Ways to Be Wicked (29 page)

And then, when she realized what he’d been saying, she frowned. And went very still in his arms. And pulled away a little.

“You...carried through with a duel so that I would come here and make a scene?”

He refused to release her. Not when he’d just told her he loved her. “Of course. How else would you know that you
really
loved me if I hadn’t? How else would you find the courage to take what you really want, Sylvie? And if I hadn’t followed through with it, how else would you know that I loved you, too? You might have gone home with Etienne simply to save my life.”

She considered this, then narrowed her eyes at him. “That was a risky game.”

He smiled faintly. “It certainly was. I’ve some experience with risk, however.”

He noticed her expression and the dangerous little sparks in her eyes, visible even by the waning moonlight, anger stiffening her arms.

“All’s fair in love and war, Sylvie.”

He
had
fought dirty, of course. But not with Etienne— with Sylvie.

Who was still glaring silently.

“Are you going to begin throwing things, Sylvie? If so, can you begin by throwing your body at me again?”

This won a smile. And so he ran his hands up her bare arms, chilled now, pulled her back into his chest, wrapped his arms around her, and she pressed her cheek against his heart. Held her for a moment.

He noticed, distantly, that Kit and The General had melted away to a polite distance, out of hearing range of declarations of love.

Over near the carriage, Tom saw a distant point of light: the tip of The General’s cigar.

“I am sorry,” Sylvie said after a moment. “I
was
bloody stupid.”

“Quite all right,” he said magnanimously.

“Do you need a wife?” she murmured against his chest.

“Are you proposing to me, Miss Sylvie Lamoreux?”

“I believe that I am.”

“I’m but a penniless bastard, and you, apparently, are some sort of ballet royalty related to a bloody viscount.”

“Not so penniless,” she murmured.

“You should have had the decency to allow me to do the proposing,” he added.

“Forgive me.” She sounded contrite. “How would you have done it? With a bawdy song?”

“Like this, the man of economy that I am: Will you be my wife?”

He knew a brief moment of terror when the words were out of his mouth, and she was silent, still in his arms. It was a dizzying moment, where his world tilted on its axis, and he knew in the next instant, nothing would ever be the same.

“Mmm,” she said softly against his throat, nuzzling him shamelessly there. “Yes, I believe I am quite willing to do that.”

Ridiculous, awkward, helpless, glorious, immortal.

It called for another kiss, the first one after a proposal of marriage. And this one was different, too. Full of wonder and promise.

“Wait,” he said suddenly. “What did you mean by ‘not so penniless’?”

She looked up almost guiltily. But her eyes rivaled the rising sun for glow. “The General and I have something to tell you.”

They decided to divide the party into two carriages for the journey home, and Susannah and Kit were very understanding—more than understanding, if all the raised brows and meaningful smiles and manly pats on the back (for Tom) were any indication—when Sylvie asked whether they minded if she stayed, just for the evening, with her fiancé, Mr. Tom Shaughnessy. It was all in the family, anyhow: The surgeon was no doubt too sleepy to spread the scandalous tale of Tom Shaughnessy and his fiancée, and Kit and Susannah most decidedly didn’t care, having done their own share of scandalous things.

And so Kit and Susannah and The General and the sleepy surgeon all boarded one carriage, and the other carriage took Sylvie and Tom.

He pulled her instantly into his arms, across his lap, and he pulled the cloak around the two of them, each warming the other.

“Are you still dressed as a fairy?” he murmured, suddenly.

“Mmm.”

And then his mouth was at the base of her throat, hot against her chilled flesh, and his hands were fumbling up her dress. The aftermath of fear and near violence, relief and completion, fueled urgency, and Sylvie helped him, just as desperate for him. Swiftly, awkwardly, the dress was raised sufficiently, trousers unbuttoned. He brought his mouth to hers, covered her breasts with his hands, but still they took each other swiftly and gracelessly, half-laughing in wonder at the sheer raw hurry of it, release coming for

both of them in harsh exultant cries minutes later.

Followed by peace.

Tom held her, pulled the cloak more tightly around her. Tucked his head between her shoulder and her chin, in that soft fragrant place. Placed his lips against her beating heart there.

“By the way, Sylvie, I know,” he murmured.

She went still. “What do you know?” She tried for innocence.

He laughed softly. “Didn’t you notice there were six mirrors? One for each girl. I sensed you might rather take matters into your own hands when it came to the ballet.”

A silence. “Clever, aren’t you.”

“Mmm.”

“But there is something you might not know, Tom.” And now she was smug.

“Is there?”

“There
is
money in it.”

And she told him of their plans.

London was filled with towers and bridges and other high places, and rumor had it that the day Tom Shaughnessy married Sylvie Lamoreux women flew so thickly from them it was like watching confetti fall from the sky. But then again, exaggeration and spectacle had always followed Tom Shaughnessy wherever he went. Tom, in fact, did his part to encourage the rumor, because it amused him, even as his wife appreciated it somewhat less.

It was, in fact, spectacle enough, some said, to see the formerly infamous Tom Shaughnessy strolling the floors of his outrageously popular Family Emporium, his arm linked with that of his beautiful wife, Sylvie Holt Lamoreux Shaughnessy, a small copper-haired child atop his shoulders.

And the Family Emporium was outrageously popular in large part because Tom Shaughnessy had always been lucky in his friends.

Once Augustus Beedle learned of the Family Emporium from The General, he not only roused the interest of a number of wealthy investors, he persuaded His Majesty, King George IV, to pay a visit to watch a new
corps de ballet
comprised of beautiful girls named Molly, Lizzie, Jenny, Sally, Rose, and Sylvie performing a ballet crafted by The General himself.

Called, naturally:
Venus.

His Majesty had not required undue persuasion. Few men did where beautiful women were concerned.

“The least I could do for you, Tom,” The General told him.

On every floor something delightful took place: Plays for children to watch and wonderful things for them to climb upon, horses and castles and pirate ships; on other floors, places for men and women to enjoy the company of each other separately and together, over tea or cigars or cards.

Watching the ballet was something they did together, primarily because everyone knew the king had done it.

But it
was
clear to everyone that Tom Shaughnessy, having acquired a beautiful wife and a beautiful child— for Jamie had come to live with him—had abandoned his wicked ways for good.

But every night, in a snug little room in a snug little bed, his wife insisted he remind her how very, very wicked he could be.

Don’t miss the final book in Julie Anne Long’s scintillating Holt sisters trilogy!

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The Secret to Seduction

AVAILABLE IN MASS MARKET SUMMER 2007.

Chapter 1

I
N THE WINTER OF 1820, Sabrina Fairleigh, daughter of the Vicar of Tinbury, was startled to learn that her future happiness rested entirely in the hands of a libertine.

Or, rather, not just
a
libertine.

The
Libertine.

This was how the Earl of Rawden signed his poetry, poetry that scandalized, enthralled, and allegedly caused women of all ages and ranks to cast off their dignity and trail him like hounds on the scent of a hare:
The Libertine.
It was the sobriquet by which he was known throughout all of England, and a million rumors, each one more shocking than the next, orbited the man: He lived openly with his mistress, he’d killed a man in a duel, he spent profligately on gaming and drink and his reprobate friends. His reputation was, in fact, such that word of it had managed to waft, like opium-and-incense-scented smoke, all the way to the tiny, tucked-away town of Tinbury, Derbyshire— where the air, incidentally, had never been scented by anything more controversial than roast lamb, and where life was as sedate, predictable, and pleasing as a minuet. The gentle, low-swelling green hills surrounding the vicarage, not to mention the Vicar of Tinbury himself, seemed to prevent local passions from becoming unduly inflamed. No one in Tinbury seemed in danger of writing sensual poetry.

But neither the gentle hills nor the Vicar had been able to prevent the quietly determined Sabrina Fair-leigh from forming a...well,
attachment,
was the word she carefully used in her own mind...to her father’s handsome curate, Mr. Geoffrey Lambert. Her heart used a different sort of word when it thought of Mr. Geoffrey Lambert.

And it was perhaps evidence of the Creator’s perverse sense of humor that her father’s curate, Mr. Geoffrey Lambert, and The Libertine, Earl of Rawden were cousins. It was a somewhat labyrinthine connection, perhaps, but a connection nevertheless. And it was Mr. Lambert’s earnest hope that his wealthy, infamous cousin, the Earl of Rawden, would find it in his heart to finance his dream of being a missionary, and it was the unspoken understanding between Sabrina and the curate that she would accompany him on his mission. . . as his wife.

Much of what took place between Sabrina and the handsome curate was unspoken. Indeed, sometimes Sabrina thought their communication primarily involved reverent gazing.

So now, on this winter morning after a surprisingly early snowfall, Sabrina was rattling along in a closed carriage while her friend Lady Mary Capstraw dozed, mouth half-open, across from her, and a discreet distance behind,
miles
behind, rolled the carriage containing Mr. Lambert. For the Earl of Rawden had bought a grand home—the grandest home in the Midlands, unoccupied for ages—and in celebration had decided to hold a house party. And through the same fine webbing of connections that linked the two cousins and everyone else of remotely noble birth, invitations for both Mr. Lambert and Sabrina’s friend, Lady Mary Capstraw, had been procured, and Sabrina was invited along as Lady Mary’s companion.

Many an engagement had been secured at a house party. At this thought, Sabrina’s heart gave a tiny hop. The understanding might very well become a proposal within the next fortnight.

Sabrina didn’t doubt that Mr. Lambert—Geoffrey, as she now called him, rather boldly, and never in front of her father—with his lean, elegant face and long slender fingers and his wistful, penetrating dark eyes could be related to an earl. He in fact, could have
been
an earl, she decided, though she hadn’t the faintest idea what one looked like, as Tinbury featured only a squire or two. But the idea of the Earl of Rawden—
The Libertine,
for heaven’s sake—with duels and his mistress and his poetry that caused such a tumult in the hearts of women...well, it all sounded so very
impractical.
How dreadfully uncomfortable and inconvenient it must be to be slave to such passions, such untidy emotions. She wondered whether the wear of his life would show on his face, or on his body; surely debauchery would take its toll. She decided, quite peacefully, she would feel compassion for the earl.

Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if Geoffrey would kiss her at the house party.

Sabrina wondered whether the early snowfall was an omen. Mrs. Dewberry, a poor elderly woman confined to her home in Tinbury whom Sabrina visited at least once every week, would have called it an omen. Then again, everything—the shapes of clouds, the spots on sows, the calls of birds—had begun to feel like an omen to her now that she was very likely on the brink of marriage.

Still, only little patches of snow remained, scattered across the green like abandoned lacy handkerchiefs. The wan early sunlight was gaining in strength, and the bare birch trees crowding the sides of the road shone nearly metallic in it, making Sabrina blink as they flew past in the carriage. She wondered, idly, why trees didn’t become woolly in winter, like cats and cattle, but instead dropped all of their leaves and went bare.

She smiled to herself and tucked her chin into her muffler. It was the sort of thought she had grown accustomed to keeping to herself, and it was because of that furrow that ran the width of Vicar Fairleigh’s forehead.

It had been dug there, no doubt, by decades of pious thoughts and an endless stream of little concerns—his parishioners, his next sermon, how he was going to feed his wife and five children—and every time Sabrina said fanciful things, or played a hymn on the pianoforte with an excess of feeling, his eyebrows dived, that furrow became a veritable trench, and his gaze became decidedly wary, as though it were only a matter of time before she sprouted wings like a fairy and flew out the window.

So she’d learned to lock such thoughts away in her mind, much the way she’d locked away her other small treasures: the small rock she’d found with the imprint of a leaf, the needle she’d first used when she’d learned to sew, a handkerchief given to her by Geoffrey, and of course, the miniature of her mother, a face so like her own that her heart squeezed each time she looked at it. She seldom looked at it, for in the household of five children, it made her feel strangely lonely, and it reminded her she did not truly belong. Vicar Fairleigh had in fact gently requested she keep the miniature safely tucked away, and she had obediently done so all her life.

She had nothing but one faint and frantic memory of her mother, and the Fairleighs had told her, quite gently, that they knew nothing at all about her. All Sabrina knew was that the Fairleighs had taken her in when she had been orphaned, and loved her and raised her as their own, along with their four other dark-haired, round-faced, well-behaved children: three boys and two girls.

But she knew that Vicar Fairleigh worried just a little bit more about her, was just a little more watchful of her than he was of his other children, as though he was prepared for her to do. . .
something.
She knew not what. Something disquieting, no doubt. Possibly because by the age of thirteen she’d gone and done the unthinkable and become what could only be described as...well, “pretty” was the word everyone in Tinbury used, but they used it gingerly, for it seemed unlikely— unnecessary, really—for a vicar’s daughter to be pretty. She was fine-boned and creamy-skinned, with rich dark hair that fell in loose spirals to nearly her waist when she brushed it out at night. And then there were her eyes: large with a hint of a tilt to them, green as spring. In truth, the word “pretty” was very nearly a lie. Where Sabrina Fairleigh was concerned, the word “beautiful” begged for consideration.

Certainly, as Sabrina grew older, it became clear that many of the male members of the congregation had ceased pretending to listen to the sermons, and were instead admiring the vicar’s daughter, and all of this was rather inconvenient for the vicar.

And of course, the handsome curate had no eyes for anyone other than Sabrina once he’d arrived in Tinbury. Sabrina rather suspected her father wouldn’t mind at all seeing her safely married off, happily pursuing work for the poor on some other continent.

She peered out the coach window as the horses and carriage decisively took a curve in the drive. Here, suddenly, the trees grew more snugly together, evenly spaced and rigorously groomed and each equally as tall as the next, as though here the owner of the property had decided to show nature precisely who was in charge.

Her heartbeat accelerated, because she knew as the end of their journey approached...so did the beginning of the rest of her life.

She puffed out a breath: it hovered whitely about her face as surely as if she’d been smoking a cigar, which amused and scandalized her. She nudged her friend with the toe of her boot.

Lady Mary Capstraw opened an eye. “Mmm?”

“Mrs. Dewberry said the squirrels were gathering more nuts this year, and the bark was thicker on the north side of the trees.”

Mary stared at Sabrina blankly.

“Winter,” Sabrina explained impatiently. “She said it would be both early and hard this year because of the squirrels and the bark.”

Mary stretched. “Oh, the snow has scarcely stuck to the ground,” she scoffed cheerfully. “Winter might be early, perhaps, but I daresay this little dusting means nothing at all.”

Sabrina said nothing.

Mary sighed. “It’s not an omen, Sabrina,”

And then the house came into view.

Like a pair of birds hushed in deference to an approaching storm, both she and Mary went very quiet, and gaped.

Magnificent.
She’d never before used such a word to describe any corporeal thing. She’d never before had cause.

It was less a house than a...than a. . .
range.
It dominated the landscape the way she imagined the Alps must. An edifice of tawny stone, easily four times as wide as it was tall. Its vast cobblestoned courtyard featured a large marble fountain: The Three Graces seemed to compete with each other to hold up a single urn, from which water Sabrina suspected would shoot up during warmer months. One of the Graces was loosing a glossy marble breast from her toga. Sabrina quickly averted her eyes from it.

It occurred to her that this was both a magnificent and stunningly. . .
arrogant
house. Who on earth would feel entitled to such a dwelling, or could live here without feeling dwarfed by it?

In silence, Sabrina and Mary allowed themselves to be helped from the carriage by a swarm of footmen, and watched as their trunks were deftly ferried into the house.

Sabrina glanced to the left of the entrance, and saw, on the snow-dusted green surrounding the courtyard, a man and woman standing close together, and something about their postures, the tension and intimacy of them, riveted Sabrina’s gaze.

The man was very tall, and his greatcoat hung in graceful folds from his shoulders to his ankles—the way it fit him told her this was her first glimpse of truly fine clothing. His hair was dark, straight, gleaming with nearly a blue sheen; his head was lowered as though he was listening intently to whatever it was the woman was saying. The woman wore a scarlet pelisse, the furred collar of it cradling her delicate chin, and her hair was fair, bright as a coin in the sun. Her shoulders sloped elegantly; her long hands were bare and startlingly white against her pelisse. Everything about the two of them spoke of intimacy and tension.

Sabrina couldn’t help it: she strained to hear, but could only make out a woman’s voice, low, lilting, musical.

Suddenly then the man’s head jerked back. He went utterly rigid and stared down at the woman.

Sabrina’s breath suspended: She’d seen a fox look at a vole just like that. Right before it seized it in its jaws.

And then he abruptly pivoted and strode away from the woman in long strides.

The woman’s laughter followed him, a thin silvery sound. Merry as sleigh bells.

Good heavens.

Such passions,
she reminded herself. How uncomfortable it must be to be a slave to them. She wondered what on earth the woman had said to cause such a reaction from such a very large man.

She tried to force her interest and trepidation back into the clothes of compassion, but they wriggled back out again. She couldn’t help but take a tiny involuntary step back toward the carriage, for the man’s anger came with him as he approached the fountain.

And then seemed to truly notice them, and immediately his posture changed as though he’d thrown off a cloak.

And when Sabrina looked up into his face, her lungs ceased to draw in air.

This
was the only sort of man who could possibly suit this house.

Much more imposing from a mere few feet away, he was lean and broad-shouldered, more than a head taller than Sabrina; she tilted her head up to look into his face. There was a hint of Geoffrey in the lean face and the deep-set eyes, but his jaw was angular, his cheekbones cut decisively higher, the planes and hollows of his face more starkly defined. And his eyes were startling: blue, pale, crystalline, glitteringly alive. His brows thick dark slashes over them.

The Libertine.

Absurdly, she thought:
Debauchery suits him.

Clinging to him were the remnants of his anger, and also, beneath it, Sabrina sensed something else. Her eyes darted toward where the woman had been standing; she saw, in the distance, the scarlet pelisse retreating deeper into the front garden. Whatever the woman had said to him had been intended to cut, and Sabrina sensed that it had.

But in an instant he was all enveloping charm and elegance and command. She sensed it was all second nature, the grace and the manners, no more effort for him than breathing; she also sensed that he scarcely took note of her, had taken her and her friend in with a glance of those fiercely intelligent eyes, summed them up, silently dismissed them, had moved on to other far more interesting things in his head.

Compassion wasn’t absent, but Sabrina knew that compassion was the least of what she felt for this man.

And she decided then and there that the Earl of Rawden would most definitely take note of her before his house party was over.