Wicked

"You're incredibly kind," she whispered.

Her lips were half parted and only inches away. It took all his willpower to resist the temptation, her sweet vulnerability, her sadness affecting even his disreputable soul.

"May I kiss you?" she whispered.

"You probably shouldn't." He was trying to be honorable. She perhaps didn't understand what a kiss would do to him.

"I'm not an innocent."

Beau shut his eyes briefly, her few simple words permission for all he wished to do. And when he opened his eyes, he murmured, heated and low, "Let
me
kiss
you
...…”

And then the man known by salacious repute as Glory lived up to his name.

===========================================

A Bantam Book

Copyright 1996

February 1800

"Stay a while longer. It's not even morning. I'll wake the ladies. ..."

"Can't. Have to leave." Beau St. Jules shrugged his broad shoulders into his coat and stood for a moment surveying the sleeping dancer from the corps de ballet who'd entertained him so pleasantly the last few days. Her slender, nubile body was only partially covered by the sheet, the crimson-hung bed short feet away. "Damned tempting to stay though, Albington," he murmured, his shadowed eyes half-lidded, memories of the previous night stirring his blood. Slipping a small enameled watch from his waistcoat pocket, he glanced at the painted face. "What day is it?"

"Sunday, the first."

His head came up, his dark brows mildly creased. "You sure?"

"Positive. Tomorrow I get my monthly stipend. I
never
forget that, even with cunt like this warming my bed. It's the first and soon I'll be
solvent
again." Leaning forward in his chair, the young Marquis of Albington reached across the card table for a wine bottle. "And I'll drink to that," he said with a grin, pouring a ruby stream of first-rate claret in his glass.

"Jesus," the Earl of Rochefort muttered, beginning to swiftly button up his waistcoat. "I thought it was Saturday."

"Missed an engagement, did you?"

"My sister's birthday," Beau noted with a grimace, deftly slipping the fine linen of his neckcloth into a presentable knot. "The duke's going to want my head on a platter. Ma
m
an puts such store in birthdays."

The fair-haired man let out a low whistle. "I'd cut and run if I were you. You're on your way to Naples anyway. Leave early."

"I promised Nell a trip to Madame La Clerque's. Where the hell are my boots?"

"Where the feverish Miss Gambetta tossed them after stripping your clothes from you. Near the door, I'd say."

Recalling the young lady's eagerness, Beau smiled as he surveyed the shadowed environs near Albington's apartment door. "She
is
an insatiable little piece, isn't she? Tell her I'll see her when I return."

"If she's still available. Monty's after her for a more permanent arrangement. You could always set her up in Half Moon Street before you leave and guarantee her accessibility."

"Not likely," the Duke of Seth's eldest son murmured, moving toward the door to retrieve the boots he'd spied under the puddled folds of Miss Gambetta's hastily discarded azure silk gown. "I don't set up light o' loves." Nor had he any need, with the entirety of London's available females in hot pursuit.

Short moments later he was booted and reasonably attired, considering his clothes weren't crisply fresh from his valet, but then he'd had substantial practice making himself presentable after a night spent in some lady's boudoir. He
could
use the services of a barber, though, he decided, glancing at his image in a candlelit mirror. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw.

Pulling several bills from his coat pocket, he set them on the
table.
¹
"See that . . . a
h
—"

"Mariana," his friend helpfully interposed.

"Mariana gets this with my heartfelt thanks," Beau finished with a smile. "She's
damned
good."

"Good enough to make you forget your sister's birthday," Charles Albington sportively reminded him.

Beau grinned. "She actually can wrap her legs around her neck."

"Most definitely."

Amusement lit Beau St. Jule
s
's eyes. "I guess that's worth a tongue-lashing from the duke."

"You looked as though you were enjoying yourself," Albington drolly noted. "Think of that luscious cunt when the père is flaying you alive."

"I just have to appear suitably contrite while he's chastising
m
e for upsetting Ma
m
an. Nell don't care when she gets her new wardrobe from Madame La Clerque's."

"She old enough for all that frippery?"

"Hell no, she's only thirteen, but she wants
real
dress-up clothes." He shrugged. "So I said I'd buy her some."

"Before too many years you'll have to guard your sister from all the rakes like us."

"Not Nell. Sh
e
can take care of herself. Wants to be a jockey like Maman was."

"Maybe I'll marry her myself," the Marquis of Albington cheerfully remarked. "Always wanted a prize-winning jockey."

"Then you'll have to give up all your whoring."

The marquis's eyes opened wide. This was a time of great freedom for men, married or not. Faithfulness was never a requirement.

"She's my sister, Charlie," the Earl of Rochefort softly remonstrated, his hand on the door latch. "She's different." And with that quiet warning, he left.

******************

Later that morning, at the same time Beau was enduring a rare reprimand from his father, Serena Blythe was suffering yet another of the countless dressing-downs dispensed with righteous regularity by her employer, Mrs. Totha
m
.

"I distinctly told you to keep your eyes down when traversing the downstairs hallways and not to speak to anyone unless asked a direct question by one of the family. Did I not?"

"Yes, ma'am," Serena quietly said, clenching her fists to keep from striking the face of the spiteful, pompous woman seated before her.

"Yet dear Neville tells me you not only gazed at him with brazen temerity this morning but you had the nerve to compliment him on his appearance. And on the Lord's day too! I won't have it! I won't have you practicing your female wiles on my innocent young son! Do you understand, Blythe!" Her double chins jiggled in indignation.

"Yes, ma'am." It would do no good to defend herself before Neville's doting mother. Her only son could do no wrong and slimy, lying creature that he was, he'd deliberately fabricated an untruth to further assail her position in the household. She'd been fending off his unwelcome advances for a month now, ever since he'd been sent down from Cambridge in disgrace. "I can have you fired without a recommendation," he'd threatened that morning when he'd caught her coming downstairs to fetch new quills for the schoolroom and backed her up against the wall with his soft, pudgy body.
"Or
I can see that your life improves," he'd silkily added, his breath sour with the smell of last night's wine. "You're wasting your time teaching my two stupid sisters. I can set you up in style."

She'd feigned innocent dismay and slipped under his arm, not allowing herself to deal with him as she wished. She would have preferred felling him with a solid knee to the groin, but then she'd be thrown out into the street with certainty and she desperately needed her governess post. But the pressure of his advances was daily increasing, and as she stood humbly before Mrs. Totham
'
s rebuke, she wondered how much longer she could resist Neville Totham's salacious demands.

"However the
aristocracy
might disport themselves," Neville's mother said with a virtuous sniff, "the business class has sterner morals and I won't have you corrupting Neville with your loose, scandalous ways." The particular denigration of her family was pointed and familiar. Mrs. Totha
m
never failed to remind Serena that her father, Viscount Amberson, had gambled away his fortune and the family estate, Fallwood, before he died. "I don't want to have to remind you of your position again, Blythe. Servants are to be seen, not heard."

"Yes, ma'am," she repeated, her submission mortifying but necessary. It had been four years now since her widowed father's death, four dreadful years except for the brief ray of cheer when Julia Castelli and her father had come last fall to catalog Mr. Totham's paintings and offered her their friendship.

"In the future you are to remain in the schoolroom unless called for," Mrs. Totha
m
curtly said. Her small eyes buried in corpulent folds of flesh narrowed to slits, raking Serena's form from head to toe with a chill basilisk gaze. "That should keep your Jezebel lure away from my darling boy. Now get back upstairs." And nodding dismissively, the wealthy foundry owner's wife reached for her cup of chocolate.

Serena shivered as she walked from the room, whether from tension or fatigue she wasn't sure. She was desperately weary of her humbled circumstances, of the constant vicious discipline, of Neville's harrowing pursuit. Unclenching her fingers at last, she felt as though she'd been wrung dry. Her eyes stung with tears as she stood in the shadowed corridor leading from the breakfast parlor to the servants' stairs, and drawing in a deep breath, she tried to stem the overwhelming urge to cry. She wouldn't allow herself to break down; tears wouldn't bring her salvation, nor would self-pity, she reminded herself for the thousandth time since entering the Tothams' employ. She'd survived four years and she'd last a short time longer. By July she'd have enough money saved to pay for her tuition at the Academy of Art in Florence. And with the money Julia had recently sent for passage, her dream of quitting the Totham household would soon be realized.

Only f
i
ve months more, she reminded herself, her day of liberation etched on her liver. After these miserable years, she could tolerate mere months. The encouraging thought cheered her as she climbed the two long flights of stairs to the nursery floor.

"What took you so long?" Hannah Totha
m
petulantly complained when Serena walked into the schoolroom. "And you haven't any quills!"

"Mama says she's lazy and worthless," her older sister Caroline sharply said, her grating voice identical to her mother's. "She never does
anything
right."

Serena's two charges were small replicas of their plain, stout mother, their mannerisms already frightening facsimiles despite their youth. At twelve and fourteen they were being groomed to enter society where their father's riches would obtain them each a husband of distinction. Vain, self-important, fully aware of their wealth, they were difficult to teach and their lack of success with French and the arts of painting and music were blamed on Serena's ineptitude.

"Why don't we take out the French pattern books and practice our list of fashion terms?" Serena suggested, knowing the girls would much prefer that to lessons in the Scriptures. In her current low spirits, she wasn't capable of suffering through a morning of sulky disinterest and apathy.

"Can we have chocolate bonbons while we work?" Caroline pressured, her antennae maliciously attuned to Serena's disheartened mood.

Serena hesitated; bonbons were strictly rationed for Mrs. Totham was trying to mold her daughters into svelte beautie
s
—
a
task of daunting proportions.

"I'll tell Mama
you
ate them all if you won't let us have any," Caroline warned.

"Have all you want," Serena said with a small sigh, unequal to another struggle with the ill-natured girls. And perhaps intimidated by Caroline's threat as well. A fortnight ago when the Totham daughters had eaten all the candy and blamed it on her, their mother had withheld Serena's meals for two days. Even with the bland, frugal nursery diet, Serena didn't care to risk having her food withdrawn again. She hadn't had breakfast yet this morning.

"Caroline, you find the bonbons then," Serena said, her voice resigned."Hannah, take out the newest pattern book with the yellow muslin gown on the cover. And I'll tell the nursery maid we'd like chocolate and toast."

"I want heavy cream," Caroline said.

"Whipped," Hannah added. "I want two cups."

"Very well." Serena left to find the maid, who generally could be found sleeping in the sewing room next door. The girls could have asked for fried elephant and ostrich eggs at the moment and she would have agreed to order it. After her recent ordeal with Neville and Mrs. Tot
h
am, her combatant strength was depleted.

******************

The two men seated in the Seth House study bore such a striking resemblance, the ton referred to them as the Sainted Pair. Tall, muscular, their dark hair cut fashionably short a la Titus, the lure of their stark, sensual looks exceeded only by their charm, the two men had monopolized the attention of all the beautiful women for a very long time.