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The Wicked Baron
Sarah Mallory
At the rake’s mercy…When he returns from his lavishly opulent lifestyle in Paris, Luke Ainslowe’s reputation as an expert seducer of women precedes him. The ladies of the ton are torn between scandalised outrage and the desire to become mistress to the most dashing rake London has ever known…Innocent Carlotta Durini refuses to become the Baron’s next conquest. For she lost her heart to Luke once before, and now believes herself impervious to his lethal brand of seduction. But what if the Wicked Baron refuses to take no for an answer?
‘Carlotta, do allow me to present Lord Darvell to you.’
Carlotta froze. She had known this moment would come, had rehearsed it a thousand times, but still she was not prepared for the stomach-wrenching spasm that threatened to render her senseless when she heard his name. Gathering all her strength, she turned and dragged her eyes up to his face. The gentleman standing before her was achingly familiar. As he bowed over her hand she looked at his brown hair and remembered the silky feel of it beneath her fingers, the touch of his lips, not on her glove but on her own mouth, caressing, demanding—She thrust such thoughts away. They had no place in her life now. He had no place in her life now.
She forced herself to look at him. His glance told her he knew her, but there was no sign of uncertainty in his hazel eyes as he smiled. He was so sure of his welcome. Her training had been very good: she buried her feelings and presented him with a bland, polite mask. She withdrew her hand from his grasp, saying coolly, ‘My lord.’
‘Your aunt tells me you are not engaged for the next dance. I would be honoured if you would allow me to partner you…?’
His assurance made her seethe. He was laughing at her.
Author Note
Ask writers where they find the ideas for their stories and many will tell you it starts with a little question: what if? I am no exception.
A few years ago I visited West Wycombe Park, the eighteenth-century home of Sir Francis Dashwood, founder of the infamous Hellfire Club. I have no doubt that many of the rakes featured in historical romances are in some part based upon Sir Francis and his friends, but when I visited West Wycombe Park I was taken with the beautiful paintings that adorn the house—and that is when that little question popped into my head. What if my heroine was an artist? What if she painted beautiful frescoes like the ones that decorate the house?
This is how Luke first sees Carlotta, dressed in breeches and a paint-stained shirt, climbing down from the scaffolding at Malberry Court. He is immediately enchanted with this waif-like creature: she is different from all the other young ladies of his acquaintance. But Luke is the Wicked Baron of the title: he is not used to behaving chivalrously, and when he decides to make a noble sacrifice Carlotta is not at all grateful for his actions. In fact, in true Italian style, she is determined to punish him!
I hope you will follow Luke and Carlotta as their battle of wits takes them from the ballrooms of Regency London to the Italianate elegance of Malberry Court, where they must face well-meaning relatives, intrigue and danger before they can find their happy ending. Enjoy the journey!
Sarah Mallory was born in Bristol, and now lives in an old farmhouse on the edge of the Pennines with her husband and family. She left grammar school at sixteen, to work in companies as varied as stockbrokers, marine engineers, insurance brokers, biscuit manufacturers and even a quarrying company. Her first book was published shortly after the birth of her daughter. She has published more than a dozen books under the pen-name of Melinda Hammond, winning the Reviewers’ Choice Award in 2005 from Singletitles.com for Dance for a Diamond and the Historical Novel Society’s Editors’ Choice in November 2006 for Gentlemen in Question.
A recent novel by the same author:
MORE THAN A GOVERNESS
THE WICKED
BARON
Sarah Mallory
MILLS & BOON
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
To Jay Dixon, with thanks for all your support and encouragement
Prologue
‘Hell and confound it, Darvell, will you stop flirting with that lightskirt and give your mind to the cards!’
Luke Ainslowe, fifth Baron Darvell, gently disentangled himself from the lady’s scented embrace and begged pardon. There were few amusements for the Army of Occupation in Paris, following the stunning victory at Waterloo: women and cards were two of the most popular and Luke was currently enjoying both. He looked at the eager, wine-flushed faces of the gentlemen around him and smiled. They all envied him, he knew, for he was sitting beside the most fashionable courtesan in Paris, the improbably named Angelique Pompadour. She leaned against him, her powdered head on his shoulder while he studied the cards in his hand.
Across the table, the officer of the Light Dragoons who had berated Luke made his discard and glanced up, his silver epaulettes glinting in the candlelight.
‘I hear von Laage’s wife is increasing again—she holds that you are the father, Darvell.’
Luke shrugged. ‘Lady Sophia is air-dreaming, Denby. There are at least half a dozen men more eligible than I for that role.’
‘Why, then, is the lady naming you?’ demanded another of the players.
A red-faced gentlemen in grey satin laughed.
‘Because Darvell is the only one von Laage would not dare to call out! Well known to be lethal with swords or pistols. Never beaten in a duel, eh, Luke?’
‘Not yet, Clayman, not yet.’
‘So you are telling me you were never one of Lady Sophia’s lovers?’ cried Major Denby.
Luke shook his head. ‘We had a few preliminary skirmishes, but I never breached that particular citadel. I discovered the lady was far too free with her favours.’
Sir Neville Clayman chuckled. ‘A man needs to be very rich to keep an exclusive mistress, and that is not you, eh, Darvell?’
Luke grinned. ‘Devil a bit!’
There was a pause while Sir Neville considered his hand. ‘But you have a title, and that is certainly an advantage. I believe le Brun’s widow is hoping to become the next Lady Darvell.’
Angelique raised her head. ‘Mon cher…’ she pouted and placed one white hand upon Luke’s velvet sleeve ‘…c’est vrai?’
Sir Neville nodded. ‘Had it from the lady herself two nights’ since.’
‘But you have not had it from me,’ said Luke gently. He picked up Angelique’s hand and planted a kiss in the palm before releasing it. ‘The woman is an upstart. Her beauty dazzled le Brun, but there is no breeding behind that pretty face.’
‘If it’s breeding you want, the Tregennick chit has it through several generations,’ remarked the major, ‘yet you cut her dead last night. She was mad as fire.’
Luke flicked a speck of dust from his sleeve. ‘Her mama insisted upon throwing her in my way at Lady Gressingham’s rout. I obliged her with an evening’s flirtation, that is all.’
‘And you could not even recall her name the very next night.’ Major Denby shook his head at him. ‘By Gad, you are devil, man! No woman is safe from you.’
‘Nonsense. Virtuous maidens bore me, so they have nothing to fear. And you will never find me chasing innocent little ingénues. But a man must have a diversion now the war is over. Mine is beautiful women.’
‘Yet you’ll offer none of them your heart and your hand.’
‘There is no room for sentiment in marriage, Denby. When I take a wife, it will be a business contract. My father gambled away the Darvell fortune; it is up to me to restore it by marrying a well-bred heiress. But not yet.’ He stared at the cards Sir Neville laid on the table and muttered a laughing curse under his breath. ‘Two kings! Damnation, Clayman, your luck is running high tonight. I am out.’
Angelique smiled at him. ‘Well, my lord, it was agreed if you lost at cards you would worship at my feet.’ She spoke in English, a charming, provocative lilt to her words. With the light of mischief in his eyes Luke reached down, curled his fingers around one slim ankle and lifted her foot on to his knee. A murmur of anticipation ran around the room, while the lady herself leaned back on her chair and smiled.
‘Well, milor’? What do you propose? What will the wicked Baron Darvell do?’
He grinned. ‘I will keep my word.’
His hand moved over the pink silk stocking and she shivered delightfully when he reached the ribbon-and-lace garter at her knee. He hesitated, then his long fingers moved back to her ankle. He began to untie the strings of her pink satin slipper, calling to the waiter to bring another bottle of champagne.
‘Now what are you about, Darvell?’ cried Major Denby gaily. ‘Do you propose to undress the lady in public?’
‘Not at all, my friend. Patience and you shall see.’ He pulled the little shoe free and held it aloft, the ribbons dangling over his wrist. When the waiter returned with the champagne he took the bottle from the tray. ‘I wish to drink a toast to you, Angel.’ He poured a little of the wine into the shoe and quickly raised it to his lips.
‘You fool, Darvell, the satin won’t hold it!’ laughed Sir Neville.
But Luke was not listening; he had swallowed some of the champagne, the rest was seeping through the slipper and running over his hand, soaking the white ruffle around his wrist.
‘It held enough,’ he said. ‘And witness, Angel, that none of the bubbles escaped—I drank them all.’
Angelique sat up and clapped her hands. ‘Bravo, milor’, I am enchanted. But we should use glasses for the rest.’ She looked at him, an invitation in her dark eyes. ‘Per’aps you would like to drink with me privately?’
‘I regret not, Angel. I am obliged to leave you very soon.’ He filled two glasses with champagne and handed one to the lady. ‘I am off to England tomorrow.’
‘England!’ cried Major Denby, signalling for a fresh pack of cards. ‘Never tell me you are going home.’
‘I am indeed. Peacetime soldiering is not in my line. I have spent one winter in Paris and that is enough.’
‘He’s going back to Darvell Manor to become a gentleman farmer,’ declared Sir Neville, smoothing the wrinkles from the sleeve of his grey silk coat.
Luke grimaced. ‘Devil a bit! I plan to enjoy myself for a few more years yet. But I have a fancy to see England again. Besides, I have a commission from my brother. You may recall he was in Paris last month. He is touring Europe with his bride until the summer and wants me to make sure his new house at Malberry is ready for his return.’
‘Ah, the fortunate James,’ nodded Sir Nicholas. ‘He married his heiress.’
‘Fortunate indeed,’ agreed Luke. ‘Not only is she rich, but pretty and agreeable, too.’
‘Perhaps you should try marriage, Darvell,’ suggested the major.
‘I think not, my friend. It would take a paragon indeed to make me give up my freedom.’
Angelique drew a finger gently along his cheek. ‘Milor’, it is not necessary that you should give up everything.’
For a moment he looked serious. ‘Oh, yes, it is. Only a deep, long-lasting devotion could tempt me into matrimony.’
‘And what would tempt the lady, his prowess in the bedroom, perhaps?’ quipped an officer in scarlet regimentals.
‘That and his title,’ responded another.
Luke joined in the general laughter. ‘Aye, that would have to do it, gentlemen, since there’s no fortune to speak of.’
Angelique held up her glass. ‘Then you will come back to Paris, mon cher?’
‘Perhaps.’ He handed her the wet satin slipper. ‘It is past midnight: I must take my leave.’
Chapter One
The atmosphere in the morning room of Broxted House was decidedly tense. Carlotta stared at her uncle, her chin raised and a hint of defiance in her dark eyes. Lord Broxted met her look with a frown of exasperation.
‘Carlotta, you are no ordinary débutante. It is no matter that your mother is the daughter of an earl; twenty years ago she eloped with a penniless Italian artist.’ He paused and a faint look of distaste flickered across his aristocratic features. ‘They both of them…paint…to earn their living.’
Carlotta clasped her hands even more tightly in her lap. ‘I am not ashamed of my parents, Uncle.’
Lady Broxted, sitting beside Carlotta on the elegant little sofa, reached over to pat her hands. ‘No, of course you are not, my dear, and no one is suggesting that you should disown them, only…’
‘Only what, Aunt?’
Lady Broxted avoided Carlotta’s eyes and fluttered her fan nervously. ‘Tonight we attend Lady Prestbury’s rout—your very first ton party. It is what we have been working for, is it not, ever since we carried you off from Malberry last June and installed you in Miss Currier’s extremely select seminary? Not that I think it was necessary to send you there; no one would know you were brought up in Rome, for the English governess your mama employed gave you an excellent education, and all that was needed was a little polish—but there, your uncle was adamant.’
‘I was, madam, but I fear we are straying from the point,’ put in the earl, frowning at his wife.
‘Yes, of course, my dear. Carlotta, now we are in London and…that is, I think it might be best if…’
Lady Broxted twisted her hands together, looking very uncomfortable.
Carlotta prompted her gently. ‘If what, Aunt?’
‘Well, as you know, we decided at the outset that you should take the family name of Rivington—so much simpler for us all, my love, and quite usual when one is taken up by relatives—but perhaps also it would be as well if we did not mention your parents. Broxted thinks it best if we merely say they live retired in the country, should anyone ask.’
‘And is it the fact that my mother eloped or my father’s occupation that would be most unacceptable?’ retorted Carlotta, bridling.
‘Well, you will admit that either of those things would set tongues wagging,’ came the frank reply. ‘Any hint of gossip could be quite ruinous to your chances of making a good match. Not that I want you to lie,’ added Lady Broxted hastily. ‘That would never do. Merely that you do not offer the information.’
‘Should a gentleman show a marked interest in you, then of course it would be necessary for him to know the truth,’ put in Lord Broxted. ‘And if he is fond of you, then I am sure it will make no difference.’
Carlotta bit her tongue to prevent herself from saying she did not care what anyone said of her. After the kindness she had been shown by her aunt and uncle over the past year, it would be churlish in the extreme to admit how little she cared for anyone’s good opinion. Part of her wished she could return to her parents, but they had been so happy to think of her going into society and making a good marriage. It was what she must do to repay all their goodness to her.
She had been in London with Lord and Lady Broxted since the beginning of May; a flurry of shopping trips and visits to my lady’s dressmaker had filled her days and at last she was ready to attend her first ball. She only wished she could summon up more enthusiasm for it, but her depression was always there, just below the surface. A sadness she had tried to hard to overcome, but even now, after almost twelve months, her dreams were still haunted by a tall, handsome man with laughing, wicked eyes. Determination kept her smiling, made her hide her bleakness from her aunt and uncle. Lady Broxted was patting her hands.
‘I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to launching you into society, my love. It has been a constant sadness to Broxted and me that we did not have children and so it is doubly delightful that I have you with me now.’
Lady Broxted began hunting for her handkerchief. Lord Broxted drew out his own and handed it to her, saying as he did so, ‘We are indeed delighted to take you up, Carlotta. It is the least I can do for your poor mother. When my father disinherited her upon her marriage I was shocked, but powerless to help. Then, of course, we lost touch for so many years, but now, I believe it is in my power to reinstate you into your proper place in the world.’
In the face of such kindness Carlotta’s anger died away as quickly as it had come. Impulsively she hugged her aunt.
‘There, there, Aunt, pray do not cry—if it is your wish, then of course I shall tell no one about my parents. Let us go upstairs and you can advise me which one of my new gowns I should wear this evening.’
In an effort to give her aunt’s thoughts a more cheerful turn, Carlotta accompanied her aunt up to her bedchamber where the maid quickly brought out several of Carlotta’s new gowns for inspection. Lady Broxted discarded the pink muslin with apple-green acanthus leaves embroidered around the hem, declaring that almost every other young lady would be wearing pink. Her hand hovered over the lemon satin before settling on the white sprigged muslin.
‘This is perfect for your first appearance,’ she said. ‘You have too much of the Italian in you to appear as a typical English rose, but we must turn that to our advantage—the white muslin will accentuate your olive skin. Thank goodness you have such a flawless complexion, my love, for that means we can leave your lovely shoulders bare. My own woman shall have the dressing of your hair; when it is brushed it glows like polished mahogany and you shall have tiny white rosebuds amongst your curls. It is early for roses, I know, but the cost will be worth it and I shall have a small posy made up for your corsage, too. What do you say?’
Carlotta could not deny a small frisson of excitement at the picture her aunt had drawn. When she had been a child growing up in Rome she had never dreamed that one day she would be staying in one of the largest houses in Berkeley Square, preparing to attend a fashionable ball. The gown her aunt was holding up to her was of the finest muslin, embroidered all over with tiny exquisite white rosebuds. The tiny puff sleeves were gathered and fastened with satin ribbons and a wider satin band ran around the high waist. Little Carlotta running barefoot in her father’s studio had never imagined owning white satin slippers with leather soles so fine that they would be worn through after one outing, but such a pair was now lying in a drawer, wrapped in several layers of tissue paper. Carlotta smiled at her aunt.
‘I will look like a fairy princess,’ she murmured.
Lady Broxted handed the gown to her maid and caught Carlotta to her in a warm, scented embrace.
‘You will indeed, my love,’ she murmured, her voice breaking. ‘You will make us all so very proud of you.’
Luke glanced up at the imposing entrance of Prestbury House. Flambeaux burned on each side of the double doors and liveried servants were on hand to assist the ladies from their carriages and escort them up the shallow steps to the grand entrance hall with its soaring marbled pillars. Letitia Prestbury was a formidable hostess and invitations to her fashionable parties were jealously guarded. Luke had no giltedged card nestling in his pocket, but he was confident he would not be turned away. Giving his coat sleeves an infinitesimal tug, he joined the long line of guests processing up the grand staircase. From the reception rooms above came the sound of many voices intermingled with the scraping notes of several violins. No lone fiddler or squeaky quartet for Lady Prestbury—her guests would dance to the best musicians money could buy.
As he reached the top of the stairs he found his hostess waiting for him, smiling.
