Barbara Pierce - Sinful Between the Sheets Read online

  Discreetly, studying the baron through the lace edging her parasol, Kilby could not imagine her mother befriend­ing this gentleman or taking him as a lover. She wrinkled her nose. While his hair was dark and comparable to her own, she saw no other similarity. She silently conceded that more than nineteen years had passed since he and her mother had known each other. People change. They might have been lovers. However, Kilby doubted the man was her father.

  The baron and his companion led her inadvertently to the outskirts of the fair. An impressive crowd had gathered around a stage. Some sort of event was about to com­mence. Lord Ordish had mentioned the baron favored wa­gering on sporting events.

  The five shillings she handed to the man selling admis­sion tickets a few minutes later confirmed her suspicions. Lord Ursgate was there to wager on a match. Instead of us­ing their fists, the combatants were using singlesticks. Kilby collapsed her parasol and tucked it under her arm as she threaded her way through the crowd. She tilted her head from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of the elusive Lord Ursgate. This is hopeless, she despaired. The baron had disappeared. She should admit defeat and return to the car­riage where Lyssa and Darknell were waiting. They would not gloat—much.

  It took mere seconds to realize that departing was im­possible. A man, likely the umpire, was on the stage, call­ing for order so he could introduce the combatants. She had to leave. Now. Alas, there were simply too many peo­ple around her. Her pursuit of Lord Ursgate had thrown her into the very heart of the throng. Belatedly, she noticed the few women near her were not as elegantly attired as she. There were noble ladies in attendance, but they had chosen to remain in their carriages. Gritting her teeth over her bla­tant breach of etiquette, she decided that going back the way she came was not an option, so she pressed forward, and swiftly found herself near the stage.

  The umpire called forth the first combatant, Lord Hol­lensworth. Kilby stilled, slightly surprised the attractive, blond-haired man on the stage was a titled gentleman. She had never attended an event like this, but she had assumed the opponents were local villagers or perhaps fighters by profession. Kilby did not know the baron, nor did she recognize any of the gentlemen or ladies sitting in the surrounding carriages. With a little luck, she might actually get through this afternoon with her reputation intact.

  That cheerful thought lasted three seconds; until some­one had the nerve to pinch her sharply on the backside. Kilby whirled around and glared at the men standing directly behind her. She did not trust their innocent expres­sions for one instant.

  "The next man who pinches me will get the point of my parasol in his eye," she threatened the three men closest to her.

  "Such a fierce temper, Fitchwolf," Darknell said, ap­proaching her from the left. Lyssa was at his side. "And here we were worried about you."

  Kilby was so pleased to see her friends. Giddy with relief, she gave each one a brief hug. "I knew you would not aban­don me," she said, letting her resentment fade away. "I—"

  "Fayne Carlisle, Duke of Solitea," the umpire yelled out over the din of the spectators. His arm arced horizontally in a grand manner, introducing Lord Hollensworth's opponent.

  Kilby's mouth fell open as she recognized the man. "Him."

  "Who?" Lyssa craned her neck to see who had caught her friend's interest. "Lord Ursgate?"

  "No, I lost sight of him twenty minutes ago. I had already given up the chase for the day before your arrival." Kilby turned away from her friends. Incredulous, she stared up at the man on stage, raising his arms to encourage the cheers he received from the throng. This man was the old duke's heir. "That is the new Duke of Solitea," she said, glancing back at her friends for confirmation.

  "Yes," Lyssa said, equally startled to see two gentlemen on the wooden stage.

  Darknell seemed rather displeased by the young duke's presence. "If I had known of your interest, I could have arranged an introduction."

  Kilby lifted her brows. If she had not been so intimately acquainted with the viscount, she might have thought he was jealous. "I do not desire an introduction. I was merely curious. After all, his father died in my arms. I have often wondered what his family thought of—well, the strange circumstances in which he died."

  In truth, she was telling Darknell a tiny fib. It was not simply curiosity about the family that held her attention. It was him. Kilby had seen this gentleman before. It mattered little how many weeks had passed since that night. The new Duke of Solitea, like his father, was not the sort of gentle­man a lady easily forgot. She had noticed him immediately when he entered the ballroom.

  He was very striking in appearance. Tall, lean, with a hint of muscle in his broad shoulders, the man had entered the room as if he had claimed it for his own. There had been several other gentlemen at his side, but they were not as fas­cinating as the man who had intrigued her. It had been diffi­cult not to boldly admire him. Priddy had explained that such behavior was too brazen. The viscountess had her practicing in front of a mirror for hours the discreet art of observing without being observed; the cunning and grace­ful use of her fan. The hours of repetition had been tedious. However, Priddy had been satisfied with the results. Kilby too saw the benefits of honing such skills. It allowed her to move through polite society, discreetly observing the gen­tlemen of the ton without overtly doing so.

  It had also given her the distinct pleasure of admiring the man, who she now knew was the heir to the Solitea dukedom. She liked the way he moved as he circulated the large room speaking to various groups of people. His graceful masculine gait revealed a quiet strength with a hint of dominating arrogance. She did not particularly care for arrogant gentlemen, but she supposed the young duke could not avoid this trait. Sophistication and arrogance were in his blood.

  Kilby had also been enthralled with his hair. He wore it long. The wavy length was tied neatly at his nape, but it reached the middle of his back. And what an unusual color! His hair was a thick, burnished chestnut that, even restrained, gleamed with an inner fire. Kilby had often wondered about the color of his eyes. Were they blue, black, hazel, brown, or green? Although tempted, she never strolled close enough to discover the answer.

  He had watched her, too. A woman sensed when she had a man's interest. He had spent the entire evening watching her, and yet he had not approached her. How many times had they circled the ballroom that night? She had felt a pang of disappointment when he had abruptly left the ballroom and had not returned. Oh, if she had both­ered to point him out, Priddy would have eagerly made the appropriate introductions. Despite her interest, Kilby had refrained. The heir to a dukedom was too lofty an aspira­tion for a lady whose paternity was being called into ques­tion by a member of her own family.

  "What are they doing?" Lyssa asked, drawing Kilby back to the present.

  Darknell looked grim. "Backswording." They all watched as the combatants removed their coats and handed them to their respective friends. He lashed both women with his heated glare. "Neither of you have any business being here. These battles can get rather bloody."

  Kilby felt the full weight of his disapproval settle on her slender shoulders. "Well, we are stuck with our misadven­ture, my lord. It is impossible to escape this mob. Perhaps the brutality of two men pummeling one another with wooden rods is a fitting punishment."

  She had never seen two men engaged in backswording. However, they were using rods instead of genuine swords. And these men were gentlemen—such a battle could not be so dangerous.

  "Do not be so certain," Darknell said.

  Kilby returned her attention to the stage. The man who had sold her a ticket had called this match a demonstration of skills. Kilby was beginning to have her doubts as she observed the Duke of Solitea tense in response to some­thing Lord Hollenworth said. This was not a friendly match between two friends. They looked like they wanted to kill each other.

  "We are leaving," Darknell said, grabbing both ladies by the upper arm. "Now."

  "My lord
, pray be sensible," Kilby begged, struggling in his harsh grasp. She was not about to be dragged off like an errant child in front of all these people. "Darknell, you are calling undue attention to us. We are too close to the stage to move in any direction and the way out is through at least two hundred people! You will have to let Lyssa and I en­dure this noble display of masculine ferocity. If either of us feels dizzy, you can waft my vinaigrette under our noses. You will find it in my reticule." She gave her arm an unla­dylike jerk to free herself.

  "A favor," the duke's voice rang out, the low rousing quality of it slipping beneath her skin and making her shiver. "I demand a lady's favor. Who shall claim me as her champion?"

  Women all around Kilby cried out, pleading with His Grace to take their tokens. Craning her neck back and ag­ilely poised on her toes, she noticed even the ladies of the ton, elegantly draped in their carriages, were vying for the duke's attention. Bits of lace, colorful ribbons, and silk scarves were brandished in the air. Kilby was too busy star­ing at the ladies in the carriages trying to guess which one the duke would choose, so she did not notice he had jumped down from the stage and was standing behind the lady he had selected.

  "Lady Kilby Fitchwolf." The Duke of Solitea said her name in a low, provocative drawl. "Will you favor me?"

  CHAPTER 4

  Fayne could not believe his good fortune. While he stood on the stage, listening to Hollensworth snarl insults at him before the match, his roaming gaze had alighted on the elu­sive Lady Kilby Fitchwolf. What was she doing here? Had she come because she had learned of the match? Fayne was not truly interested in the reasons that brought his fa­ther's mistress to him.

  Lady Kilby was here. Staring down into her wary face, Fayne realized he did have the answer to a question that had haunted him since the night he had seen her at the ball. The lady had violet-colored eyes. Intriguing. He had the sudden urge to glide the tip of his tongue lightly over her dark lashes, tracing the almond shape of her exotic eyes.

  This was the first time he was standing close enough to touch her face. And yet, he had picked her out of a crowd. It was as if the elegant curve of her spine, the flirtatious tilt of her stunning face, and her black tresses had been im­printed on his brain.

  Lady Kilby seemed charmingly flustered by his question. "A favor," she repeated, frantically touching the brim of her small bonnet, the cuffs of her sleeves, and hem of her bluish-gray silk shawl as she tried to comply with his request.

  She was wearing a white muslin dress with lace trim­ming. The dress was demure in comparison to the one Lady Silver wore that afternoon. Between the two, Fayne would have never thought modesty could be so stimulating.

  "The lady has nothing to offer, Your Grace," her male companion growled. It was apparent the gentleman viewed Fayne's presence as trespassing. "There are others who will gladly give you what you seek."

  Fayne was not intimidated. Her scowling friend was not the first man who thought to challenge him over a woman. If Lady Kilby returned his interest, she would be well worth the inconvenience of a duel.

  Lady Kilby looked startled by her friend's rude dismissal. Fayne noted the heightened color flowering in her cheeks. If she had not invited his father to her boudoir, he

  would have thought her an innocent.

  "Lord Darknell speaks truthfully," she said apologeti­cally. "I have nothing that is not stitched, pinned—"

  Fayne placed a finger on her soft lips. Without break­ing eye contact, he brushed his fingers against the gauzy bluish-gray aerophane crepe bow poised so irresistibly on the front of her bodice. Grasping one of the nearly trans­parent tails, he collapsed the pretty bow with a decisive tug. Fayne grinned mischieviously as her beautiful violet eyes crossed at his brashness. "There, you see? You have something to offer, my lady."

  Wrapping one of the ends around his fingers, he slowly pulled the long, wispy band of crepe that had been threaded through the fabric loops framing the edge of her rounded bodice until it was free. Without the modesty of the bow, he was treated to an enticing glimpse of her breasts. The spell broken between them, Lady Kilby gasped and slapped her hand over her bodice. Clutching his prize, Fayne longed to press his tongue against her soft flesh and taste. She took a retreating step back as if sensing his lustful thoughts.

  "Don't rush off," he entreated, amused by her sudden coyness. His father would not have been attracted to a timid creature. He held up the length of crepe. "Will you honor me by tying your favor to my arm?"

  Lady Kilby's forehead furrowed at his polite request. He thought at first that she might refuse him. Ignoring her friends, she moved closer and took the gauzy scarf from his hand.

  "Very well. If you insist, Your Grace," she softly said, and began winding the length of fabric several times around his upper arm before tying the ends into a secure knot.

  Fayne grimaced at the clearly feminine trimming on his arm. She stepped away from him, pleased with her ac­complishment. Noting her smile, the complaint forming on his lips faded. His reputation would not be outdone by a lady's scarf. Her male companion was certainly not pleased with her. If his grim expression was any indica­tion, Fayne would be facing another dawn appointment if he pursued her.

  "You intrigue me, Lady Kilby," Fayne quietly confessed. It was the only warning he could give her.

  Startled by his admission, she hastily glanced at her companions. "It is not my intention to do so, Your Grace."

  "And yet I seem unable to resist." Fayne shrugged, hear­ing another summons coming from the stage. "And what about you, my lady? Do you require courting or do you prefer a man who just takes?"

  He did not give her a chance to reply. Alas, the Lady Kilby Fitchwolf would have to wait for another opportu­nity when they could privately discuss their mutual desires. Hollensworth was impatiently awaiting his return.

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

  Kilby's gaze rested on the Duke of Solitea's back as he ac­cepted another gentleman's hand and hauled himself back onto the stage. What just happened? she wondered, lightly touching her right temple with her fingertips. Had she been bewitched? What had possessed her to stand there docilely while the young duke had untied the bow on her bodice and with confidence born of practice removed the threaded length that framed her bosom?

  The combatants were preparing for the match. Coatless and hatless, they wore no padding to protect themselves from the stinging blows of the sticks. Each had what appeared to be a wicker guard in their grasp. The ash rods were inserted into the hilt, creating a wooden sword. In their opposing hand they held a length of rope that was looped between their legs and the two ends were held rigidly in place by their hand. The rope was designed to hinder the movement of that arm. Each man could lift their bent elbow high enough to protect their face, but the arm could not block a ruthless strike to the head.

  "Encouraging that particular man will lead only to dis­grace," Darknell warned. "The duke is not thinking how to court you, of taking you as his bride. He is wondering how quickly you will tumble into his bed, my naive Fitchwolf."

  Kilby clenched her teeth at his chastisement. She was not that dimwitted. Given time, she would reason out the duke's motives on her own. "Silence, my lord. You are becoming positively tedious. My ears are still ringing from your previous lectures." She was being intentionally rude, guaranteeing that the viscount would refrain from speak­ing to her.

  Kilby did not owe her friends an explanation about her reaction to the duke. She was not even certain what had occurred between them. The Duke of Solitea had looked down at her with those penetrating green eyes of his, a slightly amused expression on his face. When he had asked her to tie the favor to his arm, how could she refuse the in­nocent request?

  Kilby mentally shook off the lingering effects of the duke's proximity. She was still flabbergasted he had ap­proached her so daringly in public. The man had called her by name and openly flirted with her. His actions com­pletely baffled her. If he knew her name, he knew she had b
een with his father when he had collapsed and died in her arms. Although the Carlisles had agreed that Kilby's con­nection to the duke should not be revealed, Priddy had hinted that the family did so not for her sake—they cared little for her fate—but to avoid a scandal. If this was true, why had he not cut her dead?

  Kilby jolted at the thwacking sounds of the ash rods connecting. Lord Hollensworth and His Grace had begun the match. The brief affable respite of having them search for a lady's favor had not dimmed their thirst for battle. Glancing at the scrap of white lace tied to his arm, she sur­mised that the baron had found a lady to favor him. Kilby had been too focused on the duke to witness which one of the ladies had bestowed her favor.

  As she watched them, the speed and grace with which the two men attacked and parried was extraordinary. This was definitely not a sport for the fainthearted. The duke took a solid hit on his arm. The man did not even grimace. He swiftly returned the hit by striking the baron on the shoulder and again on his upper right thigh. A small red spot of blood appeared on the shoulder of Lord Hol­lensworth's white linen shirt, and the crowd cheered. The duke circled and Kilby noticed a larger bloodstain ruined his sleeve, too.

  "Oh, I cannot watch," Lyssa complained, covering her eyes. "Tell me when they have finished."

  Kilby brought the handle of the parasol to her lips. She wanted to look away, too. "What is the point? Thrash one another until each is bloody and senseless?"

  She had not realized she had spoken aloud until Dark­nell replied quietly, "A singlestick can be as damaging to the flesh as a sword. These types of matches, can get quite gory."