One Night of Scandal (Avon Historical Romance) Read online

  He cast a curious glance over his shoulder. “Not much of a chatterbox, are you?”

  Lottie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. If only George could have heard that! Her brother had always sworn that she only paused for breath between utterances because blue didn’t suit her fair complexion.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well. I’m not much of a conversationalist myself these days. In truth, I’m barely fit for my own company.” He stole another glance at her. “It’s certainly rare to find a woman who knows when to hold her tongue.”

  Lottie’s mouth fell open. She quickly snapped it shut, refusing to be goaded into a retort.

  As her host ushered her through an arched doorway, her shoulder brushed his chest. She drew in a sharp breath, unprepared for the sweet sting of awareness that brought a flush to her cheeks.

  Although the heavy mahogany furniture was un-shrouded, the study was no more welcoming than the rest of the house. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the back wall were empty of all but a thick layer of dust. He rested the candlestick on the desk, sending light flickering over the small leather trunk that sat open on the blotter. Following the direction of Lottie’s gaze, he quickly moved to close and latch it, his features guarded. The protective gesture only multiplied her curiosity. What could he be so eager to hide? The freshly inked pages of a juicy memoir where he confessed all of his dastardly deeds? His latest victim’s severed head?

  Lottie remained frozen into place by her own misgivings while he crossed to the hearth and crouched to ignite the fire that had been laid there. His efforts with tinderbox, kindling, and poker soon had a fire crackling on the grate, creating a cozy oasis of light in the gloom of the house.

  The fire cast his broad shoulders and narrow hips into silhouette. It wasn’t until he moved to light the lamp on the desk that she caught her first clear look at him.

  Between her guardian, her brother, and her uncle Thane, Lottie had spent so much of her life surrounded by handsome men that if one passed her on the street, she rarely spared him a second glance. But if she had caught a glimpse of this man as he strolled past, she would have walked into the nearest lamppost. His face wasn’t so much handsome as it was utterly arresting. For once, her imagination had failed her. Although he looked even more wary than she felt, there was no sardonic glint in his eye, no cynical sneer to his lips. He was far younger than she’d envisioned. The deep grooves bracketing his mouth had been carved by wear, not time. He’d grown out of a baby face and into a creased brow and strong jaw. A rakish hint of beard-shadow defined its rugged arc. His tousled hair was such a deep, velvety brown that she nearly mistook it for black. He was in bad want of a haircut. Lottie’s fingers tingled with the irrational urge to brush a rebellious lock from his brow.

  His smoky green eyes beneath their thick, dark brows were his most compelling feature. Their luminous depths seem to shift from flame to frost, then back again, based upon the fickle whims of the firelight.

  Lottie’s head reeled. This was the Murderous Marquess? This was the vile villain who had dispatched both best friend and wife to early graves?

  He cleared his throat and gestured to a pedestal table where a half-eaten quail and a half-empty bottle of wine spoke of a lonely supper. “My coachman may not return for a very long while. Would you care for something to eat? A glass of Madeira to take the edge off your chill?”

  Lottie shook her head, still afraid to speak, for fear of revealing herself.

  He looked a bit nonplussed. Perhaps the wine was poisoned. “Then at least allow me to take your mantle.”

  Before she could deny him again, he closed the distance between them. With surprising gentleness, he smoothed the hood away from her hair.

  Lottie squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for him to realize she wasn’t whomever he had been expecting. Her family probably wouldn’t even be able to hear her screams over the wailing of the violins.

  His hand lingered against her hair. She dared to open her eyes. He was fingering one of the bright strands that had escaped her topknot, gazing down at it as if mesmerized.

  A musing note softened the gruff timbre of his voice. “At least Ned had the good sense not to send me a brunette.” His gaze shifted to her face. “So where did he find you? Are you a cousin of Fanny Wilson’s? Or did he pay a visit to Mrs. McGowan’s?”

  The names struck an off-key chord in Lottie’s memory, but with his touch playing havoc with her senses, she could barely remember her own name.

  He shifted his hand from her hair to the curve of her cheek. His thumb caressed the softness he found there, straying dangerously near to her lips. “Who would have thought a devil like Ned could have found an angel like you?”

  Lottie had been called a hellion, an imp, and a mischievous fiend. After setting off a Roman candle in his potting shed, she’d even been called a “wee divil” by Jeremiah Dower, the cranky, but beloved, old gardener at their country house in Hertfordshire. But she’d never once been mistaken for divine.

  “I can promise you, sir, that I’m no angel,” she murmured, blinking up at him.

  He slipped his hand beneath the stray curls at her nape, his warm fingers settling against the vulnerable skin as if they belonged there. “You may not be an angel, but I’d wager you could give a man a little taste of heaven.”

  As their eyes met, he jerked himself away from her, an oath exploding from his lips. He strode back to the hearth, running a hand through his hair. “Sweet Christ, what am I doing? I knew I should have never let you in the house.” He stood in profile, utterly still except for the rhythmic clenching of a muscle in his jaw. “I’m afraid you are owed an apology, miss, as well as whatever coin you were promised. It seems that you and I have been the victims of a tasteless jest.”

  Lottie was nearly as shaken by his withdrawal as she’d been by his touch. “You don’t seem particularly amused,” she noted.

  Fisting one hand against the mantel, he stared into the leaping flames. “Oh, I have no doubt that Ned convinced himself he had only my best interests at heart. He still fancies himself my friend and he knows that I don’t dare visit certain establishments with those vultures from the scandal sheets dogging my every footstep. Sending me some nameless, faceless woman could only be a kindness.” He slanted her a glance, the smoldering regard in his eyes warming every inch of her exposed skin. “But that doesn’t explain why in the bloody hell he sent you.”

  His casual profanity should have shocked her, but she was too riveted by the raw loneliness in his gaze. The scandal sheets hadn’t lied. This man was being haunted. But not from without. From within.

  He took one step toward her, then another. “I can’t do this,” he said fiercely, but he was already closing the distance between them, already reaching to frame her face in his hands. His voice deepened to a husky whisper. “Can I?”

  Lottie had no answer for him. As his head dipped downward, she began to tremble. Her situation was far more dire than she’d imagined. This dangerous stranger wasn’t going to murder her. He was going to kiss her.

  And she was going to let him.

  She held her breath without realizing it as his lips brushed hers. They were softer than they looked, yet firm enough to mold her mouth to his will with nothing more than a feathery caress. Her lips tingled, parting just a fraction as he exerted a coaxing pressure that was more plea than demand.

  After a moment of that delicious tension, he drew away from her. Lottie’s eyes fluttered open just in time to see his mouth curve into a bemused half-smile. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost swear you’d never been kissed before.” Before she could decide if that was an insult or a compliment, his smile faded. “I don’t know what instructions you received,” he said gruffly, “but there’s no need to play the innocent with me. I’m not one of those leering gents who fancies silly young chits fresh from their debuts.”

  Lottie’s mouth fell open in outrage.

  “There now. That’s better.” Before she co
uld sputter a retort, his mouth slanted over hers, accepting a surrender she had not offered.

  Well! Lottie thought. She’d just show him how silly a young chit could be! She might not have been kissed before, but she’d caught her sister and brother-in-law at it often enough to gain a firm grasp of the rudiments. Without pausing to ponder the folly of her actions, she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her lips firmly to his.

  Her affronted bravado lasted only until the scorching sweetness of his tongue delved between her lips. She should have been repulsed, not beguiled, but the tender swirl of his tongue against hers was irresistible. He explored the yielding softness of her mouth until she was clinging to him not to prove her mettle as a woman, but to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet. He didn’t kiss like a murderer; he kissed like an angel—deep and hot and sweet, all leashed power and coiled delight.

  When the tip of her own tongue touched his, he groaned deep in his throat and wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her against the hard, muscled planes of his body. He guided her backward until her knees struck the padded cushions of the Grecian couch languishing in the shadows. The mantle slipped away, baring her throat and shoulders.

  Lottie had forgotten all about her torn bodice, forgotten how easy it would be for a man to slip his hand beneath the shattered fabric and cup the weight of her breast in his palm. When Hayden St. Clair did just that, she froze, torn between shock and pleasure.

  At first Lottie thought the sound she was hearing was her heart slamming against her ribs. Then she realized it was someone banging on a brass door knocker.

  They broke apart, both breathless. Their gazes collided—hers guilty, his troubled.

  He swore. “If this is Ned’s idea of a prank, I’ll strangle him.”

  Lottie opened her mouth; nothing came out but a squeak.

  “Stay here,” he commanded. “While I send whoever it is on their way.”

  With his departure, both her breath and her reason returned. What if his caller was the mysterious woman for whom he had mistaken her? Or worse yet, what if Sterling had discovered her absence and come looking for her? Either way, she was the one who was most likely to be strangled. Desperate to escape, Lottie began to cast frantically about for a way out of the study. She swept aside the heavy velvet drapes, gazing upward. Although there was no sign of Harriet, the cozy lights of her aunt’s second-story sitting room beckoned to her from across the courtyard. It might just be possible to drop out of this first-floor window and vanish into the moon-dappled shadows while her host was otherwise occupied.

  But before Lottie could do more than snatch up her mantle, a woman in a wine-colored pelisse came sweeping into the room, her shimmering auburn hair piled high atop her head. There could be no denying her beauty, even if it was of the rouged and powdered Covent Garden variety, better suited to trodding the boards than gracing the pages of La Belle Assemblee.

  The marquess was fast on her heels. “I do believe you’ve made a mistake, miss. You can’t just barge in here as if you own the place.

  “There’s been no mistake,” the woman retorted.

  “This is the address what was given to my driver.” She drew off her black, lace-trimmed gloves and began to unfasten the silk frogs of her pelisse, her sophisticated appearance at keen odds with her East End cant. “We’d best make haste, you know. It’s damp as a morgue out there. The poor chap won’t wait all night.” She looked Hayden up and down like a wharf rat eyeing a particularly succulent piece of cheese before drawling, “More’s the pity.”

  Lottie must have made some sort of sound without realizing it. The woman’s head jerked in her direction. “What’s she doing here?”

  Hayden refused to be distracted. “Perhaps the question should be, ‘What are you doing here?’ ”

  The woman blinked at him. “Why, Mrs. McGowan sent me.”

  Mrs. McGowan. Fanny Wilson. The names clanked into Lottie’s consciousness like badly struck notes on the pianoforte. She’d read them often enough in the scandal sheets. They were both notorious members of the demimonde, women who peddled flesh only to those wealthy enough to afford the most expensive and exotic of pleasures. Her face burned with dawning horror as she realized exactly who—and what—Hayden St. Clair had mistaken her for. She clutched the mantle to her tattered bodice, but still felt naked.

  The woman began to circle Lottie, looking her up and down much as she had Hayden only minutes before. “The gent who hired me made no mention of your lady.”

  Your lady. The words sent a curious shiver down Lottie’s spine. She waited for the marquess to deny her, but he held his tongue.

  “With all that creamy skin and those big blue eyes, she’s a tasty little bit of baggage, ain’t she?” To Lottie’s intense relief, the woman finally returned her attention to Hayden, avarice gleaming in her eyes.

  “But it makes no difference to me how tasty she is. If you want to watch me with her, it’ll cost you double. Pleasures like that don’t come cheap, not even for a gent.”

  Hayden cocked his head to the side and studied Lottie, his expression thoughtful. For one dreadful moment, Lottie thought he might actually be considering the doxy’s vile proposition. Then he finally said, very softly, as if he and Lottie were the only two in the room, “If she’s from Mrs. McGowan’s, then you would be…?”

  “Just leaving.” Lottie pasted on a bright smile as she began to inch toward the door. “Since your butler has been dismissed for the night, I’ll just see myself out.”

  He took a single step, neatly blocking her path. “That won’t be necessary. I believe it’s my other guest who will be leaving.”

  “Then I’ll see her out,” Lottie volunteered, clutching at the woman’s arm as if she was drowning in the Thames and someone had just tossed her a rope.

  “Just one minute there, guv’nor,” the woman protested, snatching her arm from Lottie’s grip. “I don’t want you ruining my fine reputation. In all her days—and nights, Lydia Smiles ain’t never left a gentleman unsatisfied.”

  Without once taking his eyes off Lottie, Hayden retrieved a fat wad of pound notes from the open valise on the desk and tossed them to the woman. “I believe that should compensate you for both your time and your trouble, Miss Smiles. And I can assure you that nothing will give me more satisfaction than your imminent departure.”

  Despite the woman’s sulky pout, she wasted no time in stuffing the pound notes down her bodice. As she drew on her gloves, she shot Hayden a regretful look and Lottie a sympathetic one. “A pity I couldn’t have stayed, dearie. He looks to be more man than you can handle.”

  As the woman swept out of the room, Lottie could find no argument for that. The front door slammed, sealing her doom.

  Hayden St. Clair leaned against the desk, folding his arms over his chest and looking every inch as murderous as society claimed him to be. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

  “Why on earth would you think that?” Lottie stole a guilty look at her hands, then tucked them behind her back. She’d taken great care to scrub every trace of ink from beneath her fingernails in honor of her debut.

  “Let’s just call it an educated guess, shall we?” His eyes narrowed. “So which one of those wretched scandal sheets sent you to spy on me? Was it The Tatler? The Whisperer? Or has even The Times stooped to such despicable measures?” He shook his head. “I can’t believe they were foolhardy enough to send a woman. Especially a woman like you.” He looked her up and down, his uncompromising gaze sending a frisson of heat over her skin. “Why, if I were a certain sort of man…” He left the observation unfinished, as if even he wasn’t entirely sure what sort of man he might be.

  She drew herself up. “I can assure you, my lord, that I’m no spy.”

  “Then perhaps you’d care to explain why I found you peering into my window.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it. He arched one eyebrow.

  All of the starch went out of Lottie’s shoulders. “Oh, very we
ll! If you must know, I was spying. But not for the tabloids. Only to satisfy my own curiosity.”

  “And have I succeeded in satisfying you?” The unspoken challenge in his gaze reminded her that only minutes before she had been in his arms, sharing his kiss, feeling the scorching heat of his palm against her naked flesh.

  Feeling her cheeks heat, Lottie began to pace back and forth in front of the window. “I don’t know why you’re in such a foul temper. Why, there I was, just minding my own business—”

  He arched the other brow.

  “Well, I had the noble intention of minding my own business until Harriet overheard the maids gossiping and learned that my aunt’s neighbor was the Mur—” She snapped her mouth shut, shooting him a nervous look.

  “The Murderous Marquess?” he gently provided.

  She decided it would be safest to neither confirm nor deny. “The next thing I know, I’m stuck in a tree with my lovely gown all ruined and my aunt’s cat making smug faces at me.” She paused in her pacing. “Are you following this?”

  “Not in the least,” he said pleasantly, crossing one booted ankle over the other. “But please don’t let that stop you.”

  She resumed her pacing, tripping over the hem of the mantle draped over her arm. “So after narrowly avoiding Terrible Terwilliger herself, I catch a glimpse of a mysterious light in your window. The house could have been on fire, you know. Why, I might have saved your life! And what thanks do you offer me in return? You snatch me into the house, call me a silly, little fool, and then you— you—” She swung around to face him, her chin held high. “You kiss me!”

  “Surely the most vile of all my transgressions,” he murmured, looking far more amused than ashamed. “Even murder pales in comparison.”