Lord of Darkness (11 page)

He stopped dead on the landing.
Damnation.
He didn’t want Margaret taking another man to her bed; it was as simple as that.

The realization did not improve his mood.

He took a deep breath and descended the rest of the stairs more slowly. He had to keep his purpose in attending this ball at the forefront of his mind. He needed to find out if Kershaw knew anything about what his friend Seymour had been doing in St. Giles with the lassie snatchers. This was strictly a Ghostly matter.

Outside, the ladies had already settled in the carriage, but at least Moulder had kept it from leaving without him. Godric opened the door and jumped in, aware that the occupants were shooting him curious looks.

It was Margaret, of course, who spoke first, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the carriage. “I didn’t know you were interested in attending balls; otherwise I would’ve invited you along.”

Godric schooled his face into what he hoped was a pleasant expression. “Naturally I shall escort you to evening entertainments.”

“Naturally,” Sarah said, just a bit drily. Her tone softened as she added, “I’m so glad you decided to come with us.”

Was he really that inattentive? A trace of guilt shot through his chest. This was his sister, after all. With his father dead, he should be the head of the family, guiding and protecting his stepmother and sisters.

“I’m sorry,” he
said, and by the looks on both his wife’s and sister’s faces, he’d surprised them. Great-Aunt Elvina merely snorted, but he ignored the old harridan. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you this afternoon.”

“No.” Sarah shook her head. “I’m the one who needs to apologize. I should never have moved things about in Clara’s room.”

“Do with it as you see fit,” he said. “It’s time, I suppose.”

“You’re sure?” Her eyes searched his.

He tried a smile and found it not that hard. “Yes.”

Godric was mostly quiet then for the rest of the drive, letting the ladies’ chatter flow about him. Twice he thought he saw Margaret examining him curiously in the dim carriage light, and he wished he could find some way of fulfilling her dreams without betraying Clara.

Kershaw lived in an old family town house that looked to be recently renovated. Godric remembered Moulder’s gossip as he escorted the ladies inside, and wondered if it had been Kershaw’s bride’s dowry that had paid for the house’s new façade.

The house opened to a grand receiving room, and Godric turned politely to help Great-Aunt Elvina out of her cloak. He gave the item to one of the waiting footmen and turned just in time to see Margaret’s dress revealed.

For a moment he stumbled to a halt, there in the crowded hallway.

His wife wore a salmon-pink dress that was a perfect foil for her dark curls. Her hair had been arranged in a more complicated style than usual, and the jewels set in the locks sparkled and flashed under the chandeliers hung high above. The low round neckline of the dress revealed
and displayed the soft mounds of her beautiful bosom, and as Margaret turned to laugh at something his sister said, he thought she looked like some goddess of gaiety come to life.

How very ironic that she was married to him, then.

He held out his arm to her. “You look lovely.”

Her lashes fluttered in surprise as she took his arm. “Thank you.”

Godric remembered himself then and paid similar compliments to Sarah and Great-Aunt Elvina, who arched an eyebrow with the first sign of humor he’d seen from her before taking his other elbow.

The ball was a mass of slowly shifting bodies.

“Goodness,” Great-Aunt Elvina exclaimed. “I haven’t been to such a crush since I was a girl.”

“Look, there’s your friend Lady Penelope, Megs,” Sarah said.

“Oh, yes,” Megs said absently. “I wonder where Lord Kershaw might be?”

Godric’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at his wife.

But then Sarah was urging Megs and Great-Aunt Elvina toward Lady Penelope. Godric glanced in that direction. Lady Penelope was considered a beauty, but her looks had always been spoiled for Godric by the lady’s silly personality.

“I’ll go in search of refreshment,” he said to the retreating backs of the ladies.

Margaret glanced back with a flashing smile, and then she was absorbed into the crowd.

Stupid to feel a sudden chill.

Godric shook off the feeling of loss and started making his way to the refreshments room. It was slow progress with the
crowd, but Godric didn’t mind. He kept an eye out for the earl. He’d met the man before and remembered him as genial and hearty. Hardly the description of a man running a slave workshop in St. Giles, but then Seymour hadn’t been especially sinister either. Fifteen minutes later, he was before an enormous bowl of punch and wondering how he was supposed to carry three glasses.

“St. John,” a deep voice rumbled at his elbow.

Godric turned to look into the pale eyes of his great friend Lazarus Huntington, Baron Caire.

He inclined his head. “Caire.”

“Hadn’t thought to see you here,” Caire said, indicating to the footman that he wanted a glass of punch.

“Nor I, you.”

Caire raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Strange how marriage can reform even the darkest reputation in the eyes of society.”

“No doubt,” Godric replied drily. “Here. Hold this for me.”

Caire looked bemusedly down at the proffered cup of punch but accepted it docilely enough. “I take it you’ve come with your wife?”

“And my sister and my wife’s aunt,” Godric muttered, juggling glasses.

“A full house, then,” Caire drawled.

Godric glanced at him, brows raised.

Caire’s habitually bored expression had softened just a trifle. “I’m glad.”

Godric looked away again. “Yes, well …”

“Come,” the other man said. “You can introduce me to your wife properly. Temperance was all agog with the news of her arrival at the Ladies’ Syndicate the other day.”

Godric nodded
and turned into the crowd, making his way without another word to Caire, but he felt the other man at his back just the same.

They’d made it halfway across the ballroom when Caire grunted behind him. “There’s Temperance with a gaggle of ladies. Is that your wife there?”

And Godric looked up to see Margaret leaning close to laugh up at the dark face of Adam Rutledge, Viscount d’Arque—one of the most notorious rakes in London.

V
ISCOUNT D’ARQUE WAS
really quite handsome, Megs thought, and he knew it too. His light gray eyes seemed to sparkle with sly, unspoken words:
Am I not the most beautiful man you’ve ever set eyes upon? Come, admire me!

And Megs did—from his lean cheeks to the wickedly curving mouth with its pronounced Cupid’s bow—although that wasn’t the main reason she stood too close to him and laughed at his worldly witticisms. No, Lord d’Arque had been a close friend of Roger’s. While Roger had been alive, Megs had always been a bit daunted by the viscount and his extravagant beauty. Too, he was considered a dangerous rake by society, and as an unmarried lady, it was in her reputation’s best interest to stay well away from his path.

For a matron, though, it was an entirely different matter.

Marriage did have some advantages, Megs thought rather bitterly. She could flirt discreetly with rakes—when all she really wanted to do was continue her argument with Godric.

As if the thought had conjured her husband, Godric suddenly appeared in the crowd, making his way toward them, his face
grim. Megs lifted her chin and deliberately turned to Lord d’Arque. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you, my lord.”

“Any time away from such a lovely lady is an eternity,” Lord d’Arque said gallantly, lowering his eyelashes and then glancing back up into her eyes.

Had he been looking down her bodice? The man really was deliciously terrible.
She smiled. “I believe we have a mutual friend—or had one.”

The cynical smile didn’t leave his face, but his eyes seemed to grow wary. “Indeed?”

“Yes.” Roger and she had kept their love affair secret. At the time it had seemed to make everything more magical. They’d just been on the point of announcing their engagement when Roger had … She inhaled, unable to keep her lips from drooping. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”

Lord d’Arque’s beautiful gray eyes sharpened.

“Punch,” murmured Godric at her elbow, making her start ungracefully.

“Oh.” Megs blinked, turning to see that her placid husband seemed to have acquired daggers for eyes—and they were aimed at Lord d’Arque. If looks could kill, Lord d’Arque would be a writhing, bloody mess on the earl’s pink marble floor.

Well, this is interesting.
She really ought to be contrite. Poor, darling Lord d’Arque hadn’t done a thing besides act the rake he’d apparently been born. It wasn’t his fault that she’d flirted outrageously with him, triggering his rakish instincts. But there was something terribly satisfying at seeing her husband mentally slaughter another man on her behalf.

She beamed at Godric as she accepted the cup of punch.

Godric narrowed
his eyes at her before focusing his gaze on the viscount. “D’Arque.”

The viscount’s lips twitched, though it could hardly be called a smile. “St. John. I’ve just been … chatting with your exquisite wife. I must tell you that you have far more fortitude than I.”

“Indeed? Why?”

Lord d’Arque widened his eyes innocently. “Oh, because I’d never be able to banish such a lovely lady so far away in the country. I’d want to keep her by my side—day and, especially, night.”

Does he practice his silly words in front of a mirror?
It was really too bad—both what d’Arque was implying and how much Megs was enjoying Godric’s reaction. But she should stop this. She really should.

Megs opened her mouth.

Her husband was already speaking. “I’m surprised, sir. I would’ve thought that there’d be no room by your side at any time—but
especially
at night.”

A deep chuckle came from beside Megs. She turned and saw a striking gentleman with silver hair clubbed back by a black bow.

He caught her eye and bowed even as Lord d’Arque made some retort to her husband involving celibacy. “Lady Margaret. I hope you don’t think me bold to introduce myself. I am Caire.”

Of course, Lord Caire. He’d once been almost as notorious as Lord d’Arque.

Megs sank into a curtsy. “It’s an honor, Lord Caire. I count your wife as one of my very good friends.”

“Hmm.” A smile still played about Lord Caire’s wide mouth as Godric made a comment about the pox to Lord d’Arque. “Temperance
and I regretted not attending your wedding, but we understood it to be a small, family affair. St. John and I have known each other for years.”

“Have you?” Megs darted a worried glance at Godric and the viscount. At least they hadn’t come to blows yet. Although if they
did
, and over
her
, that would certainly make this ball very interesting.

Oh, she was wicked! “You must think me a terrible flirt.”

“Not at all,” Lord Caire murmured gently. “In fact, this is the most animated I’ve seen St. John in years.” His eyes were a little sad, but then he caught her gaze and his lips quirked. “High choler is good for a man once in a while. I do hope you plan to stay in London.”

Megs bit her lip at that, for she hadn’t planned to stay past getting herself pregnant. The fact was that she loved Laurelwood. Country life suited her, she’d found, and the estate would be a perfect place to raise her child.

Lord Caire apparently read her face, his own becoming expressionless. “I see. A pity, but I am grateful for what time you can spend with my friend.”

“I’d spend more time with him if there wasn’t a ghost between us,” Megs said, trying not to sound defensive. It was
Godric
who wanted her gone.

“Ah.” Lord Caire nodded. “Clara.”

Megs winced. “I don’t mean to sound jealous. I know they truly had a wonderful love and were happy together.”

“They loved each other deeply,” Lord Caire agreed, looking thoughtful, “but whoever told you they were happy has lied, I’m afraid.”

She blinked, sidling closer to him. “What do you mean?”

“She took
ill very soon after they married. Within a year or so, at any rate, and after bringing in every doctor, both here and on the Continent, Godric realized that there was nothing he could do.” Without turning his head, Lord Caire glanced to where Temperance was chatting with Sarah. “I can’t begin to imagine what it would do to a man to watch the woman he loved die slowly and in pain.”

Megs drew in a breath because while Lord Caire might put on a mask of world-weariness, she suddenly knew: He loved his wife deeply and without any reservations. She’d had that once—or at least the beginnings of it. She’d known Roger for only a little over three months, and while the flames of their passion had burned bright and hot, she acknowledged now that they’d only just begun. Love grown rich and golden over the years was what she really wanted.

What she’d never had.

She bit her lip. She hadn’t had that with Roger, and she wasn’t going to have that with Godric. He might be still trading jabs with Lord d’Arque, but that was a matter of pride, not care for her.

The thought made her frown.

“I’m sorry,” Lord Caire said. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

“No, it’s nothing.” Megs tried to smile and failed. She burst out, “I just wish …”

He waited and when she didn’t—
couldn’t
—finish the thought, he tilted his head down toward her. “Just because he felt love for Clara doesn’t mean he can’t feel it with you as well. Courage, my lady. Godric is a hard nut to crack, but I assure you, the man inside is worth it. And I feel that if any lady can do it, you are the one.”

Megs watched
as Godric glanced up at that moment and met her gaze. His eyes were dark, angry, and sad, and she wished—desperately—that she could believe Lord Caire’s words.

A
RTEMIS GREAVES WATCHED
anxiously as Lord d’Arque smiled sweetly and said something truly atrocious to Mr. St. John. Lady Margaret’s husband had always struck her as a staid, if very sad, gentleman, but even the most staid man could be provoked into—