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Praise for the work of Charlotte Featherstone

SEDUCTION & SCANDAL

“One can become addicted to Featherstone’s sexually charged romances. The quick pace and wonderfully dark and dangerous heroes are what readers dream about. Secrets, passions and conflicts abound as readers are led through a labyrinth of plot twists, séances, supernatural revelations, visions and love scenes that take their breath away and leave them panting for more.”

—Romantic Times ½

“The secret scandal in Isabella’s past, the deadly rumours that surround Black, the tale of secret societies with a dash of the paranormal, a delicious sense of sensuality, and an unseen outside force attempting to ruin all chances of happiness between the lovers, all combine to make this book an incredible read … I literally could not put this book down. A very solid 5/5 stars and highly recommended.”

—The Romanceaholic

LUST

“This was the first time I have read a Charlotte Featherstone book; I can safely say that it will not be the last …”

—Forbidden Reviews

SINFUL

“Sinful is decadence at its best. I had no choice but to read it cover to cover – the story is just that good. Charlotte Featherstone is now on my list of authors to watch!”

—Joyfully Reviewed

“Pairing a tortured hero and a strong-minded heroine creates a dynamic conflict and off-the-charts sexual tension. Throw in lots of witty dialogue and a non-traditional happy ending, and you’ve got a keeper.”

—RT Book Reviews TOP PICK! ½

Don’t miss The Brethren Guardians series!

Seduction & Scandal August 2012

Pride & Passion September 2012

Temptation & Twilight October 2012

Pride & Passion
Charlotte Featherstone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To all the readers who fell in love with Sussex—here’s your man! Hope his story doesn’t disappoint!

PROLOGUE

“BEYOND THE MIST, the darkness and shadow, he waits, reaching out through a veil of gossamer threads—’your future,’ he whispers, ‘your destiny.’”

Heart fluttering like a trapped bird, Lucy swallowed hard as she focused on the swaying piece of silver.

“He has been there all along, waiting for you. Now is the time to reach out to him, to pull him out of the depths and into the light.”

Slowly Lucy nodded, understanding the words, hoping with every beat of her heart and pulse of her blood that the mystic’s words were true.

Occultism, spiritualism, mysticism … whatever one chose to call it, one fact remained true—it was sweeping through Victorian England, a dark presence that resided over soirees and salons, spirit meetings and private clubs.

The dark arts were an invitation to evil. Or so many a mere mortal believed. But Lucy Ashton knew them to be a door to another world—a world of darkness and mystery, a realm where demons and angels—the fallen—roamed free, selling their secrets for the price of a soul in need.

As she sat surrounded by golden candelabra, coated with layers of dripping, drying wax, with nothing but the sound of the autumn wind howling and the crackling of a log being engulfed by flame, Lucy knew she was that soul. One who needed—deeply.

The woman who sat opposite her held a silver pendulum in her hand. She knew how to find what Lucy so desperately searched for.

“Your lover,” the woman said in a voice that seemed so far away the longer Lucy followed the swaying pendulum with unblinking eyes. “He will come—soon.’’

She dearly hoped so. Eight months it had been since she had last seen him—gone without a trace, taking with him any warmth, any feeling she possessed. The heady sensation of that warmth had been too brief—much too brief.

“You were right ‘ta come to me, m’ lady,” the woman whispered. “I can find ‘im. Bring ‘im to you. Keep watching,” she encouraged. “Follow the pendulum and let yer thoughts drift ‘ta him, the man who shall fix yer future.”

Lucy’s lids were heavy, and the flickering candlelight made shadows leap on the wall, a macabre dance. The mystic’s heavily wrinkled face grew shadowed, half of her cast in darkness, the other half yellowed in the candles’ glow.

“Yes, yes …” she murmured excitedly. “That’s the way, lass.”

The room narrowed and rippled; the absinthe Lucy had taken moments before the mystic produced the pendulum had found its way into her bloodstream, filling her veins with a strange sensation—one of heightened awareness meshed with a dreamy quality. Like floating on water, she thought as her body relaxed and sunk deep into the velvet chair. Watching that swaying pendulum, Lucy felt her spirit and inhibitions leave her.

“Where are ye now?”

As if in a trance, Lucy answered, “A room. It’s dark, with only bits of light filtering through gauze curtains.”

“Yes? Go on.”

“I am not alone,” Lucy whispered. “I can sense another.”

“Close yer eyes, and see ‘im with yer mind, luv.”

Obeying, Lucy allowed her lids to close fully. Immediately she saw herself, masked, her back pressed against the filmy gauze that separated her from the other person. Sliding her hand out, she slid her palm along the curtain, feeling an answering slide from the other side.

“He is there,” the mystic whispered. “The premonition of yer future.”

Yes …

She sensed the heat, the passion. Her body remembered it—him.

At last she had found him. He had come to her. His touch was hot, warming her instantly. She pressed back, felt the hard, solid body of a man.

“Now tell me what ye see.”

Opening her eyes, Lucy jumped up from the chair she occupied, a suffocating scream lodged in her throat. The mystic followed her, snapping her fingers before Lucy’s eyes, breaking the spell that held her.

“M’ lady?”

Perplexed, Lucy stared at the woman who claimed she could show Lucy what awaited her future. The Scottish Witch, with her fading red hair and wild golden eyes stood before her.

“You, madam, are a fraud.”

Snatching her reticule, Lucy left the coins on the table she had given to the crone when they had begun. The woman’s expression was stricken, and Lucy curled her lip in disdain. “You may enjoy fleecing others, but I will not be fooled. This is the last time we will meet. You needn’t attend me next week.”

“But …” The woman, just Mrs. Fraser now, no longer the Scottish Witch, or the occult mystic Lucy had once believed her to be, followed anxiously behind her. “What did ye see, lass?”

Lucy whirled on her. “Not my future!”

Mrs. Fraser’s gaze narrowed, replaced by a knowing look. “Oh, aye, yer future indeed, lassie. Just no’ the one ye desire.”

“Good day, madam,” she answered in a clipped tone. Thrusting her hands into her soft leather gloves, Lucy left the drafty parlor and took the rickety steps down the three flights of stairs, out to the back of the building where her carriage awaited.

That is what she got for visiting a charlatan in the theater district, she thought mulishly. A first rate performance in fraudulence.

Future indeed, she scoffed as the carriage jolted forward, leaving Mrs. Fraser’s rental flats and her occult babblings far behind.

Gazing out the window, Lucy hardly saw the scenery passing her by, for the images of that trance would not leave her in peace.

Yes, the dark arts were an invitation to a mysterious and dark realm. One of secrets and danger, and forbidden yearnings. A world of sensual pleasure and hedonistic pastimes.

She had seen that world in the vision, felt the heaving pulse surrounding her. She heard the words, whispering to her, wrapping around her like a lover’s touch.

Why did you forsake me?

His answer had been soft, a mere whisper. Their palms had touched through the gauze, his heat singing her just as his words did. I have been here all along, waiting for you to see me beyond the veil that separates us.

She had turned then, breathless with anticipation. She saw her pale hand reach for the curtain, its trembling strength barely able to grasp the filmy material between her fingers. But with one tug, the fabric that separated them fell, pooling between them. She had looked up from the black mound, up along a body that hers recalled with such visceral pleasure. To a set of eyes that were so … wrong.

Gray eyes.

There was something about those eyes that pulled at her memory—a different time; a past that caused pain when it was recalled. No, the possessor of those eyes was definitely not her future!

CHAPTER ONE

“MY DEAR, YOU have been looking forlornly out that window for half an hour now. Why do you not go and call on Lady Black?”

Lucy tucked the bit of lace she held in her hand between the voluminous folds of her rose-colored silk and velvet skirts, as she gazed over her shoulder at her father. It was early November, and the day was gray with drizzle that promised to turn to sleet. She pulled the fur shawl a little tighter about her shoulders. The fire that had been laid was crackling, the amber flames flickering with warmth, filling the room with the comfort that only a roaring fire in late autumn could bring. But still Lucy was cold. She had been for months. Nothing seemed to warm her.

“It is early yet, Papa,” she answered. “Too early for calls.”

“Nonsense, the new Lady Black is your cousin—I daresay almost your sister. It’s never too early to call on family. Besides, I’ll be leaving now for my club, and I would like to know that you’re not at home, hanging about at loose ends.”

A wry smile escaped her as she cast her gaze once more out the window, to the mammoth black iron gates that stood across the street. How strange it was, that after all these years—decades, actually—her father cared about what she might—or might not—be doing. Her loneliness, and it had been substantial, had never mattered to him before.

The Marquis of Stonebrook was neither a heartless nor an intentionally cruel man. Lucy could not say that about her father. Only that he wasn’t mindful of others and their needs. He was emotionally absent—not mean or quarrelsome. Just … absent. There was no other word for what her father, and her mother, had been. Although, perhaps uninterested might be a close second. The long-held adage of “seen and not heard” did not pertain to her upbringing. For her parents had seen very little of her, and heard her? Not at all.

Her parents had been more concerned with their own lives than that of their child. She had been of little consequence to them, bringing to them little enjoyment. Her conception had been an obligation to further the title, and when she had turned out to be a girl, and no other children followed her, her parents had resigned themselves to the fact that their legacy would live on through the husband they would choose for her.

And Lucy knew without a doubt who her father wanted her to take for a husband. The passionless and priggish Duke of Sussex.

The duke was a sedate, dull and frightfully proper man—nothing like the man she dreamt of when she imagined a husband. Nothing like those dreams she had entertained when she was younger, when the butcher’s boy would come round with his master and keep her company in the kitchen while the butcher haggled with Mrs. Brown, their old housekeeper. Those had been silly, girlish fantasies of what it might be like to follow one’s heart and dreams; those fantasies had swiftly been dashed by her father, and she soon learned what being a marriageable woman in her world truly meant.

And such was the essence of her life. Until eight months ago when she had taken her future into her own hands, seeking out what she felt her life lacked in the arms of an artist. The warmth and acceptance she had found with him would not exist with the duke. Their union would be an alliance, not a relationship.

“Come, my dear, I’ve been watching you for a while now, sitting on that window box, lost in thought. Surely whatever it is you’re hiding there beneath your skirts isn’t so serious for one as young as you?”

A bit of Brussels lace, that’s what she had buried beneath the folds of her skirts. It was embroidered with her initials, and given to her lover on the night she had offered herself to him. And then he had died. Or at least, she had believed he’d died in the fire that had consumed his rented rooms.

She had grieved, wept and despaired over never feeling alive again, until a fortnight ago, when the lace had been resurrected and delivered to her hand. That it had been his grace, the Duke of Sussex, who had delivered the handkerchief to her never ceased to perturb her. Why he had been the one to return it to her was still something she mulled over during the long, lonely nights spent alone in her father’s town house. She did not care for the notion that Sussex knew of her dalliance with another man. She didn’t care what he thought of her, or what he made of the handkerchief—or if he thought her fast and immoral, and so far beneath him for indulging in base pleasures.

It did not matter what his grace made of it all, for Lucy cared about only one thing: Thomas was alive, she was sure of it. He had made her promises. He’d spoken to her of their future together. She had believed that future burned to ashes in the fire, but the lace that she rubbed between her fingers told her that everything she believed was about to change.

“You’re frowning. Your mama always said it would give you creases about your eyes.”

Lucy found herself smiling. “Yes, she did say that. But I haven’t gotten the wrinkles yet.”

It was her father’s turn to frown. “Dare I hope the reason for your deep rumination might be the subject of marriage, especially after you have witnessed the marital felicity between your cousin and her new husband?”

“I am afraid not, Papa.”

“I thought not, but one can hope, and I haven’t given up yet.”

Her father would never give up. It was his desire to see her wed to the duke, and nothing less would do.

“And that is all that you intend to say on the matter, is it? Well, then I shall let it rest for now. Come then, Lucy, I must be off. I shall escort you across the street.”

“Really, Papa, there is no need for concern. I am quite all right at home.”

“Alone?” he guffawed. “Absolutely not, you’re still recovering from your illness.”

There was no fighting him on this. A fortnight ago she had been gravely ill—her own stupidity, which she refused to think on—and ever since, her father made certain that she was never left alone, although it was not him who was a constant presence, but Isabella, whose task it now seemed was to hover about and mind Lucy’s activities.

Lucy thought back to those months ago, when, in an attempt to appease the loneliness left behind by the imagined loss of her lover, she had turned down many a dark and dangerous path, one of séances and scribing, and bargaining in her dreams if only she could find her lover once again. There had been that awful sense of incompleteness, having never had a chance to say goodbye. To see him one last time before he faded forever onto the other side, where breathing mortals could not follow.

Dabbling in the occult had been a way of idling her time away—and perhaps a somewhat foolish and desperate measure to find him in the ethers of the spiritual realm—it was then that she had come across the mysterious Brethren Guardians and their sacred relics—a relic she had stolen and used for her own purposes. The result had been disastrous, and nearly deadly.

It had terrified her father, and now he was hovering about, foisting her onto her cousin, and generally distrusting her, treating her like a child.

“Come, Lucy. I insist,” her father muttered in that voice that would brook no refusal. “There is no moving me on this. You will join Lady Black today and attend to those things that ladies do during morning calls.”

“I will just change,” Lucy sighed, quite resigned in the matter.

“Balderdash! You are quite appropriately attired. There is no need to waste time on changing your wardrobe.”

Her father wouldn’t hear of it. He was in something of a hurry to get to his club, and therefore, she was escorted out of the salon, and into the hall, where Jennings, their butler, assisted her with her cloak and umbrella.

“Damn this weather,” her father grumbled as he reached for her elbow and ushered her down the stone steps to the waiting carriage. “We’ll drive across the street, for there is no telling how long it will take Black’s footman to open the gates. I have no desire to wait in the rain for the gates to open. Don’t know why he needs them, anyway.” Because he was a Brethren Guardian. But she couldn’t very well inform her father of such a fact. She herself should know nothing of it. Lucy barely understood this strange Brethren that Sussex and Lord Black belonged to, but it didn’t matter. During her study of the occult, she had stumbled across it, discovering not only who the Brethren were, but the relics they kept hidden. She had sworn an oath of silence, promising never to speak of their little group to anyone. And in return, her own shocking secret would be kept from her father, and the microcosm that was their world—the ton.

She knew only bits and pieces of the Brethren Guardians’ secrets; it was an esoteric society made up of three influential peers: Black, Sussex and the Marquis of Alynwick.

Their business was mysterious and secretive, and dangerous. From what she knew of their secrets, there existed an onyx pendant, which was the very essence of evil, and some sort of chalice that they protected. But what they represented, she could not say, and could not find out.

Black, who had recently become the husband of Isabella, Lucy’s cousin, had been shot a fortnight ago during what was termed Guardian business. Well on the mend, Black pretended that naught had happened, and Isabella, a true and honorable wife, would not speak of it. Lucy had tried, but Isabella had remained stubbornly tight-lipped. And the pendant … it had belonged to Black and his family, and purportedly contained seeds with magical powers. Lucy had taken it, ingested a seed inside the pendant and wished with everything inside her in the hopes she might once more see her lover and say her tearful goodbyes.

Of course, the rash action had caused her days of vomiting, and a strange feeling of possession, not to mention the fact that her actions had both alarmed and angered not only Black but Sussex. But in the end, her goal had been achieved. Thomas was alive …

And the Brethren Guardians were not only looking for him, but watching her as well to see if Thomas would come to her. When Sussex had delivered the lace to her he had also informed her that the man who had dropped it was a man he and the Brethren were hunting. He was their enemy, Sussex had claimed, and that man, Lucy knew, was Thomas. Her lover from the past. And Lucy knew with every cell of her being that she must protect him from the duke and his two fellow Guardians, for they were powerful and influential men, while her lover was an artist, without influence of a title or the power that both peerage and money could wield.

Yes, those iron gates that surrounded his lordship’s home, standing sentry like a castle drawbridge against marauding knights, was a security measure—one Black would never abolish.

Her father cleared his throat several times, while glancing sidelong at her, all indications that something was weighing on him, something he felt compelled to speak of. “I’m afraid I cannot allow our previous conservation to lay fallow. I must speak plainly, Lucy. I’ve noticed, my dear, that Sussex hasn’t been by for some time. Two weeks, at least, I believe.”

Lucy refused to take her gaze from the rain-streaked carriage window. She would not talk of his grace, and she would not have this conversation with her father.

“I hope you have not had a falling-out.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had a falling-in.”

That quip made her father glare at her. “You don’t make it easy on the poor fellow. You hold him at arm’s length. He’s trying to court you, but you’re too obstinate to see it.”

“I am well aware of the fact, Father. You have made it too blatant for me to misunderstand. You wish me to marry the duke.”

“You say it with such disdain, as though he were a common laborer, when he is the furthest thing from it.”

She thought back to her young friend Gabriel, the butcher’s boy, and realized that they had shared something remarkable—the same sadness, the same loneliness, despite their stations being so opposite. “I am not at all opposed to a common man, if he were to feel a genuine sense of affection for me.”

“Affection!” Her father’s thick mutton chops twitched in irritation. “Good God, child, are we back to that? Those fairy-tale thoughts were amusing when you were twelve, now they are downright mortifying. Marriage is an institution—”

“Rather like one of those asylums for lunatics,” she mumbled, unable to help herself. She didn’t want an institution. She wanted a marriage. A friendship. A loving partner.

Her father sighed deeply, but did not bother to address her thoughts and instead began to talk to her as he had so many years ago, as she lay on her bed, sobbing into her pillow after he had turned away the only friend she had ever had—Gabriel. Depriving her of that friendship had destroyed her, frozen part of her heart and soul. How wretched her father had been—how horrid it was to see her friend leave, and never, ever return. Internally she had railed against the injustice of it all, but she had been powerless then to take charge of her life, and her future. And now, here she was years later, still just as powerless, still enduring the same lectures on duty and the responsibilities of a female of her class.

“Now, Lucy, must I remind you that every station in life has its obligations, and the daughter of a marquis’s obligation is to marry well, furthering their nobility, and riches. You were put on this earth, girl, to marry a duke.”

How many times had she heard that particular lecture? Her entire existence in the world was based on matrimony and breeding. A harrowing thought, one that made her feel pity for all the other unborn daughters of the peerage.

“You won’t find a better man than Sussex. His reputation is impeccable. His bloodlines impeccable. He is well-respected, connected, titled and as rich as Croesus—”

“And as cold as the Arctic.”

“The man is conscious of propriety is all. As all gentlemen should be,” he reminded her.

“He only looks at me to pick me apart and draw attention to my flaws.”

“The man is a paragon, he can’t help it.”

“No, he cannot, but I don’t have to marry him. After all, I would not suit his ideas of an ideal wife.”

“Of course you would. You come with an enormous dowry, from a long and noble title. Your son will inherit not only a dukedom, but my title as well. Not to mention the fact you are a very lovely young woman. What more can a man want in the way of a recommendation for marriage?”

Finally she forced herself to meet her father’s eye. “Is there anything other than commodities to recommend our union, Papa?”

Stonebrook flustered and gripped the head of his walking stick with his gloved hand. “Come now, it’s time you gave a serious thought to marriage, Lucy. I won’t live forever, you know, and I would like to meet my maker knowing you’ve been set up in a proper home.”

“With someone to love me? Someone who will give me solace when you are gone?” she asked quietly, which made her father grumble and shift his weight on the seat.

“With someone who will keep you safe and fed, and well in hand,” he growled.

Of course. Well in hand. Someone to control her, to make her live in the confines of polite society, just like her parents had done all her life—like her father continued to do. To Stonebrook Sussex was the ideal candidate for her husband. It didn’t matter that they had not a flicker of attraction, or affection for one another. Why, Lucy still recalled the night Sussex had informed her of the fact that once they were married, there would be no more séances or anything of the like. Then he had kissed her, and she had felt nothing but his firm lips pinched into a straight line as they mashed up against hers. It had not been the stuff of dreams. In fact, his grace had been stiff and rigid as he held her, leading Lucy to believe that he had felt the same thing she had—distaste.

“I’ll have Sussex and his sister to dinner, and you shall see, my dear. His grace will make you a fine husband.”

“And am I to have any say?” she asked.

“No,” her father answered, “after that debacle two weeks ago we cannot trust your judgment. You will marry Sussex just as I wish. And you’ll be happy. You’ll see, my dear. Ah, here we are,” her father said with a great air of relief. “I see the footman is already opening the gates. Good,” her father muttered as he pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped the lid open with his thumb.

“Father, we are not done with this conversation, and I am perfectly capable of walking up the drive,” she said, annoyed by the fact her father kept glancing at his watch.

“Nonsense. Won’t be but a minute and I’ll be on my way.”

“I am not a child,” she mumbled as she watched the rivers of drizzle snake down the carriage window. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father turn his head. He was watching her from beneath his bushy white brows, and the thick mutton chops he was so fond of twitched with aggravation. While watching her, his lips thinned, and she could almost hear his thoughts. Yes, you are, or you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into trouble a fortnight ago.

Trouble, Lucy mentally snorted, wasn’t the beginning of what she’d gotten herself into. She’d been impulsive and headstrong, and yes … childish.

“My dear, I worry for your health is all,” Stonebrook said as the horses pulled the carriage up the sloped drive of Black’s town house. “You’ve not been yourself for months now, and while I know you would wish to have your mama here for these sorts of discussions, surely you must know that Lady Black would listen and help you with anything that might be troubling you. If it is Sussex, then may I suggest you talk with your cousin about it? Isabella will affirm what I’ve always believed, that you and the duke will get on well.”

Lucy hid her grimace. Her father had no idea what had happened all those months ago with Thomas, and she prayed he never would. He would never understand, never credit the notion of love and unbridled passions. That he was fobbing her off onto Isabella was very typical of the sort of parent he had always been.

“Ah, look, there she is now, waiting for us.”

Sitting forward, she saw Isabella standing just inside the covered alcove of her new home. She was looking radiant, and carried the expression of a woman well-loved—and loved passionately. A bitter tang of envy resonated through Lucy’s soul. She wanted the very same thing. And she would have it.

“Uncle. Lucy,” Isabella called as the footman opened door. “Come in.”

“I daresay I cannot, Lady Black,” her father returned as he ushered Lucy through the door, and out into the chilly drizzle. “But Lady Lucy is more than eager to take up your generous offer.”

Seconds later, Lucy found herself ushered up the steps, and into the warm entrance hall. Billings, the butler, was taking her bonnet and cloak, and Isabella was tugging her along, into the private salon she used to entertain Elizabeth and herself.

“When was it arranged that you would child-mind me for the day?”

Isabella’s lovely eyes widened with feigned shock. “Oh, Lucy, how can you say that?”

“Very easily, you’ve been my companion—I daresay my governess—for the past two weeks. And no doubt my father’s coconspirator in arranging my marriage to the Duke of Sussex.”

Flopping down onto the settee, Isabella began toying with the thick fringe of tassels that decorated a pillow. “Your father wants only the very best for you, and after you … well, after you were poisoned he became consumed with worry. He knows something is wrong, Lucy.”

“I don’t know how. He’s never home, and when he is, he spends hardly any time engaged in conversation. He’s perpetually buried in his study.”

“Do not be cross with his lordship, Lucy, for he is not the only one who is worried about you. I am, as well.”

Isabella reached for her hand; her smile was kind and filled with sympathy and it made Lucy want to run away and hide. She didn’t want to be pitied. “Is there anything I might do for you, Lucy?”

“Well, you might start talking some sense into my father.”

“About?”

“His dimwitted idea to thrust me onto Sussex as his duchess.”

“Dimwitted? I think it brilliant.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were the one that was being forced to marry him.”

Isabella glanced at her slyly. “The duke is very handsome, I dare say.”

Lucy glowered. “Handsome is only enticing when you are eighteen and a naive ninny.” Or twelve, and experiencing the pleasures of your first crush, and yes, absolute adoration if she must be honest with herself. She’d never forgotten Gabriel, and the sad, haunted look in his lovely gray eyes that were always a little too sunken from hunger.

“Lucy, handsome is an attribute appealing to any female, of any age.”

“I am afraid my requirements in a husband are rather more lengthy than just being handsome.”

“But you do agree he is handsome?”

“Among other things,” she muttered.

“Like?”

“Boring, staid, proper, passionless—”

Laughing Isabella held up her hand in defeat. “Lucy, you are unfair! How can you surmise the duke passionless? You aren’t even betrothed—well, not formally—ergo you cannot reasonably believe Sussex devoid of … well, the more amorous emotions.”

“Oh, and the lack of a formal betrothal stopped Black from acquainting you with his ‘amorous emotions’?”

“That’s different,” Issy sniffed. “And you know it.”

“No, Issy. That is touché.”

“We are not talking about myself and Black. We are talking about you.”

“Well, then, allow me to inform you of what I desire. I know that I want a man like Black, who looks at me with blistering heat, as your husband does you. I know I want a marriage based on love and trust, and a deep, abiding passion. Like yours. Would you so willingly deprive me of it, Issy, after tasting such bliss for yourself?”

Lowering her head, Lucy watched her cousin nibble her bottom lip. When she looked up, Issy’s eyes were bright. “I would never deny a woman what I have—it is what every young girl, young woman and spinster dreams of—and deserves. But,” Issy cautioned, “I cannot deny that I sense a very good match with Sussex. If you would but give it a chance,” Isabella said, raising her voice to be heard over Lucy’s grumbling.

“Are we finished with this discourse?” Lucy inquired. “I have already spent the better part of the morning with Father on this very topic. I am quite worn down by it, and any more time spent dwelling upon it shall put me in a mood most foul!”

“Very well. Our discourse on Sussex and his merits as a husband is tabled—for now.”

Lucy curtsied mockingly. “Why thank you, your ladyship. I am so grateful for the reprieve.”

“It will be short-lived, you know. Since having Black, I have become a shameless matchmaker, nearly rabid in my need to see all my loved ones as happy as I am.”

Lucy felt at once happy and envious for her cousin’s obvious adoration of her husband. An adoration that was all the more envious by the knowledge that her husband reciprocated Isabella’s feelings.

“Well, we were cooped up in here all day yesterday. I cannot stomach another day of listening to rain pattering against windowpanes. What shall we do?”

Isabella brightened, although Lucy saw the hesitation in her eyes. Her cousin wasn’t fooled but she was prepared to let it go—for now. “I had Billings send a missive to Elizabeth. We’re going to Sussex House for lunch—and gossip.”

Sussex House. The duke’s town house. The very place she did not wish to go. But then, she did wish to see Elizabeth again. The drizzle had turned to rain, which in fact sounded very much like icy pellets tinkling against the windows. The sound would drive her to bedlam, and the dreariness of the day would send her into even deeper melancholy. She did not want to be a morose little waif, taking to her bed consumed with grief and sadness. She wanted to be strong and tall, someone Thomas would come back to. Something different. She so desperately wanted to be rid of her old life, and become something—someone—else. A butterfly emerging from the chrysalis.

“What do you think, Luce?”

Standing, Lucy smiled—a genuine one. “I think it a sound plan. Lunch with Elizabeth is just the thing to bring some sunlight to this horribly dreary day. Besides, you will never believe the juicy tidbits I garnered at the Moorelands’ soiree last night. Positively shocking, and I know you will wish to hear all about it as you sip away on a hot cup of Darjeeling.”

“Oh, do tell,” Isabella said with a tiny pout. “Black hasn’t let me out of the house since our wedding. I’m in great need of a little bit of gossip.”

Lucy could well imagine what sort of activities kept the reclusive Earl of Black and his lady occupied. And while she was the tiniest bit envious that her cousin was married to a most passionate man, the feelings of happiness for Isabella far outweighed her jealousy.

One day she would have the same sort of passion.

“Well, you shall have to wait to learn of it,” she teased.

“Lucy!” Isabella chastised as she followed her out of the salon. “You cannot mean to make me wait until we reach Sussex House to hear the news! You fiend!”

“That is precisely what I mean to do! Thank you, Billings,” Lucy murmured as the butler helped her with her cloak.

“What shall I tell his lordship, your ladyship?”

Isabella slipped into a black velvet wrap, and reached for the bonnet Billings held out to her. “Tell Black that we shall be at Sussex House. We’re having lunch and indulging in gossip, Billings.”

Billings smiled ruefully before bowing. “Do enjoy, madam. Lady Lucy.”

Lucy shot Isabella a smile. Suddenly the day didn’t seem as miserable as she first thought. And maybe, during the course of lunch and gossip, she might find something useful that would aid her in finding Thomas—and keep him safe from Sussex’s hands.

CHAPTER TWO

SOMETIMES A SOUL was just born fortunate. Sometimes they weren’t. Adrian York, the Duke of Sussex, firmly believed that. Some men were lucky enough to bring themselves up and change their fortunes.

Himself, he was something of an enigma—and a fraud. He’d been born a damn unfortunate, and then something had happened. The stars and planets had aligned, and something in the cosmos had shone down on him, making him the most fortunate soul that had ever graced the ballrooms of London. He’d been gifted, not once, but twice. Something more than an enigma, he thought with a sardonic smile, but a downright lucky bastard.

He’d given thanks to his maker, had glanced up at the black velvety sky nearly every night and stared at the twinkling stars, wondering why it had been him they’d decided to favor with such fortune and luck. For him, it was always a question of why—the unanswered question leaving behind the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth, when there were so many unfortunate souls who would never experience such blessings. Fortune had shone down upon him, despite his being a fraud, despite knowing that he was wrongfully gifted by the Fates.

For the last twelve years he’d walked with Lady Fortune. Everything he had touched had turned to gold. The ton admired him, his peers tried to emulate him and the stars had never failed to shine down upon him. That was, until a fortnight ago, when he had trudged down the front steps of Lord Stonebrook’s London town house, utterly defeated and numb after returning a lace handkerchief belonging to Lucy that had been in the possession of a man whom he had witnessed kill another in cold blood.

The memories of that day still ate away at him. He had wanted Lucy to deny any knowledge of the man, to show outrage that the scrap of lace had found its way into the stranger’s possession. But she had not, and it only confirmed what he did not care to think about—that she was not only involved with the Brethren’s enemy, but also that she had an intimate connection with him.

“So cold-blooded,” she had murmured as she looked up from her lap and the piece of lace he had placed in her hands. He had made it clear then that the man was his enemy, and that he would find him—and destroy him. “There is not an ounce of warmth in you,” she said. “No heart. No passion.”

If she only knew how those words pierced him, haunted him during the darkest, coldest hours of the night. He could still see her, sitting on the window bench looking small and sad—and pale. How he had wanted to hold her, to show her that he had just as much passion—probably more so—than she could imagine. But she did not want him. She wanted someone else. His enemy. The enemy of the Brethren Guardians. It was his penance for the years of taking what Fortune had bestowed upon him, taking what he didn’t deserve.

She had vowed to stand between them, her lover and him. To protect Thomas, not him. He had warned her that any attempt to do so might, regretfully, make her an enemy of the Brethren as well, but she hadn’t flinched at that. In fact, she seemed to already know and understand what would happen if she chose to cast her lot in with this shadowy figure he and his two fellow Guardians hunted.

Nothing had ever distracted him from his duties as a Brethren Guardian. Theirs was an ancient order, handed down for generations. In his, Black’s and Alynwick’s blood surged the blood of crusaders, who had kept three sacred relics safe from the world. There was nothing that had ever persuaded him to abandon the cause he had sworn an oath to keep secret, and sacred—until now. Until Lucy.

Damn if he wouldn’t sell his soul—and the relics—to the Devil himself to have Lucy in his bed for just one night. Gone was his honor. His moral compass. She had tied him in knots, and still he allowed her to pull the strings tighter and tighter.

He should be repulsed by the thought of himself as a helpless marionette, moved and manipulated by her slight hands, but he could only smile in mocking amazement. He’d lived his life controlled and ordered, never once allowing the passionate nature that lurked within him to surface. For years he feared someone discovering his secret, and his controlled aura had been the only way to ensure it was kept safe. But now, after all these years of honing the skill, he’d let it all go down to the cesspool.

“Adrian, it is downright frigid in here. How can you bear it?”

His private thoughts shattered, he looked up from his desk, and the journal that lay open, in time to see his sister, Elizabeth, stroll carefully into the room.

“I hadn’t noticed the chill. I’ll stoke the fire.”

She fumbled over the turned leg of a table, her hands outstretched before her, searching for obstacles. Rosie, her liver and white springer spaniel pressed against her, her muzzle nudging Elizabeth’s wrist, steering her away from danger. Tamping down the impulse to go to her and help her, he rose from his chair and turned his back, his attention on the fire.

Elizabeth was a proud woman. And damn stubborn, too. Two traits they shared, inherited from their tyrannical father. Elizabeth was blind, and because of it her pride and stubbornness had grown twofold. Lizzy would not thank him for his help.

“There!” she said, letting out a loud sigh. “We’ve made it, Rosie.” The spaniel gave a little whimper as she struggled up onto the settee. “Poor love, you’re getting as big as a barn.”

Tossing a glance over his shoulder, he couldn’t help but grin at the spectacle the spaniel made as her hind paws scratched and pawed for purchase against the leather. Rosie was having her first litter, and Adrian hoped to the devil her offspring would be as intelligent and trainable as she. It had been his very great desire to breed her and train her offspring to assist the blind, like Rosie assisted his sister.

Rosie finally made it onto the settee and set her head in Lizzy’s lap. Lizzy’s fingers brushed along the dog’s long ears and a deep sound of contentment—a little growl, really—filled the room. It was followed by the sounds of Rosie burying her head into Lizzy’s damask skirts, and the subtle snore of self-satisfaction.

Lizzy laughed and continued to stroke the dog’s fur. “Now, then, will you cease having the maids move that table, brother? I am forever banging into it.”

“My apologies, Lizzy. But it’s me moving it. I like to watch the moon at night, and the table seems to follow it.”

He turned in time to see his sister’s exasperated expression turn to one of longing. “Oh, the moon. Is it big and fat and hanging low in the sky? I just loved a November full moon.”

This was a side of Lizzy no one saw but him. In society she was put-together, so seemingly in control. She never let on that her sightlessness bothered her, but at home, when they were private, he saw her frustrations, and wiped away the tears of sadness. He, of all people, understood what it was like to live in a world full of cruelty and distaste when one was not, in polite society’s estimation—desirable. Neither he nor his sister had been what their father wanted, and Adrian had been forced to live with that knowledge, to suffer the harsh realities of life. Lizzy, too, had been forced to endure her lot in life, with the same cold, demanding father. Adrian’s childhood shaped him, had given him sympathy for those less fortunate, for those who were born to circumstances beyond their control. He cared for things that no other duke would concern himself with. For the lives of those left to struggle without help.

It was moments like this when he realized his role in society gave him power, power that he didn’t waste on flaunting his wealth, or using his name to gain admission to clubs, parties and liaisons with beautiful women. No, his power went to protect those who, unlike him, had never been blessed by anything but hard times. When he worked diligently with his cause to emancipate the poor in the East End from their daily suffering, he was not unworthy. Nor a fraud, nor an impostor in this world he had never understood and never wanted.

“Adrian,” Lizzy said, amusement ringing in her voice. “You’re brooding about something. I thought you had outgrown that particular pastime years ago.”

“My apologies, Lizzy. You were saying?”

“The moon. Is it full?”

“No, it is not,” he murmured as he came to sit beside her. “It is just a little crescent.”

“When it’s full, I expect you to invite me into your study and you can describe it to me—vividly,” she clarified. “I swear, Adrian, you have no gift for words.”

“No, I do not.”

Perhaps if he did, he could seduce Lucy with them. But words had never come easily. Twelve years ago, he had learned to guard well what words he used. Being too free with his words could cost him everything he loved, his position within the Brethren Guardians, his sister and Lucy.

“Ah, that feels nice,” his sister whispered as she lifted her feet up and toward the heat that was now blazing in the hearth. “I thought my toes might drop off.”

“Well, your tootsies shall be warm momentarily.”

“I wonder how you didn’t feel the chill?”

He was inured to the cold. Growing up, he had forever been cold, and he had strengthened his mind around it. He could not tolerate any weakness in himself. Just like his father could never tolerate any weakness in his son, or daughter.

“Your lack of skill with words aside, you’ve been inordinately quiet of late. Do you care to share your troubles? And don’t deny you have them,” she commanded. “I may not see your sullen expression, but I can sense it. Your melancholy shrouds every room you’ve been in.”

He laughed. “Damn frightening what you can sense.”

Smiling, she titled her head until she found his shoulder, and let her head rest against him while she continued to pet Rosie. “Is it this Brethren business, Adrian? I thought the investigation was getting somewhere.”

“It is getting somewhere—deeper and murkier. Thank God we found the chalice in Wendell Knighton’s office at the museum. How the bastard discovered its hiding place, and the importance of its existence, I would dearly love to know, but it’s unfortunately a secret he took to his grave.”

“Well, at least it’s back in your possession, and Black has the pendant. All three artifacts are safe and sound.”

“But who took them is still a mystery,” he muttered. “However, we have some leads. Black’s wound has healed and he’ll begin searching through the Masonic Lodge for more clues of this mysterious Orpheus, and Alynwick and I have taken over the investigation of the House of Orpheus. Although, being allowed admittance into the secret club is proving more difficult than either of us had anticipated. Still, Alynwick won’t let it rest.”

“Alynwick,” Lizzy snorted. “You’ll only find him of use if you can keep him out of the bedchambers.”

Frowning, he realized his sister was right. Iain, the Marquis of Alynwick, was a rake, and little induced him to be anything but.

“If Alynwick would put his head into it—and not the one he’s so fond of using—you might discover the identity of Orpheus much faster. Alas, the marquis is selfish and only interested in what amuses him. And it is not, I am afraid, Brethren business. Oh, if only I had been born a male, I would have kicked Alynwick in his rear end, and forced him to remember his oath.”

Smiling, he thought of Elizabeth as a boy—and a Brethren Guardian. She was brave, smart and so disciplined—not to mention she was the eldest child. She would have made an excellent Guardian—better than him—and she certainly would have given the marquis some much needed grief.

“Alas, I am only a poor helpless female, concerned only with fashion and fiction. Speaking of that—Lady Lucy and Lady Black are due here any moment. They’re bringing the new penny dreadfuls.”

Adrian hid his groan. Lucy in his house. He could hardly bear it. But he would, for Elizabeth’s sake. She had very few real friends, and he would never think to deprive her of Isabella and Lucy’s companionship.

“Now, you know that I don’t condone this … this snooping about, but should I question Lucy about anything?”

Elizabeth could not see the surprise on his face, but she sensed it.

“You didn’t think I knew, did you? Adrian, really, she’s my friend. And you’re my brother. I want to help you find the man responsible for stealing the pendant and murdering Mr. Knighton. I want also to keep Lucy out of danger, if indeed she is in danger.”

“She is,” he growled, “believe me, she is.” He thought of the murderer who had been carrying Lucy’s handkerchief. What the devil had she been about giving a man such as that any token of her affection? A strange sense of betrayal filtered through his blood but he shook it off, determined to try to think of other things.

“Why don’t you tell me what it is, so that I may aid both of you?”

He’d kept the secret well-guarded, deep in his heart. It haunted him at night, and he wanted to be purged of it, to forget he had ever discovered it. But was telling his sister the thing to do? Was it betraying Lucy?

“Adrian?” she asked. “There is no need to war with yourself over this. I just thought, well, sometimes secrets are a burden when one must shoulder them alone.”

Suddenly he was speaking, not thinking it through, only knowing he needed this, the ability to talk to another soul who might have some wisdom to impart to him.

“The man who shot Knighton,” he began, recalling the scene a few weeks ago when the pendant, one of the relics the Brethren Guardians were responsible for keeping, went missing, and Isabella’s—now Lady Black’s—former suitor, Knighton, had been found with it. “He was involved with Orpheus. Hell, he might even be Orpheus.”

Orpheus was a rogue Freemason. Adrian was certain. This Orpheus had an uncanny knowledge of the Brethren Guardians. Their existence was a secret. No one but the three of them and their families knew of it. No one knew that the relics they protected even existed. But Orpheus knew. And so had Wendell Knighton. The urge to find and unmask this Orpheus positively seethed and festered inside him. It should have been because of his oath—the liege he owed to the generations of his family who had successfully kept the chalice and the secret of the Brethren Guardians carefully hidden. But it was not. It was the knowledge that Lucy was intimately acquainted with the bastard that ate at him, made him want to discover Orpheus’s identity, and tear at him—destroy him. For what, he had asked himself? And the answer was always there, whispering in his mind. For taking the woman he loved, for turning her away so that she could not see him, or his need; for making her unable to accept anything he offered her.

“You’re woolgathering again, brother,” Lizzy murmured. The touch of her fingers pulled him out of his reverie and escalating anger, and helplessness that had been his constant companion these past weeks.

“This man who shot Knighton, he obviously didn’t want us to capture Knighton alive. Before he shot him, I spotted him on the roof of the lodge. I ran to the back of the building and gave chase, but he had quite a head start on me, and when he was out of sight, I stopped, deciding it prudent to return to Black who had been shot. And then I saw it. A lace handkerchief, with three initials.”

The memory made his stomach fall to his feet, just as it had when he’d picked up the lace and saw what he held.

“Lucy Ashton’s initials, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“I think I know the rest. She had given this man her favor—and he is the lover that she’s trying to connect with on the other side, via all the séances and soothsayers she’s been visiting.”

Adrian could no longer deny the truth to himself. “She loves him,” he said on a breath that he knew sounded pained. “She believed him dead, and when I gave her back the handkerchief, it told her that he was indeed very much alive and not killed in the fire as she had assumed. She doesn’t seem to give a damn that he’s a murderer, and my enemy, and also the enemy of her cousin’s husband. She’s obsessed with finding him,” he snapped. Lunging up from the settee, he paced the room like a caged lion.

“She’s determined to find him, even knowing that we search for him. She’s resolved to stand in our way, and if it makes her an enemy of us, so be it.”

“Then we must protect her for her own good.”

“How? She won’t do or say anything that might help us.”

Rising, Elizabeth held out her hand, and he grasped it, steadying her. “She won’t tell you, brother, but she’ll confide in a friend—I am sure of it. Now, I hear a carriage … that will be them. Take yourself off, Adrian. Your expression, I’m quite certain, is rather ferocious. It will hardly induce poor Lucy to share her confidences with me.”

He stood there, stunned. “You would do that?”

“Betray Lucy’s confidence?” She shrugged, and reached down to where Rosie, now off the settee, placed her head against Elizabeth. “Only so far as it might help you. Anything she says that is of no consequence to this case, or Orpheus, I will not share. I like her, Adrian. And I could not live with myself if she were to be hurt by this man.”

“Thank you, Lizzy.”

“There is no need to thank me, yet. I haven’t gotten her to confide in me—and I won’t if you’re standing around.”

“All right,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll head out to Blake’s. I’m meeting Black and Alynwick there.”

“A good idea. Be back for tea and I shall share what I learn.”