The Wicked One (12 page)

"She's
here
?" thundered Major Lord Charles de Montforte as the newly arrived entourage filed into the dining room and was seated.  The tall, crisply impeccable officer lunged to his feet, his eyes glittering like aquamarine as he turned his wrath on his brother Andrew.  "What are you,
mad
?  That woman is a menace!  You'd have her here in this house after what she did to us on the road that night?"

Celsie tried to placate him.  "But Charles, she needs help — Lucien turned her life upside down."  She proceeded to tell everyone about how Eva had scaled the tower at Blackheath, broken into Lucien's bedchamber, and stolen the real aphrodisiac.  "He went to France to get it back, and Eva overpowered him and tied him up and then he got free and stole it back from her.  It's all quite amusing really.  Wait until you hear the whole tale . . ."

Charles turned away, stiff and angry.  The last time he'd seen Eva de la Mouriére, she'd been masquerading as a peasant woman on a lonely road, her carriage disabled, her wits at an end.  He had stopped to offer his help — only to wake up facedown in the dirt, his family shaken up, and the aphrodisiac — not the confounded, wretched aphrodisiac that had wreaked such havoc on so many lives, but what had turned out to be a false substitute — stolen.

He could not bear to face her again.  He could not bear to even look at her.

"Come, Amy, we're leaving.  I will not allow you and our daughter to remain under the same roof as that treacherous witch."

"Treacherous witch?"

Everyone stilled at the sound of the faintly amused voice.  There in the doorway, the light from a wall sconce glowing upon thick, pinned-up hair of a red so striking, so brilliant, it nearly pained the eye to look at it, stood Eva — as tall as a willow, as regal as a queen.  She was smiling.

Everyone gasped as Charles's hand went for his sword.

"Please, Major.  There is no need for bloodshed," she murmured as Andrew and Gareth leaped forward to stay their brother's hand.  "For the sake of your family, and especially poor Celsie, let us forget our past grievances and at least try to pretend a measure of civility."

Charles's pale blue eyes chilled as they met Eva's slanting ones of cut green glass.  For a moment he didn't move, merely surveying her with dislike, distaste, distrust; then, seizing Amy's arm, he bowed to Celsie and Gareth's wife Juliet, and all but dragged his protesting wife from the dining room.

Eva bit her lip.

Celsie and Andrew exchanged glances, and Juliet glanced at Eva, frowning.

Gareth was the first to react.  "Don't worry, he won't take his family back out on a night like this," he said, trying to smooth the awkward silence.  "He won't leave."

But the others were still staring at the woman who had so unnerved the taciturn, normally unflappable Lord Charles — and hadn't even batted an eyelash at his rude reaction.  Now she looked around and met their gazes, her smile rueful.

"Dear me.  I had forgotten how slow male pride is to heal once it has been wounded . . . I really
should
have started out by apologizing to him, shouldn't I?"

Just then, a footman bearing a missive on a silver plate entered the room.  He paused in front of Andrew, bowing.  "For you, my lord."

Andrew took the folded vellum, dismissed the servant, and broke the seal.  As he read, he began to smile.  And then to grin.  His eyes gleaming, he refolded the note.

"Well, well.  It seems that our autocratic eldest brother has deigned to attend our ball tomorrow night and expects to arrive with Nerissa sometime early tomorrow evening."  His gaze lifted to Eva.  "So, madam.  Here's your chance."

"Chance?" echoed Gareth, looking from Andrew to Eva.  "Chance for what?"

But Eva, her heart suddenly pounding, had just lost her appetite for the second time this night.  And now, her composure.  Blackheath.  He was coming
here
.

God help her nerves.

"Revenge," she said sweetly, and excusing herself, left the room.

Chapter 10

Sleep that night was all but nonexistent.

She lay awake thinking of Blackheath.  Of their last encounter together, of the heights of passion to which he had brought her, of his threat — promise — at the end of that infuriating note he had left for her back in France:

Do come to England.  I would dearly love to . . .
have
you.

Well, here she was, in England.  He would be here tomorrow.  And she knew in her bones that he would have her.  It was inevitable.

The clock in the hall outside struck one.  Two.  Three.  Eva, hot and flushed, threw off the coverlet.  Got up and went to the window.  She gazed out over the darkened heath, at the cold stars winking down at her from behind high, scattered cloud that veiled and unveiled the moon.

Blackheath.

He would be here in a matter of hours.  Tomorrow night.

She poured herself a glass of water and returned to bed.  Tried to sleep.  And finally fell into fitful slumber . . .

Where she dreamed of making love to the Duke of Blackheath.

~~~~

The ball started promptly at nine and
he
hadn't arrived.

Eva danced with more men than she could count, glanced toward the doors more times than she would acknowledge, and spent the early part of the evening battling a rising case of both nerves and anticipation.  Damn Blackheath to perdition for unsettling her so!  Damn him for what he was doing to her!

And then, just as the clock struck ten, something like a charged current rippled through the room and she knew that
he
had arrived.

And he had.

He was glorious, virile, dangerously masculine despite the elegant lace at throat and wrists, the fitted waistcoat of dark gray satin, the powdered hair, the ruby pinned in his cravat, the fancy buckled shoes.

And he had seen her.

His hand beneath the elbow of a stunning blonde who looked as ethereal as mist in a gown of pale blue tissue, he moved nonchalantly through the crowd.  Women were gazing hungrily at him; men were eyeing him with respect, with wariness.

And all three of the younger de Montforte brothers were watching him — and Eva — most closely indeed.

Too
closely.

Celsie, her eyes gleaming, leaned close to Andrew and whispered something in his ear, but Eva was still staring at the duke, trying to summon her composure.  Perdition, it was hot in here.  She was unable to think.  Unable to breathe.  Fixated.

On him.

Who the devil was that blonde?

"Eva.  We meet again."  He drew the vacant-eyed beauty forward.  "Allow me to present you to my sister, Lady Nerissa de Montforte."

His sister.  Relief — unwarranted as it was — flooded her.  She and Nerissa exchanged greetings, and out of the corner of her eye, Eva saw Lord Gareth eyeing the situation with high interest, subtly maneuvering himself and his wife Juliet closer so as to be within earshot of any volleys that might soon be flying.  As for Blackheath, if he was surprised to see her, he showed no sign of it.  Not a flicker of emotion gave him away as his gaze moved over Eva's face and down her gown of emerald green satin — and remained on her for a long, uncomfortable moment.

She raised her head and eyed him steadily.  Could he know what those penetrating black eyes, that faint, self-contained smile, were doing to her?  Could he hear the way her heart had fisted in her chest and was now beginning to thunder out of control?  Thank God she'd worn the brilliant emerald gown, for it set off her coloring, her hair, her eyes, to best advantage.  Not, of course, that she wanted to impress him.  Oh, far from that.  She just wanted to throw him off balance.  Gain the upper hand.  Distract him so she would emerge the victor in whatever battle of wills lay before them.

That was all.

"My dear Lady Nerissa!  Would you care for a dance?"

A young swain was there, bowing, his brown eyes merry, his powdered hair caught in a bag wig and tied with blue velvet.  Nerissa opened her mouth to refuse, but immediately the duke intervened.

"She would love a dance, Trombley.  And a glass of punch, I think."

"Lucien —"

"No, no, my dear, go, enjoy yourself.  I wish to hear no more about it."

For the first time, Eva saw emotion in the other woman's pale blue eyes:  anger.  And then Trombley was drawing her away, out onto the floor.

"That was incredibly insensitive of you," Eva snapped.  "It's plain as day that she had no wish to dance with him!"

"I know, but she has been languishing in bed ever since she heard news of Lord Brookhampton, and it is high time she returned to the land of the living.  Dancing will do her good."

"You're a monster."

"So I've been told."  He took her hand, raising it to his lips, those fascinating black eyes holding hers from over the tops of her knuckles.  She set her jaw even as her pulse quickened.  "So, tell me, madam.  Did you come for the ball" — his smile grew positively wicked —"or in response to that little note I left for you?"

Do come to England.  I would dearly love to . . .
have
you.

Eva eyed him flatly.  "I came for revenge."

"Ah.  How delightful.  I had hoped you would, you know.  Life gets so boring, up here in the country."

"I can promise you, Blackheath, that I intend to make your life anything but boring."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that.  Why, I would be most disappointed if you had not taken me up on my . . . invitation to come to England.  I have been waiting for you, you know."

"Waiting for me, or to get me back into bed?"

"Both, of course."

"Well then, Blackheath, you can wait until hell freezes over, because the latter is not going to happen."

"Care to wager on it?"

"I think not."

He smiled, his eyes suddenly crinkling with humor.  "Coward."

"No, just wise."

"A dance, then?"

"Better that than stand here and give your siblings the satisfaction of seeing us sparring with each other."

"My sentiments exactly."  He guided her out onto the floor with a hand beneath the elbow.  "So, tell me, madam, what means did you employ to render me insensible back in Paris?"

"If you think I'm about to tell you, you've got another think coming."

"Ah, well.  I shall find out in good time.  Though I must confess, your actions did nothing but fuel my fascination with you all the more."  His hand fitted to her waist, he swung her out and away from a hard-eyed Charles and his wife Amy, the latter of whom was watching them most curiously.  "So when do you plan to exact this revenge that I cannot wait to taste?"

"You think I'm in jest?"

"I most certainly hope not."  He spun her again, making her dizzy, making her fixate on his hard mouth, those enigmatic black eyes, in order to center herself.  "In fact, I do hope you'll start this little crusade of yours soon, as I leave for France in about fifteen minutes."

"So soon?" she asked, too quickly, too anxiously.

Too late.

He noted her disappointment, try as she might to conceal it.  She saw the wicked, self-satisfied smile that came over those same hard lips, though he was gallant enough not to rub salt into the wound.  "Alas, I have contacts to meet in Paris first thing in the morning.  I only came to the ball to make sure my sister attended."

"What is so important in Paris?"

His fingers stroked the middle of her back as he pressed her close, too close, so close that her body felt as though it were going up in flames.  "You are too curious for your own good, my little spy.  But I go to France to follow up on a piece of information about Lord Brookhampton.  As I told you earlier, I cannot bear to see my sister so unhappy."

"Then you should stop forcing her to do things she has no wish to do."

"It is for her own good."

"Her own
good
?"

"But of course."

"You are truly a wicked man to interfere in others' lives so!"

He inclined his head as the dance ended, then guided her to the refreshment table, where he pressed a glass of punch into her hand.  "That is why I'm called the Wicked One."

"A fitting moniker.  No doubt you courted such a label yourself."

"On the contrary."  His smile was positively maddening.  "The people of Ravenscombe gave nicknames to all the de Montforte males.  Charles is the Beloved One, Gareth is the Wild One, and Andrew, the Defiant One.  Now drink up, my dear, as I must be on my way now.  And do use the next few days perfecting your plans for revenge, for I look forward to whatever" — he smiled — "punishment you have in mind."

He took her hand, his long, elegant fingers sending tremors of excitement through her as he pressed his thumb gently into her gloved flesh and raised the hand to his lips.  Eva felt them even through the soft kid.  Saw the sultry promise in those black-fire eyes as he held her gaze for a long, telling moment.  And then, all too soon, he had released her and straightened, the elegant, unaffected duke once more.

And just in time, too.  Celsie was approaching, her eyes gleaming.

Blackheath made his excuses, bowed, and melted back off through the crowd.

"Well?  What did he say?" Celsie asked eagerly.

But Eva was still staring after that broad and tapered back, wondering why she felt such an empty ache where she knew her heart to otherwise be.  Wondering why a lump rose in her throat as the doors swung open and he was gone.

She smiled faintly.  "Only that he will be back."

~~~~

Nerissa was miserable.

As the evening wore on, more and more coaches had pulled up outside, discharging powdered and perfumed guests in expensive silks, satins, and velvets.  Laughter and music filled the ballroom, made her head ache, emphasized her own anguish all the more.  Andrew, looking perpetually annoyed — but then, he hated social gatherings — caught her eye and ordered her to cheer up.  The Honourable George Dartingford wanted to dance with her.  Lord Islington wanted to dance with her.  Everyone wanted to dance with her . . .