Chapter 1
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he Earl of
Wythe stood in the center of his chamber, his valet having departed only
moments earlier after assisting him into his formal clothing. With only one
lamp burning from the adjoining sitting room, moonlight spilled through the
window, striking his swarthy face and
Lord
Roger was that enticing contrast between rake and gentlemen; the expert cut of
his clothing, the stark white cravat, marked him as a gentleman, but the
defined musculature and height, the dark skin, reflected something forbidden
and wicked. It echoed in the curve of his full lips, the flair of his nostrils
and winged arch to his brows—a scar that ran from below his right eye to the
under-curve of his jaw.
Smoke
curled from the cheroot he was enjoying. His expression was slightly brooding,
deep though. The firm jaw set in rigid lines hinted they weren’t pleasant ones.
Roger had so many women, so easily, and the fact that one had cost him a moment’s
discomfort was a rare and unique experience, indeed.
He
was determined to rid himself of this irritation.
Joan…
Joan Lecrox. He tasted the name in his mind, as he had tasted her lips…right
before she’d slapped him.
Roger
laughed suddenly, a short grunt of it. He shook his head and crushed out his
cheroot, then gathered his gloves, cape, and found his cane. He strode out of
the room, and into the upper hall, before descending the spiral staircase.
“Have a pleasant evening, my lord.” His butler Kingsly bowed while handing him his hat. Roger stepped over the threshold and out onto the curb with a murmur of thanks. His coach was waiting.
He
eased himself inside, settling back against the plush leather and rested his
hands atop his cane. The driver pulled out amid the
Tonight
was not a usual theater night for him. In fact, he was going to miss several
appointments attending this play, not the least of which was a night with an
actress who wanted to share his bed. Actually, he’d ignored any intimate
invites, since meeting the maddeningly hard to seduce Joan Lecrox.
Near
the theater the expected crush of carriages and milling people clogged the
entrance. His driver stopped at a good space, and Roger exited, flinging his
cape over his shoulder while he stood back from the crowd to eye the patrons at
length.
The
haute ton were always easy to spot in their glitter and furs. He
had been on the scene many years and was well aware—and totally unfazed, by the
fact that the high sticklers bit their tongue around him, because of his wealth
and title. In truth, they had their pets amid the rakes and rogues. At
thirty-four he had been in the circle long enough to let them know he neither
cared nor sought their approval. He accepted invitations when the mood struck
him, and indulged his own interest when it did not. He was a man who’d spent
enough time abroad in mixed cultures to have explored and experimented with
whatever took his interest…and very little of those interests were perused amid
the ton.
“Wythe!”
Roger
turned his gaze to the right and nodded, smiling slightly at the urbane and
wholly rumpled Viscount Berrenger.
“Simon,”
he drawled deeply. “What brings you out before the stroke of
The
lanky viscount pushed away from the outer wall and strolled over. His cravat
undone, and over-long sable hair wind blown. He flashed Roger a cynical smile.
“A request from my cousin.”
“Cousin?”
Simon
stared at him. “Joan Lecrox.”
Roger’s
brow rose. He had known the Viscount for years, they had slummed, and gambled,
together but Simon never spoke of family besides his elderly father. There was
an uncle…but bloody hell, it couldn’t be…
“Yes.”
Simon seemed to read his mind and appeared amused. “It seems she requires the
added protection of a male relative—”
“Rather
like the fox guarding the fox, wouldn’t you say?” Roger cut him off.
“It’s
none of my business whom you seduce or vise versa,” Simon muttered flatly. “But
Joan is off limits.” While he eyed Roger’s hard-set jaw he added with a mild
grin, “Should you, however, decide to court her, that would, of course, alter
things greatly.”
Roger’s
dark eyes narrowed. “Are you jesting perchance? I could quite easily list a
number of…”
“Don’t
bother. Yes, I’ve seduced my share of the fair sex. I’m no hypocrite. ‘Tis
merely that—Joan is off limits.”
“You
said that before,” Roger muttered him. His voice clipped. “Would you care to
expound on it, while we make our way to your box?”
Simon
laughed. “Don’t make this difficult. I’ve boxed and fenced with you, ole boy. I
would prefer you make this unpleasant chaperone business easier for me. I do so
detest these sorts of noble roles and family obligations.”
They’d
begun to walk forward, and Roger said, “You were going to tell me why she’s off
limits?”
“Was
I?” Simon yawned.
Roger
stopped and several people had to walk around them. He waited with a black
scowl for Simon to realize he was serious.
“Because
she’s no deb. She’s not of the fast set. She’s got a mind of her own and
she’s settled in it that you are merely out to seduce her…smart gel that she
is. Though she’s lived in the country with her books and herbs and what not,
she knows me well enough to call me a rake. And, while my exploits might amuse
and irritate her, she said, and I quote, You keep the rest of your bloody
crowd away from me.” Simon smiled and shrugged.
“There
you go, ole boy. A direct command.”
Roger
grunted. They entered the foyer with its din of voices and scent of cigars.
People were gathered in little groups talking, chatting, and rubbing elbows. He
returned, “Lead the way.”
“Give
over, Rog,” Simon groaned. “I’ve said I hate this bloody role. Inviting you to
my box is positively going to have Joan at my throat.”
“You’ll
live.”
“She slapped you.”
Roger
glanced at him. “Umm, yes.”
Simon
grunted. “Well, she might not slap you tonight, but I’ll sure get a tongue
lashing should you insist on this.”
“I
insist.”
“Bloody
hell.” Simon reached over, took someone’s drink and downed it. He coughed and
wheezed to Roger. “Why are these female cousins
always
orphaned?”
Roger
smiled at his question. “She must be twenty-two at least. I should think that
puts her in the status of adulthood.”
“She’s
twenty four.”
“Really.”
“Yes.” They went through the draped exit and entered his box. His
cousin Joan was already seated with her companion Miss Avery.
~
She couldn’t believe it! Absolutely, she was going to murder Simon.
Joan
Lecrox turned from having glanced at the entry, fixing her eyes on the stage
whilst she tried to control her temper. Damn, Simon. She had thought for
sure that he would honor her request and not bring the bloody man within inches
of her. And, there he was. She became aware he’d taken the seat behind her.
Simon
touched her shoulder to get her attention. Joan smacked his hand with her fan,
hard, and did not turn around. She’d like to beat him about the head with
it. Honestly. She was going to murder him. She considered getting up and
just walking out, but the orchestra had signaled, and the crowd from the foyer
was entering boxes and getting settled. The lights were going down…
Joan
unfurled her fan and turned her head slightly to eye Simon, who was seated just
behind her companion.
He
must have caught the movement for he leaned up and tried again. “I didn’t
invite him, puss. He was rather insistent. Believe me, I know the man. He would
have caused a scene and cared little about it.”
“I’m
not speaking to you,” she hissed back. “I’m never speaking to you again.”
Simon
chuckled. “Have a heart. You should have picked a good cousin for this
task…I’ve known Rog for years...”
“I
don’t have a good cousin, you wretch…I have only one, you…No, I take that back.
I disown you. Feel free to leave at any time.”
Simon
sighed loudly. She heard him say to Lord Wythe. “You see, ole man. Now you have
gotten me in the suds. I am completely disowned.”
Lord
Roger’s deep, somewhat raspy voice intoned, “Your cousin is being rather
extreme over a mere kiss.”
Joan
turned the other way to regard the dark lord. “How dare you mention that!”
That
sensual mouth twisted in a smile, and even with the low lighting she could see
his dark eyes shimmering. “I dare many things, Joan…”
“I
can see that,” she bit out. “And since you had your face slapped for doing so
with me, I should think you’d get the message.”
“What
would that be?”
“I’m
no fool, Lord Wythe. I’m here for one season as a courtesy to my uncle. I may
not be
Roger
stared at that face, it wasn’t ravishing, nor exactly beautiful, with her green
eyes glittering with anger and that almost too-wide mouth set in resistant
lines. She had a proud nose, angled chin and unfashionable light freckles on
her cheeks that she did not bother to hide with powder. Her hair was slightly
curly, likely a mere shoulder’s length, and since she did no more than hold it
back with combs, the curls were escaping at her temples and by her ears. He had
seen more ravishing females.
But
it wasn’t looks, not even the challenge, it was…an odd sort of chemistry that
flared from the first time he’d encountered her taking air on the balcony at
the Lamont’s ball…and kissed her.
From
where he sat a foot behind her, he could smell that scent; the mixture of woman
and heat and some mysterious night flower that he couldn’t name. He’d had sex
with many forgettable females, and not one of them had drawn him like Joan
Lecrox.
Roger
was no green lad. He did not play games, as she put it, he followed impulse and
satisfied hungers. He knew what rumors she’d heard, though his privateering
days were well behind him and they were the least of the dark whisperings
linked to his name. She was; doubtless, referring to the whisperings that his
parents had disowned him years before they had died, and the woman he’d been
betrothed to from a tender age had fled to
He
said though, neither cynically nor harshly, but in a whisper, “I am well beyond
games, Joan.”
Roger
observed the slight widening of her eyes. Her cheeks flushed before she
gathered her composure and returned, “I am sure you have plenty of women, my
lord. The sort who more than welcome your attention. Pray, do not waste your
time with me. I have no intention of giving you a moment of it.”
Mentally
he smiled at her pluck, for no woman to his knowledge would dare spar with him.
He murmured silkily, “Then I shall have to take it.”
Her
lips parted and she blinked.
He
laughed softly. “No. To the contrary, of the rumors you may have heard, I never
developed a taste for...force. Seduction is much more satisfying.”
“You’re
beyond belief,” she hissed. “Now, please. We are in a public place. If you
persist in this folly, I shall leave.”
He
was outright chuckling now.
~
Joan wanted to slap him again.
He
was trying to shock her. She knew that. The man was provoking her, and he
was totally without manners.
The
drama began on stage and she turned, after shooting Simon a harsh look. She
settled her eyes on the actors, yet felt Lord Wythe’s remain on her for far too
long a time. There was a hot sensation over the back of her neck and her
shoulders. If not for the fact she knew he’d mock it, she would have lifted her
shawl from her elbows and covered herself. She heartily wished she’d worn a
less fashionable gown, the bodice of the jade velvet dress was low, and off the
shoulder. There were more beautiful woman, more exposed ones too, to look at, why
didn’t he bloody seduce them instead?
For
Joan, it was too long a play, and too long between acts. Twice she got up with
the intention of leaving, and twice she found Lord Roger standing in her way.
She hated the fact that sitting down reeked of admitting defeat, it gave the impression
she would bow to his insistent plan of being near her. However she sat there
chewing her lip by the last act, having no alternate route of escape.
When
the curtain closed, Joan nudged her companion awake, resisting the urge to roll
her eyes at the woman’s drooling snores. Miss Avery was her uncle’s choice of a
suitable chaperone. Because in the country, in Bristol where she lived alone
the past few years, frankly, no one gave a fig if Miss Lecrox went about with
only a maid, or even by herself.
Simon
had stood too. He muttered to her, “I don’t suppose I’m escorting you home?”
“No.”
She eyed his rumpled clothing. “Don’t bother to take my request seriously
hereafter, Cousin. You are bloody rotten at it.”
“I’m
still a cousin at least.” He winked.
She
sniffed. “Do go on, and take your friend with you.”
Simon
bowed and headed for the exit. Joan saw, to her dismay that her companion had
sleepily followed. The stupid woman left her standing there with Lord Roger.
He
was tall. She had noticed that at the ball, noted it on the balcony—when he’d
nearly lifted her off the floor during that shocking kiss. Standing a bit back
from him, she still had to look upwards. And, when the lights came up, there
was that shadow around him. Good god… those piercing blackish eyes and that
dark skin.
Joan
pulled her wrap up over her shoulders and detected several scents coming from
him, all too dark and masculine to want to name at the moment.
“Do you intend to let me pass?” she quirked her brow in an attempt
to appear completely unaffected.
He
was gazing over her face—her body too. “Allow me to escort you home.”
“Are
you bloody joking?” She spurted laughter.
His
lips curved. “Joan, you may as well give an inch or two.”
“I
have my own coach.”
“Mmm. I’ll send him ahead, with your companion.”
“I’m not being alone in any vehicle with you.”
That
seemed to amuse him. However his tone
was still mild. “I intend to at least have a conversation with you, so you may
as well give in.”
“We
have nothing to say to each other.” She made to step around him.
Roger’s
tawny hand came out, catching her upper arm. She stumbled a bit as he drew her
close to him, her shoulder touching his chest. He leaned down, whispering in
that raspy husk, “I want you, Joan.”
My god…those
words somehow turned to fingers of fire that trailed from her ears, down her
spine. They settled in her blood, leaving it pounding with the fierce beat of
her heart.
“I
don’t want you,” she said gruffly, staring away from him.
His
thumb brushed her skin. He murmured, “Are you a virgin?”
She
jerked her eyes to his face. “Do you want your face slapped again?”
“Ah,
no.” He laughed, flashing her a rare white smile. “I think you enjoyed it too
much.”
“I’d
enjoy it immensely now too.”
That
smile lingered though he led her toward the exit, keeping a hold on her all the
way through the entryway. When they were out in the crush, he leaned down and
told her softly, “I’ll give you this round, sweet.”
To
her embarrassment he removed his hand from her arm, but brushed it down her
spine before he told her, “Go now, Joan.”
Left
standing stupidly alone, she watched his figure stride down toward a cluster of
crested coaches.
“Miss?”
Joan
snapped out of her haze, glancing at her driver on his perch. She ducked into
the coach after the theater footman opened the door. Inside, she settled her
skirts, noting with some disgust that Miss Avery was fast asleep. The coach
turned. Joan absently looked out the window, somehow not at all surprised when fate
had them stopping to allow for traffic whilst alongside Lord Wythe’s vehicle.
He
had his arm along the window edge and was already looking right at her. Those
pitch eyes seeming to burn with hidden fires.
Joan
licked her lips and wished she had not, for a slight smile suddenly played
about his mouth and his lashes dipped. When Henri had the coach moving, she let
out a long breath.