Fated (37 page)

Without thinking she uttered, “How did you get your scar?”

His countenance changed immediately. She could feel his
muscles tighten beneath her hands, and he almost led them straight into the path of another couple.

“Is that why you did not wish to marry me? You find my face repulsive?” His words were uttered harshly, and her face heated in mortification. She had offended him.

She made sure she looked him straight in the eye. “I find the scar interesting. It gives your face character.” She paused, not sure if she should utter what she really thought, but given his reaction she decided she owed it to him. “Besides, you would be too extraordinarily handsome without some slight imperfection. It makes you look more human and less godly.”

Typical man. He was trying to stop the smile hinting at the edges of his lips. “I’m no saint, and my behavior is far from that of the Lord Almighty.”

She blushed. “No. I meant like a Greek or Roman god.”

She saw he was pleased with her compliment.

“And which god do you believe I take after?” Now he was teasing her.

“When you are trying to be dark and mysterious, then I believe Aries, God of War. When you smile I think of you as Apollo, the God of Healing.”

His brow creased and his smile vanished. “Healing? Ironic really, for if anyone needs healing it is me.”

“How so?”

He straightened and pulled her closer. He seemed to realize he’d said too much. “Never mind.” He changed the topic. “I have made the wedding arrangements. Mother is organizing the event. We will hold the ceremony and wedding breakfast at Craven House. I hope that will be suitable?”

She wondered if he had deliberately changed the topic so as to avoid answering her question. She decided not to push the subject in full view of the gossiping ton. But later when they were alone she would press for her answer. How had he got the scar, and why did he need healing?

Don’t miss A SENSE OF SIN,
the second novel from Elizabeth Essex,
in stores next month!

D
el had not known who she was when he first laid eyes upon her, but he instinctively didn’t like her. He distrusted beauty. Because beauty walked hand in hand with privilege. Unearned privilege. And she was certainly beautiful. Tall, elegant, with porcelain white skin, a riot of sable dark curls and deep dark eyes—a symphony of black and white. She surveyed the ballroom like a queen: haughty, serene, remote and exquisitely pretty. And beauty had a way of diverting unpleasantness and masking grievous flaws of character. No, beauty was not to be trusted.

Her name was confirmed by others attending the select ball at the Marquess and Marchioness of Widcombe’s. It wafted to him on champagne-fueled murmurs from the hot, crowded room: “Dear Celia,” and “Our Miss Burke.” And the title that everyone seemed to call her, “The Ravishing Miss Burke,” as if it were her rank and she the only one to wear that crown.

The ravishing Miss Celia Burke. A well-known, and even more well-liked local beauty. And here she was, making her serene, graceful way down the short set of stairs into the ballroom as effortlessly as clear water flowed over rocks in a hillside stream. She nodded and smiled in a benign but uninvolved way at all who approached her, but she never stopped to converse. She processed on, following her mother
through the parting sea of mere mortals, those lesser human beings who were nothing and nobody to her but playthings.

Aloof, perfect Celia Burke.
Fuck you.

Yes, by God, he would take his revenge and Emily would have justice. Maybe then he could sleep at night.

Maybe then he could learn to live with himself.

But he couldn’t exact the kind of revenge one takes on another man: straightforward, violent and bloody. He couldn’t call Miss Burke out on the middle of the dance floor and put a bullet between her eyes or a sword blade between her ribs at dawn. No.

His justice would have to be more subtle, but no less thorough. And no less ruthless.

“You were the one who insisted we attend this august gathering. So what’s it to be? Delacorte?” Commander Hugh McAlden, friend, Naval officer and resident cynic, prompted again.

McAlden was one of the few people who never addressed Del by his courtesy title, Viscount Darling, as they’d know each other long before he’d come into the bloody title and far too long for Del to give himself airs in front of such an old friend. And with such familiarity came ease. With McAlden, Del could afford the luxury of being blunt.

“Dancing or thrashing? The latter, I think.”

McAlden’s usually grim mouth crooked up in half a smile. “A thrashing, right here in the Marchioness’ ballroom? I’d pay good money to see that.”

“Would you? Shall we have a private bet, then?”

“Del, I always like it when you’ve got that look in your eye. I’d like nothing more than a good wager.”

“A bet, Colonel Delacorte? What’s the wager? I’ve money to burn these days, thanks to you two.” Another naval officer, Lieutenant Ian James, known from their time together when Del had been an officer of His Majesty’s Marine Forces aboard the frigate
Resolute,
broke into the conversation from behind.

“A private wager only, James.” He would need to be more circumspect. James was a bit of a puppy, happy and eager, but untried in the more manipulative ways of society. There was no telling what he might let slip. Del had no intention of getting caught in the net he was about to cast. “Save your fortune in prize money for another time.”

“A gentleman’s bet then, Colonel?”

A
gentleman’s
bet. Del felt his mouth curve up in a scornful smile. What he was about to do violated every code of gentlemanly behavior. “No. More of a challenge.”

“He’s Viscount Darling now, Mr. James.” McAlden was giving Del a mocking smile. “We have to address him with all the deference he’s due.”

Unholy glee lit the young man’s face. “I had no idea. Congratulations, Colonel. What a bloody fine name. I can hear the ladies now:
my dearest, darling Darling.
How will they resist you?”

Del merely smiled and took another drink. But it was true. None of them resisted: high-born ladies, low-living trollops, barmaids, island girls or
senoritas.
They never had, bless their lascivious hearts.

And neither would
she,
despite her remote facade. Celia Burke was nothing but a hothouse flower just waiting to be plucked.

“Go on, then. What’s your challenge?” McAlden’s face housed a dubious smirk as several more Navy men, Lieutenants Thomas Gardener and Robert Scott joined them.

“I propose I can openly court, seduce and ruin an untried, virtuous woman.” He paused to give them a moment to remark upon the condition he was about to attach. “Without ever once touching her.”

McAlden gave huff of bluff laughter. “Too easy, in one sense, too hard, in another,” he stated flatly.

“But how can you possibly ruin someone without touching them?” Ian James protested.

Del felt his mouth twist. He had forgotten what it was like
to be that young. While he was only six and twenty, he’d grown older since Emily’s death. Vengeance was singularly aging.

“Find us a drink would you, gentlemen? A real drink and none of lukewarm swill they’re passing out on trays.” Del pushed the youths off in the direction of a footman.

“Too easy to ruin a reputation with only a rumor,” McAlden repeated in his unhurried, determined way. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Trust McAlden to get right to the heart of the matter. Like Del, McAlden had never been young. And he was older in years as well.

“With your reputation,” McAlden continued as they turned to follow the others, “well deserved, I might add, you’ll not get within a sea mile of a virtuous woman.”

“That, old man, shows how little you know of women.”

“That, my darling Viscount, shows how little you know of their mamas.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way. Hence the prohibition against touching. I plan on keeping a very safe distance.” While he was about this business of revenging himself on Celia Burke, he needed to keep himself safe—safe from being forced into doing the right thing should his godforsaken plan be discovered or go awry. And he didn’t
want
to touch her. He didn’t want to be tainted by so much as the merest brush of her hand.

“Can’t seduce, really
seduce,
from a distance. Not even you. Twenty guineas says it can’t be done.”

“Twenty? An extravagant wager for a flinty, tight-pursed Scotsman like you. Done.” Del accepted the challenge with a firm handshake. It sweetened the pot, so to speak.

McAlden perused the crowd. “Shall we pick now? I warn you, Del, this isn’t London. There’s plenty of virtue to be had in Dartmouth.”

“Why not?” Del felt his mouth curve into a lazy smile. The
town may have been full of virtue, but he was full of vice. And he cared about only one particular women’s virtue.

“You’ll want to be careful. Singularly difficult things, women,” McAlden offered philosophically. “Can turn a man inside out. Just look at Marlowe.”

Del shrugged. “Captain Marlowe married. I do not have anything approaching marriage in mind.”

“So you’re going to seduce and ruin an innocent without being named, or caught? That
is
bloody minded.”

“I didn’t say innocent. I said untried. In this case, there is a particular difference.” He looked across the room at Celia Burke again. At the virtuous, innocent face she presented to the world. He would strip away that mask, until everyone could see the ugly truth behind her immaculately polished, social veneer.

McAlden followed the line of his gaze. “You can’t mean—That’s Celia Burke!” All trace of joviality disappeared from McAlden’s voice. “Jesus, Del, have you completely lost your mind? As well as all moral scruple?”

“Gone squeamish?” Del tossed back the last of his drink. “That’s not like you.”

“I
know
her. Everyone in Dartmouth knows her. She is Marlowe’s wife’s most particular friend. You can’t go about ruining
—ruining
for God’s sake—innocent young women, like her. Even
I
know that.”

“I said she’s
not
innocent.”

“Then you must’ve misjudged her. She’s not fair game, Del. Pick someone else. Someone I don’t know.” McAlden’s voice was growing thick.

“No.” Darling kept his own voice flat.

McAlden’s astonished countenance turned back to look at Miss Burke, half a room away, now smiling sweetly in conversation with another young woman. He swore colorfully under his breath. “That’s not just bloody-minded, that’s suicidal. She’s got parents, Del. Attentive parents. Take a good
hard look at her mama, Lady Caroline Burke. She’s nothing less than the daughter of a Duke, and is to all accounts a complete gorgon in her own right. They say she eats fortune hunters, not to mention an assortment of libertines like you, for breakfast. And what’s more, Miss Burke is a relation of the Marquess of Widcombe, in whose ballroom you are currently
not dancing.
This isn’t London, you are a guest here. My guest, and therefore Marlowe’s guest. One misstep like that and they’ll have your head. Or, more likely, your ballocks. And quite rightly. Pick someone else for your challenge.”

“No.”

“Delacorte.”

“Bugger off, Hugh.”

McAlden knew him well enough to hear the implacable finality in his tone. He shook his head slowly. “God’s balls, Del. I didn’t think I’d regret having you to stay so quickly.” He ran his hand through his short, cropped hair and looked at Del with a dawning of realization. “Christ. You’d already made up your mind before you came here, hadn’t you? You came for her.”

Under such scrutiny, Del could only admit the truth. “I did.”

“Damn your eyes, Delacorte. This can only end badly.”

Del shrugged with supreme indifference. “That will suit me well enough.”

They called it blackmail, though the letter secreted in Celia Burke’s pocket was not in actuality black. It had looked innocuous enough: the same ivory-colored paper as all the other mail, brought to her on a little silver tray borne by the butler, Loring. It would have been much better if the letter had actually been black, because then Celia would have known not to open it. She would have flung it into the fire before it could poison her life irrevocably. The clenching grip
of anxiety deep in her belly was proof enough the poison had already begun its insidious work.

“Celia, darling? Are you all right? Smile, my dear. Smile.” Lady Caroline Burke whispered her instructions for her daughter’s ears only, as she smiled and nodded to her many acquaintances in the ballroom as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

Celia shoved her unsteady hand into her pocket to reassure—no, not reassure
—convince
herself—the letter was still there. And still real. She had not dreamt up this particular walking nightmare.

She released the offensive missive and clasped her hands together tightly to stop them from trembling. She had no more than a moment or two to compose herself before the opening set was to begin.

Blackmail. The letter, dated only one day ago, was clear and precise, straight to the point.