London
1874
At times Lady Ophelia Lyttleton found herself quite disgusted with those of her gender. Tonight, unfortunately, was turning out to be one of those occasions. The young ladies—the old ones as well for that matter—were making spectacles of themselves as they all vied for the attention of one of the most notorious gentlemen in attendance at this evening’s ball.
Drake Darling didn’t often frequent Society’s elite functions, but the gentlemen’s club overseer could not very well have avoided this affair when its purpose was to celebrate the marriage of Lady Grace Mabry to the Duke of Lovingdon. After all, Darling had been raised within the bosom of Grace’s family even though he was not related to them in any manner, not a distant cousin or long-lost nephew. Nor was he of the aristocracy and his blood most certainly did not run blue.
Yet the ladies tittering about him and dangling their dance cards in front of his nose seemed to have forgotten those little facts. He would not elevate their standing in Society. He would not pass on a title to his firstborn son. He would not sit in the House of Lords.
The only thing he could be guaranteed to achieve was turning ladies’ minds to mush. It was his smile. The sublime way his lips parted ever so slightly to reveal straight white teeth, and then one corner of his luscious mouth hitching up a little higher to form a tiny dimple in his right cheek that winked with the promise of wickedness.
It was his eyes. The manner in which they, black as midnight, sparkled knowingly as though he could not only decipher a lady’s dearest wish but deliver it to her in a manner that would far exceed her expectations.
It was his hair, so black as to look almost blue when captured by gaslight. The rebellious way he kept it longer than fashionable, the inviting manner in which it brushed against the collar of his blue jacket, tempting fingers to ruffle through the curling strands.
It was the breadth of his shoulders and the width of his chest that hinted at solace offered to any woman who rested her cheek there, his height that put him half a head taller than most of the men in the salon. It was his laughter, the ease with which he gifted it to one lady after another. It was his courteous bow, his incredible solicitousness, the seductive manner in which he lowered his head to hear more clearly, leaned forward to whisper in the delicate shell of an ear.
He made them fall in love with him. So effortlessly. Without care. Without considering consequences.
She hated him for it. They would follow him into gardens where he would kiss them senseless. She had once caught him doing exactly that with a young servant at the duke’s estate. Behind the stables, the girl had been fairly clambering up the long length of him striving to capture all his mouth had to offer. While she’d been only eight, Ophelia had been disgusted by the display, had known it was wrong, sinful. She didn’t think they’d seen her, but even as she ran away she heard his low laughter, and loped all the faster. She knew his sort, knew he had no regard for a woman’s reputation.
Thus far this evening he’d danced with a dozen ladies. Not that she was keeping count.
She’d had her fair share of attention from earls, viscounts, marquesses, and dukes. From men who held courtesy titles but would one day hold far more, and from those who had already ascended to their proper rank. She hardly needed to beg for notice like the silly chits who surrounded Darling every time he came off the dance floor or returned from fetching a bit of refreshment for some ogling miss on the verge of a swoon. He certainly played the role of gallant well, was master of it. He made them all forget what he was, from whence he’d come. A man of coarse origins.
“They make such fools of themselves, fawning over Darling as they do,” she muttered.
Standing beside her, Miss Minerva Dodger gave a start. “You can hardly blame them. He’s a curiosity. I don’t think he’s attended a ball since Grace’s coming out.”
He’d dared to ask Ophelia to dance that night, but she had ignored his invitation. Someone had to maintain the high ground, had to adhere to socially acceptable standards. Her father had beat that fact into her often enough. Her lineage could be traced back to William the Conqueror. She was not even allowed to dance with the spares, let alone any sons who came after. She was expected to do him and her ancestors proud, to carry on the noble tradition of marrying well. If she did not obey his strictures, her impressive dowry would be forfeit, and along with it any chance she had for happiness. She was dependent upon what the fortune in her trust would eventually provide: freedom.
“He’s a commoner,” she reminded her friend.
Minerva arched a brow. “As am I.”
Ophelia released a quick huff of air. “Your mother is nobility.”
“My father is of the streets.”
And one of the wealthiest men in Christendom. “He made something of himself.”
“Could not the same be said of Drake?”
“Can one truly ever escape his past?”
“You can’t have it both says. You can’t on the one hand acknowledge that my father escaped his and then not give Drake the same consideration.”
She could, she did. Her father had been an incredibly moral man. Since their father’s passing, her brother had strayed a bit from the straight and narrow, spending far too many nights lost in gambling and drink, but she felt an obligation to honor her father’s teachings. Sin was drawn to her, and if she did not remain ever vigilant, it would have its way with her. She’d never told anyone that ugly truth about herself. Her father would have been terribly disappointed, might not have provided her with a dowry, might have left her to her own means.
“My father has no complaints with the way Drake manages Dodger’s Drawing Room,” Minerva continued on, referring to the infamous gentlemen’s club as though she had Ophelia’s undivided attention. “Being raised by the Duke and Duchess of Greystone and garnering the same devotion that they give their sons, I daresay he could have avoided working altogether if he wished. I think he’s to be admired.”
She’d been unwise to mention anything at all as Minerva couldn’t possibly understand how Ophelia managed to see Drake Darling for exactly what he was: beneath them all and not to be well-regarded in the least. He was no gentleman. He encouraged sin, tempted ladies with that wicked, wicked smile.
“He always manages to bring out the worst in you,” Minerva mused. “I’ve never understood that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I give him no thought whatsoever.”
“Yet here we are discussing him.”
“No, actually, I was pointing out the ladies’ improper behavior, how badly it reflects on all of us.”
“My father has told me countless times that we are not a reflection of others’ behavior, only our own.”
But when that behavior touches us . . .
She broke off the thought, shoved it back into its hidey-hole, would not dignify it with voice. Although she did have to admit that Minerva had the right of it. Darling brought out the worst in her. Always had. Sin called to sin.
Just that morning she had been the envy of every female in London because Darling had escorted her down the aisle of St. George’s following the ceremony that had united Grace and Lovingdon. She had served as Grace’s maid of honor while Darling had stood as Lovingdon’s best man. But on the long stroll from the altar to the vestry, she’d spoken not a word to him, and he’d barely acknowledged her. He hadn’t bestowed upon her his remarkable smile. His eyes hadn’t twinkled. She knew he wished to be with anyone other than her just as she wished to be with anyone other than him.
The ladies were dancing with the devil as he led them merrily into temptation. It was time someone put an end to the charade, that someone reminded them—and him—of his place within their ranks.
At that precise moment Drake Darling wished to be anywhere other than where he was, but he was well aware that in life one did not always get what he wished for. On occasion, he didn’t even get what he deserved.
So he relied upon what he’d learned during his formative years about deception and he pretended that he was positively delighted, beside himself with joy, to be the center of attention. He much preferred the shadows to glittering ballrooms. He was most comfortable when not noticed, but he was at best a chameleon. He knew how to blend in even when the blending in took place within a room with mirrored walls, gaslit chandeliers, and the finest personages the aristocracy had to offer.
The one thing he was not feigning was his happiness for Grace and Lovingdon. He considered Grace a sister, even though their blood could not have been more opposite. For many years now he had been close to Lovingdon, a confidante on occasion, but more often a hell-raiser of late. Until Grace had captured the duke’s heart.
Therefore, Drake couldn’t very well not attend the celebration of their marriage. Only minutes earlier he’d caught sight of the happy couple escaping the ballroom. Normally the bride and groom didn’t attend the ball held in their honor, but Grace was far from conventional. She’d wanted to dance with her father one last time. The Duke of Greystone’s eyesight was deteriorating, although only the family was aware of his affliction. Another reason Drake was here: to acknowledge his debt to the man and woman who had given him a home. His presence was expected, and so he gave no outward sign to the six young ladies surrounding him that he wished to be elsewhere. He always did whatever was required to ensure the duke and duchess had no regrets about taking him in.
They were so young, the ladies who smiled and batted their lashes at him. Even the ones who were on the far side of five and twenty were too innocent for his tastes. They were all light and airy as though burdens were unknown to them, as though life encompassed nothing more than enjoyment. He preferred his women with a bit more seasoning to them, savory, spicy, and tart.
“Boy.”
An exception to his preference for the tart had arrived. The haughtiness of the voice set his teeth on edge. He should have known he’d not escape her notice for the entire evening. That Lady Ophelia Lyttleton was one of Grace’s dearest friends was beyond his comprehension. He didn’t understand why the sister of his heart associated with such an arrogant miss when Grace was the sweetest, gentlest person he’d ever known. Stubborn to be sure, but she hadn’t a mean bone in her body. Lady Ophelia could not claim the same. Her presence at his back proof enough.
The ladies who had been gifting him with their attention blinked repeatedly and went silent for the first time in more than two hours. Because they were there, because he was striving to give the appearance of being a gentleman, he would spare Lady Ophelia the embarrassment of ignoring her. Even though he suspected he would pay a price for his generosity. He always paid the price. The lady was quite adept at delivering stinging barbs.
Slowly he turned and arched a brow at the woman whose head failed to reach his shoulder. And yet in spite of her diminutive size, she managed to give the appearance of looking down on him. It was her long, pert, slender nose that tipped up ever so slightly on the end. She had been a constant aggravation whenever she visited with Grace and crossed paths with him. But devil’s mistress that she was, she was very careful to slight him only when Grace wasn’t about to witness her set-downs. Because he loved Grace too much to upset her—and she would be appalled to know he and her friend were not on particularly pleasant terms—he had borne Lady Ophelia’s degradations, convinced that he was walking the high ground while she was slogging along in the muck.
It made no sense to him that such a beauty could be such a resounding termagant. Her green eyes with the oval, exotic slant were challenging him with a sharpness that could slice into one’s soul if he weren’t careful. While he was twelve years her senior, as she had grown toward womanhood, she had mastered the art of making him feel as though he were a dog living in the quagmire of the gutters again. Not that others among the aristocracy hadn’t made him feel the same from time to time, but still it irked more so when she was the one responsible for the cut to his pride.
“Boy,” she repeated with a touch more arrogance, “do fetch me some champagne, and be quick about it.”
As though he were a servant, as though he lived to serve her. Not that he found fault with those who served. Theirs was a more noble undertaking and their accomplishments far outstripped anything she might ever manage. She, who no doubt nibbled on chocolates in bed while reading a book, without thought regarding the effort that had gone behind placing both in her hand.
He considered telling her to fetch the champagne herself, but he knew she would view it as a victory, that she was hoping to get a rise out of him, wanted to prove that he wasn’t gentleman enough not to insult a lady. Or perhaps she simply wanted to ensure that he knew his place. As though he could ever forget it. He bathed every night, scrubbed his body viciously, but he could not scrape the grime of the streets off his skin. His family had embraced him, their friends had embraced him, but he still knew what he was, knew from whence he’d come. If he told Lady Ophelia the truth about everything that lurked in his past, she would no doubt pale and the moonbeams that served for her hair would curl and shrivel in horror.
From the ladies circling about, he sensed their anticipation on the air, perhaps even the hope that he would put her in her place. He’d never understood the cattiness that he sometimes witnessed between women. He knew Grace had received her share of jealousy because her immense dowry had made men trip over themselves to gain her favor. But Lady O for all her dislike of him had remained loyal to Grace, had served as his sister’s confidante, had been a true friend. She didn’t deserve his disdain or a set-down in front of ladies who might have wished Grace less attention.
He tilted his head slightly. “As you desire, Lady Ophelia.” He turned to the others. “I’ll be but a moment, ladies, and then we can continue our discussion regarding the most alluring fragrances.”
For some reason they had devised a little game that resulted in his striving to name the flower that scented their perfume. It required a lot of leaning in along with inhaling on his part, and soft sighs on theirs.
Lady Ophelia had arrived on a cloud of orchids that teased and taunted, promising forbidden pleasures that in spite of his best attempts to ignore, lured him. Of all the women, why the devil did she intrigue him? Perhaps because she offered such a challenge, had erected walls that only the most nimble could scale in order to gain the real treasure behind them. He was adept at reading people, but for the life of him he’d never been able to read her.
Twisting on his heel, he headed to the table where champagne and sundry other refreshments were being poured. He was acutely aware of her gaze homed in on his back. He suspected if he looked over his shoulder, he would see her whispering with the other ladies, warning them off. Little did she realize that she would be doing him a favor if she could ensure that he was left in peace. He had committed to three more dances, and wouldn’t disappoint his soon-to-be partners by heading to the gaming salon before he’d completed his obligations. Nor was he going to give Lady Ophelia the satisfaction of ruining his evening by sending him on errands. One glass was all she’d garner from him.
He didn’t know why, two years ago at Grace’s coming-out ball, he had asked Lady Ophelia to dance. He had thought she had grown into an exquisite creature, and she was Grace’s friend. While she had often looked down her nose on him, she’d been a child then and he’d assumed she’d outgrown childish things. He couldn’t have been more wrong. With a horrified look, she had given him a cut direct. Turned her back on him without even responding to his invitation. It had not spared his pride to realize that others had witnessed the rebuff.
Snatching up a flute of champagne from the table, he wended his way back through the throng, not at all surprised to find that she had moved on. He considered downing the bubbly brew but hard whiskey was more to his liking, and then he heard her seductive laughter. How the devil could an ice maiden have such a throaty, sensual laugh, a siren’s song that arrowed straight to the groin?
Irritated with himself for being drawn to the sound, he glanced back over his shoulder to spy her flirting outrageously with the Duke of Avendale and Viscount Langdon. Their families were well-respected, powerful, and wealthy. He was not surprised to see two other ladies in the group. The gents were sought-after, but just as he tended to avoid social affairs, so did they. Marriage was so far in their distant future that they wouldn’t be able to see it with a spyglass. They were here only because they were close to both Grace and Lovingdon. But now that the happy couple had departed, he suspected Avendale and Langdon would be headed elsewhere for their entertainment.
Unlike Lady O they would invite him to join them.
Ophelia’s laughter reached him again, only this time when the sound went silent, her gaze landed on him like a huge stone, then dipped to the champagne, and her lips tipped upward in triumph, just before she wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something quite unpleasant. Her face settling once more into deceptive loveliness, she shifted her gaze back to Avendale, summarily dismissing Drake in the process.
Unfortunately for her, he was no longer quite so easily dismissed.
Ophelia knew a quick spurt of panic. Darling strode toward her with purpose in his step, his large hands—a workman’s hands—dwarfing the flute he carried. His expression shouted that he was tossing down the gauntlet and she feared she might have misjudged his mood tonight, that managing him might be more challenging than she’d expected, but manage him she would. She would not be cowed, not by him, not by any other man for that matter.
He was a commoner who came from common beginnings. He might wear the outer trappings of a gentleman, but she had no doubt that deep down he was a scoundrel, with a scoundrel’s ways, and a penchant toward sinful behavior.
She didn’t know why that thought caused her to grow uncomfortably warm. It was the crowded room, the gaslit chandeliers, the layers of petticoats, and the tight corset. She certainly wasn’t imagining those hands exploring her body. She was not of the streets. She was a lady. And ladies did not contemplate such things.
But as he neared, something within the black depths of his eyes twinkled as though he knew precisely where her errant thoughts had journeyed and was more than willing to serve as her companion on a sojourn into wickedness. He was not handsome, at least not classically so. His features were rugged, craggy, as though shaped by an angry god. His nose was too broad, his brow too wide. His jaw too square. She could see the beginning of shadow, bristles that hadn’t the decency to wait until later to appear. Why was she wasting her time cataloguing each and every inch of him when she had lords aplenty willing to give her attention?
As he came to a halt in front of her, he gave his gaze free rein to take a leisurely stroll over her person. Breathing became difficult, and she had a horrid fear he would find her lacking. She drew back her shoulders. What did she care regarding his opinion of her, when his opinion was of no worth?
“Your champagne.”
His rough, deep voice wove something dark and sensual around the words. She suspected he wasn’t a silent lover, that he whispered naughty things into a woman’s ear.
“You were so remarkably slow in retrieving it that I’m no longer of a mood to drink it.”
“Surely you’ll not deny yourself the pleasure of allowing these bubbles to tickle your palate.”
He wrapped a wealth of meaning around the word pleasure. That he would be so bold as to speak to her with such disregard while others were near . . . it was not to be tolerated. But for the life of her, she could think of no witty rejoinder because he was studying her as though he could well imagine her tickling his palate.
“With your tarrying, I believe it has gone flat,” she said, before turning her back on him. “Avendale, I believe you were discussing—”
Drake Darling had the audacity to wedge himself between her and the duke. His eyes were narrowed, his jaw taut. “Lady Ophelia, I must insist that you take the champagne.”
“You, boy, are in no position to insist on anything where I am concerned.”
His gloved finger tapped the side of the flute, while his gaze bored into hers, and she could fairly see the wheels of reprisal turning in his mind. She didn’t know why she sought to provoke him, yet something about him unsettled her, always had. She wanted to put him in his place, to remind him—and herself—that he was beneath her. Her father had taken a belt to her backside and bare legs when he once caught her speaking with Darling. She’d been twelve at the time, but it wasn’t a lesson easily forgotten. She was not to associate with anyone not of noble birth.
“So be it,” he murmured, lifting the glass. He tilted back his head and downed the golden liquid in one long swallow. She could see only a bit of his muscles at his throat working, because a perfectly tied cravat hid the rest from view. But his neck, like the rest of him, was powerful. Moving aside the glass, he licked his lips, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. “Not at all flat. Quite pleasant, actually, like the kiss of a temptress.”
Anger, hot and scalding, shot through her. He was mocking her, ridiculing her. It didn’t matter that she had begun this little drama with her earlier request. He was supposed to scurry away when he realized she no longer had an interest in the champagne. He wasn’t supposed to make her wonder if any lingered on his lips, if she might taste it there. “Boy—”
“It’s been a good long while since I was a boy.”
She angled her chin. “Boy, perhaps you would fetch us all some champagne.”
“When hell freezes over, my lady.”
He took a step toward her. She took a hasty step back. Triumph lit his eyes. Blast him. She would retreat no further.
A footman passed by, and without removing his gaze from hers, Darling set the flute on the silver tray the servant carried. Then took another long step forward.
She fought to hold her ground, but she could inhale his intoxicating fragrance now. Earthy and rich, the scent of tobacco or perhaps sin. He eased closer—
Half a step back.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
She angled up her chin. “I don’t dance with commoners.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“I don’t fear anything.”
“Liar.”
She darted her gaze to the left, the right. Without her noticing, he had managed to maneuver her into the shadows of an alcove and was now barring her way. Those she had been visiting with earlier were nowhere about. She should have known that Avendale and Langdon would side with this blackguard and escort her friends onto the dance floor, into the gardens, or off for refreshments. Blast them! Still, she’d not be intimidated by the likes of Drake Darling. “You, sir, are despicable.”
“And you’re a haughty miss who needs to be taught a lesson.”
“I suppose you think you’re the man to do it.”
His eyes darkened, his gaze dropped to her lips, and she found herself taking three quick steps back. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered, hating that her voice sounded more like a plea than a demand.
“You’ve been poking the tiger for some years now. You can’t always expect him to remain docile.”
He had the right of it there. She didn’t know why she had continually singled him out. Perhaps because she sensed a darkness in him, one that called to her, one that was dangerous to welcome.
“You’re making a spectacle of us,” she pointed out.
“We’re in the shadows. No one is paying us any heed at all.”
Like some great hulking predator, he advanced on her. While she knew it to be unwise, she retreated farther into the alcove until her back hit the wall. Her heart beat out an unsteady tattoo. Within her gloves, her palms grew damp. “If you do anything untoward, I’ll scream.”
He laughed darkly. “And risk being caught with a guttersnipe? I think not.”
“You’re a black-hearted scoundrel.”
“Which is exactly why I intrigue you. You’re bored with all the fancy gents hovering around you. They’d never think of touching you with ungloved hands.”
She caught her breath as his warm, rough hand cradled the left side of her face. Such a massive hand, his fingers easing into her hair, the edge of his palm against her jaw, the pad of his thumb stroking her cheek.
“You’re bored with gentlemen running about doing your bidding,” he continued.
“I’m not bored.” She hated how breathless she sounded, as though she’d been running up a never-ending hill. Her chest felt tight, painful.
“You’re spoiled because everyone gives you what you want. You’ve never had to work for anything. Not even a gentleman’s attentions or affections.”
“You know nothing at all about me.” Her voice came out small, frightened. In her heart of hearts, she knew he wouldn’t physically harm her, nor would he do anything to damage her reputation. Grace would never forgive him, and if she’d learned anything over the years, it was that he desperately wanted to please Grace and her family. But she feared he had the ability to glimpse into her shattered soul. Like called to like, dark to dark.
“I know more than you think, Lady Ophelia. Understand more than you can possibly imagine. You’ll marry some proper lord, but I suspect you would very much like to waltz with the devil first.”
“You’re quite mistaken.”
“Prove it.”
Before she could respond, he settled his pliant mouth over hers. It was softer than she’d expected, hotter. His thumb grazed the corner of her mouth, over and over, as though it were part of the kiss. She felt his tongue outlining the seam between her lips, before tracing the outer edges. Once, twice, then returning to the center, but no longer content with the surface. With an insistence that should have frightened her, he urged her to part her lips. His tongue slid through, gliding over hers, velvet and silk. Inviting her to explore, to know the intimacies of his mouth as he was discovering hers.
She should have been repelled, horrified. Instead she was entranced, drawn into sensations such as she’d never experienced. He was so terribly talented at eliciting delicious responses that began at the tips of her toes and swirled ever upward, a tingling of nerve endings, a lethargic warmth, that weakened her knees, her resolve to push him away.
She heard a deep groan, felt a vibration against her fingers and realized she was clutching the lapels of his coat. Clinging to Drake Darling was all that was keeping her from melting into a puddle of pleasure at his feet. This was merely a kiss, an ancient dance of mouths, yet it was proving to be her undoing.
He drew back, triumph glittering in his eyes. “Five more minutes and I could have you divested of your clothing and on your ba—”
Crack!
Her gloved palm made contact with his cheek, startling him, startling herself as well, but she would not allow him to make her feel as though she were a whore. “You are not only disgusting but you overvalue your talents. I didn’t enjoy your touch, your kiss, not in the least.”
“Your moans implied otherwise.”
She lifted her hand to deliver another blow, but he snagged her wrist, his long, thick fingers wrapping firmly around her slender bones. He could snap them so easily. She was breathing heavily, while he seemed to have no trouble at all finding air.
“One slap is all you get, my lady. I would have ceased my attentions with the slightest of protest from you. You can’t now be angry because you wanted what I was offering.”
“I want nothing at all to do with you. Now unhand me.”
His fingers slowly unfurled. Snatching her hand free, she fisted it at her side. “You are no better than the muck I wipe off my shoes.”
“Methinks the lady protests overmuch.”
“May you rot in hell.” She sidestepped around him, greatly relieved that he didn’t attempt to stop her, slightly disappointed as well. Whatever was wrong with her? It was an odd thing to realize that with him she’d felt . . . safe. Completely, absolutely safe.
Which was ludicrous. He didn’t like her. She didn’t like him. He was simply striving to teach her a lesson. She could only hope that she’d taught him one: she wasn’t a lady to be trifled with.