel preparations, my lord?”

Xavier took his meaning. A sober married man ought to eschew such entertainments.

Taking the list from his majordomo, he thought of the orgy he’d held at his Brighton villa last summer. The elegant debauchery of it had not excited him overmuch. He’d been too occupied meddling in his cousin Beckenham’s affairs.

In two months, when the projected party would be held, he trusted Lizzie would be with child. That left him free to … What, exactly? He hadn’t thought beyond the begetting of that precious babe.

Had he not undertaken that they would live separate lives once the heir was conceived—at least until such time as they might try for another child? There would be no point rearranging his entire existence on account of a new wife.

He might have pledged fidelity—to a degree. He had not vowed to become a saint.

Days later, a deliciously scented love note told him that one person of his acquaintance was in town and had heard of his presence also.

It seemed an eon ago that such a note might have heralded pleasure rather than the heavy sense of an unpleasant obligation. Madeleine Drysdale was a loose end that needed tying.

He rang for Martin. “Order the barouche brought round immediately. And bring me that package. The one from Rundell and Bridge.”

Xavier’s carriage stopped outside the town house he had leased for Madeleine’s use on Clarges Street. It was an expensive address, but he didn’t begrudge any amount of money he spent on the women who shared his bed.

Madeleine was elegant and beautiful, highly inventive, accommodating to a fault. A charming companion with a pleasing touch of distance in her demeanor. A professional to the core, Madeleine was never possessive, nor would she betray any hint of annoyance if he let a month pass without visiting her.

She would be similarly unemotional when he terminated their arrangement, because Madeleine felt no more tender emotions for him than Xavier did for her. The magnificent ruby set he’d bought her had cost him a king’s ransom. He’d purchased it more in anticipation, to reward her for making their parting easy than to assuage any imagined chagrin she might feel.

When he joined her in her boudoir, Madeleine did not even glance at the gift in his hand. Instead, she selected a cigarillo from the box on the mantel and ran it beneath her nose with a gesture as sensual and arousing as it was calculated.

A sleek eyebrow quirked up. “Will you smoke, my lord?” She put the cigarillo between her full, lush lips and reached for a taper from the spill jar.

Her eyes, so dark and sultry, invited him to do more than smoke a cigarillo. She was dressed in a burgundy negligee that revealed just enough of her perfect skin to make a man’s blood heat. Despite the fact he hadn’t advised her when he intended to call, she’d clearly held herself in readiness, just in case.

That was a pity. He did not like to injure her pride by rejecting her overtures. And yet, whatever compassion he felt for her did not make him any more inclined to enjoy her body one last time.

“No, Madeleine. I have come to say good-bye.” He held out the package.