Barbara Pierce - Sinful Between the Sheets Read online

  She twisted her parasol in agitation. Darknell was not go­ing to drop the subject of the duke until she had to his satis­faction suffered properly for her sins. "I had not heard one unkind word about the Duke of Solitea. He seemed charm­ing and solicitous, unlike other gentlemen of the ton," Kilby said, feeling defensive because flattery and a handsome face had beguiled her. "I was so grateful he was willing to discuss my parents with me, I did not question his motives when he suggested an intimate setting for our discussion. Since I do not want Priddy or anyone else to learn that I have been pry­ing into my parents' past, his request for privacy made sense."

  "Little girl, the man had every intention of bedding you," Darknell said bluntly. "Did you have to simplify his intent by inviting him up to your bedchamber?"

  Kilby responded with a gimlet stare. She loved the man dearly, but honestly, if he continued to remind her of her idiocy, she was not going to be responsible for her actions. "How many times do I have to tell you? I did not invite him up to my bedchamber. The duke simply followed me."

  Lyssa gave Kilby a sympathetic pat on her arm. "You must have been terrified when you realized he had followed you upstairs."

  "Not really," Kilby admitted to her friends. "I thought perhaps the poor man was confused."

  Darknell snorted. "Fitchwolf," he said with affection. "You need a keeper."

  Kilby felt her cheeks color at his remark. Without a word, she headed for the heart of the fair, not caring if Darknell followed. Naturally, he did and Lyssa was a step behind him. The viscount had always taken his job as their escort seri­ously. A little feminine temper would not dissuade him.

  "I will remind you, the Duke of Solitea remained a gen­tleman to the end," Kilby said curtly, and then winced at her poor choice of words. She was also lying. No one needed to know the duke had succeeded in kissing her on the lips. She was already in enough trouble.

  "You can thank the specter of death for that small bless­ing," Darknell shot back. He grabbed her arm, slowing her down to a reasonable pace.

  "Spare us," Lyssa muttered under her breath as she caught up with them. She had often stepped between them in the past when Kilby and Darknell argued.

  Darknell had been insufferable from the second he had approached their carriage. Kilby could not fathom why the man persisted in baiting her. "I think we can all agree, the duke paid dearly for his errors. Let him rest in peace."

  "I suggest we talk about something else," Lyssa said.

  "Agreed," seconded Kilby, smiling at her friend in gratitude.

  The viscount released his grip on Kilby and placed his hands behind his back as they walked for a minute in si­lence. "Fine. I will begin. Who is your next victim, Lady Kilby?"

  The fact he was using her title proved Darknell was more than a little perturbed with her. She was not going to let him goad her. "Good heavens, you make it sound like I killed the duke."

  "I know you did not. Nevertheless, it is what the Carlisles are thinking," he said mildly.

  Her mouth parted in astonishment. "That is ridiculous! Even the surgeon who arrived at the house agreed that the man died of natural causes."

  "Fitchwolf, you are such an innocent." He sighed. "I speak of la petite mort, or the little death," Darknell ex­plained, as if he were instructing a child. "I wager the en­tire Carlisle family believes Solitea died while pumping himself dry between your soft thighs."

  Both ladies gasped at the viscount's deliberate vulgar­ity. Darknell's crude version of events sickened her. Kilby absently rubbed her irritated stomach. Priddy had warned her that while the duke's family had agreed the circum­stances leading up to the duke's death were best kept secret, the family's private speculation about the duke's presence was beyond their control. The surgeon and the servants had been paid generously for their silence. Nevertheless, what if they talked? And what of the duke's family? Good heavens, the man had been married. Did the entire Carlisle family truly believe she had been the duke's mistress? Oh, how they must despise her!

  "I am certain not everyone in the Carlisle family be­lieves you were the duke's mistress. Do you not agree, my lord?" Lyssa asked, interrupting the direction of Kilby's distressing thoughts. Her friend was frowning at the vis­count, daring him to disagree.

  "Not all," Darknell conceded. His gaze softened as he noted the worried expression on Kilby's face. "You are a newcomer to polite society. Some will immediately de­spise you for your beauty, while others will long to claim you for their own. If the Carlisles or the servants break their oath of secrecy, your brief connection to the duke will make you a target for the gossips. Lady Quennell knows this. Surely it would be a kinder recourse if you left Lon­don, and returned next season. By then, the Carlisles will have forgotten your part in the duke's death."

  "No, you are wrong," Kilby said abruptly. Darknell's frankness angered her, but she realized that he spoke out of concern. He did not think she was strong enough to face the scrutiny of the ton and the cruelty of the outspoken. "The Carlisles gain nothing in breaking their word. They will keep our secret. Priddy believes we can brazen this out, and I trust her judgment. Besides, I did nothing wrong!"

  She shook her head. "Archer was manipulated by Priddy into granting his approval for this trip. If he learns that I am seeking a husband beyond his influence or, God forbid, the intimate details of the duke's death, he will drag me from London by my hair and lock me away until I am too old to care. I was told by a reliable source that a certain gentleman who knew my mother would likely be found here this afternoon. All I desire is an introduction. I beg of you, will you help me?"

  The viscount stared directly into Kilby's eyes, clearly weighing the repercussions of his refusal. Darknell was a good man. He was intelligent, honorable, and above all fair. How could he refuse her?

  Darknell glanced away from her pleading expression, and breathed out an exaggerated sigh. "No."

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

  "You know, most gentlemen choose a discreet locale when engaging in a duel," Ramscar said as Fayne approached him. He leaned against the side of the phaeton and crossed his arms. "A rural fair is neither discreet nor practical when you intend to kill or maim another gentleman."

  Fayne shot his friend a disgruntled look. When had his friend adopted a few scruples? His reasons for sending Hol­lensworth an invitation to join them at the fair had nothing to do with maiming or killing. The truth was slightly more complicated.

  "As usual, I cannot fault your logic, Ram. How fortu­nate for me that I have no intention of engaging anyone in a duel this afternoon." Fayne frowned at his choice of words. "At least that was my original plan," he amended, as he walked around to the rear of the phaeton and knelt down to unlock the long, narrow wooden box that was strapped to a narrow shelf at the back.

  Ramscar trailed after him. "Hollensworth might think otherwise."

  Fayne snickered as he jiggled the key in the lock. Hol­lensworth wanted him dead. Since the evening of the ball, it had become apparent the baron was not particular about how he accomplished his goal. Instead of waiting for an ambush, Fayne had decided to give the man a chance to vent his rage and injustice against the man he believed stole his brother's will to live.

  "The problem is Hollensworth is not thinking," Fayne argued. The baron's attack in front of witnesses the night of the ball hinted at the man's instability. "Before his brother's death, I had credited the man with possessing an equable disposition. Lately, his actions seem akin to a madman's."

  He opened the box and withdrew a long, padded bundle. Tucking it under his arm, Fayne reached into the box again and retrieved a saber sheathed in a leather scabbard. He flung the sword hilt first at his friend who nimbly caught it. If all went according to his plan, Fayne would not need the weapon. Even so, he had no intention of giving Hollensworth any advantage.

  Rising from his crouched position, he began unwrap­ping the layers of coarse gray wool that protected the half-dozen loose sticks no thicker than his thumb
. Made of ash, each rod was unpeeled and thirty-five inches in length. To prevent the freshly cut sticks from drying out, one of the servants had bound the ends with wet linen. Once the rod was inserted into a pot or a large wicker basket that served as the hilt, he had a useful weapon for "cudgel play" or backswording.

  As a boy, he had practiced swordplay and self-defense with similar primitive weapons. With practice he had grad­ually moved on to the foil, épée, and saber to refine his deadly skills in the fighting arts. For the sake of protection, Fayne still practiced with ash rods when sparring. Be that as it may, in the right hands, an ash stick could be just as lethal as a honed blade, especially if the end of the rod split during a match. He removed two wicker pots from the phaeton's box and tossed them at his friend.

  Ramscar caught them and chuckled. "One might say the same about you, Solitea."

  Fayne took pride in not visibly jolting at his new title. The dukedom and all its perquisites were chafing him like an ill-fitting collar. His father was the Duke of Solitea. Not him. Claiming the title bothered him more than he would ever reveal to anyone.

  He discarded the woolen wrappings in the box. "Why? Because I have refused every challenge delivered by Hol­lensworth and his seconds? I thought myself rather tolerant considering the circumstances."

  Nor was he a fool. Fayne sensed that if he had accepted the baron's challenge, the odds would have been against him that the duel would have been conducted fairly. He could just imagine Hollensworth's pistol discharging pre­maturely, leaving Fayne the victim of an unfortunate acci­dent. If the baron succeeded in killing Fayne, his triumph would be short-lived. Ramscar, Cadd, and Everod would make certain of that.

  "Tolerant?" Ramscar gaped at him, his expression a mixture of bemusement and exasperation. "Your father has been dead for how long? A fortnight?"

  Fayne cleared his throat. "Twenty days to be precise."

  Ramscar dismissed the correction with a wave of his hand. "In that time, you have spent most of those nights blinding yourself with drink."

  Now his friend was being insulting. "There is a differ­ence between drinking and being drunk, Ram. I have had the distinct pleasure of being both."

  "You have been out every night since his .death," his friend said, determined to speak his thoughts aloud.

  His actions were hardly criminal. He rarely stayed at home in the evenings. The duke's death had not altered Fayne's habits. "You should know, since most nights you were by my side."

  "Someone had to look after you," his friend retorted, unmoved by Fayne's misplaced humor. "Regardless, hav­ing Cadd, Everod, and me close at hand has not kept you out of trouble."

  "I recovered my losses," he said stiffly. Two nights after his father had been laid to rest at Westminster Abbey, Fayne had settled down for some deep play at Moirai's Lust, a gaming hell with a well-earned reputation for its tantalizingly plump purses and the notorious losses in­curred by many of the establishment's noble patrons. A night of drinking and careless betting had cost Fayne what most considered a staggering fortune. Indifferent, he had returned to the gaming hell the following evening. By morning he had recouped his losses and had added a hun­dred thousand pounds to it. "My actions hardly qualify as reprehensible. In fact, I recall a night or two when your losses hurt worse than your sore head the next morning."

  "Carlisle," Ramscar said, briefly forgetting Fayne's new title. The lapse of protocol hinted at the extent of his con­cern. "Your behavior of late has been oddly volatile, even by your standards. You have refused Hollensworth's chal­lenges, and yet you have fought four duels in the past eight days over trivial affairs."

  Ah, this was the source of his friend's upset. Ramscar's father had died from a wound he had acquired while duel­ing. Although the man had fought several duels himself, it was not a resolution he accepted lightly. For that reason alone, Fayne had asked Cadd and Everod to be his seconds.

  "The gentlemen who issued the challenges hardly thought them trivial," Fayne said mildly. He selected one of the ash rods and extended it outward, checking the length for imperfections. Finding it acceptable, Fayne switched it for another.

  "Lord Pengree accused you of kicking his favorite hound."

  Ramscar had been listening to the gossips. "Utterly false. The bitch attempted to urinate on my boot. I simply encouraged her to move." He had not believed the audacity of the dog or her owner for calling him out over the matter. Pengree was lucky Fayne had decided before their appoint­ment to shoot over the man's shoulder instead of shooting his offensive animal.

  "And what of Mr. Crynes? What was his transgression?"

  "Crynes is a coward and an opportunist. He and I have been tossing veiled insults back and forth for years. It is no secret that I have challenged him in the past. Instead of facing me on a dew-drenched common, he has always sent his seconds with his apologies. When he learned that I had been refusing Hollensworth's challenges, Crynes erro­neously interpreted my refusal as a sign of weakness and leaped at the chance to defeat me."

  "The bullet the surgeon removed from Crynes's thigh should discourage him from making the same mistake again." Ramscar seized the stick, stilling Fayne's move­ments. "And Mr. Nicout?"

  "Like Crynes, Nicout had hopes of revenging himself over a past misdeed. He has never forgiven me for claiming his prized stallion in order to settle an old debt between us."

  Ramscar scowled in puzzlement. "I recall the incident. The bargain was fair and not uncommon."

  "True. My offense was not my claim on the stallion, but in selling the animal immediately at Tats. Nicout felt my haste in ridding myself of the beast was an insujt to his re­fined taste in horseflesh."

  There was a flash of humor in Ramscar's gaze. "I as­sume he was not aware of the outcome of your exchange with Crynes?"

  Nicout had arrived at their appointment, too confident in the outcome. Fayne had not even bothered trying to per­suade him to reconsider. "If he was unconvinced, I am cer­tain the festering hole in his shoulder is proof that my aim is as accurate as my assessment of his inferior taste in horse­flesh." Seconds after Fayne had discharged his pistol, the man had dropped to the ground and howled in agony. Nicout's downfall had been a pitiful sight.

  His friend sighed. "I suppose Lord Burl ton's reasons for challenging you were just as ridiculous?"

  Fayne suddenly grinned, revealing a slight dimple in his left cheek. "Well, actually Burlton had every right to be a trifle upset with me for bedding his sister. He claimed I had seduced an innocent and demanded satisfaction if I did not marry the chit."

  "Not likely," the earl said grimly, outraged on his friend's behalf. "You abhor dallying with innocents and the sticky entanglements of their virginity. I assume the lady was not the innocent Lord Burlton claimed?"

  Ramscar was correct. Fayne avoided young virgins like other gentlemen shunned dockside whores. Fortunately, the dear lady had confessed her experience in carnal mat­ters when he had made it clear that her virtue held no ap­peal to him. The remainder of the evening he had spent with Miss Burlton had been exhausting and exceedingly pleasurable. “Thankfully, no. It was only later that I learned he had made similar demands of two other gents. After­ward, I was only too happy to shoot him."

  "Rightly so," his friend agreed with vehemence. "Did you hit him in the shoulder or the leg?"

  Fayne gestured with his hands, conveying his regret. "My aim was a bit high. The bullet grazed his head. I have been assured he will make a full recovery."

  "This business with Hollensworth has placed you in a vulnerable position. Until you face him, every gentleman who has felt slighted by you will be tempted to call you out."

  This was precisely why Fayne had hoped his encounter with the baron would end the hostility between them. Nev­ertheless, he was not squeamish about shooting idiots if they provoked him. The duchess and his sister, on the other hand, had some peculiar reservations about how he re­solved his conflicts. Fayne doubted he would ever compre­hend the female mind.
r />   "If this current trend continues, a dawn appointment with me might become as coveted as a voucher for Almack's."

  "How can you make light of the situation, Carlisle? Hollensworth is running all over London, vowing to spill your blood, and you have a dozen or more fools who are vying for a chance to precede him since you keep agreeing to these ridiculous duels."

  "Perhaps I am fated to die one morning on the com­mons. The Solitea men are known for their dramatic de­mises. Just ask my father," he quipped, his humor laced with bitterness. "Oh, I forgot. You cannot." Fayne moved away from Ramscar. He did not want to talk about his fa­ther with anyone. A part of him wondered if he would ever be able to think of the duke without feeling the rending pain beneath his breast.

  Even now, his father's deep voice resonated in his head:

  "The males of our family are cursed, Tem. The Solitea name will grant your wildest desires. The title and the for­tune backing it gives you power. Men will despise you for it. Countless women will beg you to fuck them in hopes of se­curing a portion of it for themselves. But such good fortune exacts a hefty price. Enjoy the bounty and sire your heir while you can, my son, because no Carlisle male who as­sumes the Duke of Solitea title lives long enough to count the silver in his hair."

  His father had often mentioned what many had called the Solitea curse. The duke had not been a superstitious man, but apparently he believed the Carlisle males were cursed. While many might have accused him of squandering his wealth and talents on the frivolous, his father had lived his life on his own terms. At age fifty-four, he had lived longer than most of the heirs to the dukedom. He had even collected a full head of silver hair that he claimed no other male in the family had achieved.

  The duke's longevity had supported Fayne's personal belief that there was no Solitea curse. Over the years, he had reasoned out that the Carlisle males were the victims of their own recklessness. The notion of a curse excused the family for generations of self-indulgence and excess. This knowledge did not mean that Fayne considered himself any better than his predecessors. He could be selfish, obsessed, and violent when provoked, and easily distracted by the su­perficial pleasures of vice and sin. His temperament had been cast at birth and encouraged by his family. Fayne had grown up daring death to claim him before his time.