The Seduction of Viscount Vice (Fallen Book 3) Read online

Staggering back a step, Vice threw the uncocked pistol down and rubbed a hand across his face. But the tall, slender figure of Lady Mairi MacNair remained in front of him.

  “Mairi,” he said hoarsely, unsure if he’d be able to utter anything coherent beyond her name. Fierce, wild joy surged through his body. She was alive. The only woman he’d ever loved hadn’t died in Paris as her parents had claimed. She was here, in his home, and even more beautiful than he remembered.

  In breeches and a wig, dressed as a Fallen footman.

  The truth hit him like a bucketful of ice water. He’d loved her beyond reason; Mairi had used him. He’d proposed; she’d skipped away to the continent without a backward glance. He’d mourned her death for years; she’d been hale and hearty the whole bloody time.

  Fucking lying, scheming witch.

  Taking a long, slow breath so he didn’t shake her for what she’d done, Vice instead raised an eyebrow. “You look…surprisingly well for a dead woman, my lady.”

  Mairi grimaced. “Don’t call me that. I discarded my title over ten years ago, and I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how that came about. But I am sorry I neglected to thank you for your superior efforts in freeing me from the worst engagement in history.”

  Her cool, calm demeanor when he felt so volatile damn near shredded him, but somehow Vice managed a careless shrug. “A fuck is a fuck. I was hardly going to say no to finally ridding myself of the virgin cap. Just would have preferred to know the plot ahead of time—that you had no intention of marrying me, either.”

  “Iain. Surely you cannot be holding a grudge. My midnight escape saved you from a terrible mistake. You barely even knew me.”

  “No,” he said bitterly. “I didn’t. Not at all, as it turned out. And you may call me Vice, or my lord.”

  “Really? But Iain is such a fine Scottish name.”

  “No one calls me that. Ever. Not even my mother or sister nowadays.”

  Mairi laughed, yet her gaze was wary. “I did. Each time I saw you. Perhaps you don’t remember that. But I bet you do remember how loudly I screamed it when you made me come over and over in that clearing by the creek.”

  Of course he remembered. It had been the most incredibly pleasurable and satisfying day of his life. But it was so typical of a coldhearted trickster like Mairi that she spoke of that rather than expressing any kind of sorrow or remorse about the shocking aftermath.

  Then again, only a damned fool would even hope for such a thing.

  Vice scowled. “Stop bloody talking. Unless you are going to tell me what you are doing at Fallen dressed as a footman in our livery.”

  It was as if he hadn’t said a word.

  “We were such fast learners together.” She reached up to tuck a lock of his shoulder-length auburn hair behind his ear. “Mouths…fingers…tongues. Oh, that tongue of yours. I was so wet. So very ready when you took me.”

  His cock surged, straining against his breeches. Christ. He was a damned Bedlamite when it came to her. After everything that had happened, the long, empty years that had passed, how the hell could he still want her so much? Mairi was nothing but pure fucking poison.

  “I don’t remember,” he snapped.

  “Oh, I’d wager you do, my lord of detail. Now, I can’t quite recall how many times you had me…was it three or four?”

  Four. Each time more exquisite, more wildly uninhibited than the last. “If you are quite finished—”

  “And these days you co-own the most notorious and exclusive pleasure club in England, and the continent, for that matter. Quite a step for a lad from Perthshire. I’m sure it’s a remarkable story, so why don’t you tell me all about it?”

  Vice glared at Mairi. This would be so much easier if she’d changed in the last ten years. But even wearing slightly ill-fitting breeches and a white wig covering her ebony curls, she was perfection. It was those eyes. Huge blue pools, like the deepest loch, framed by thick dark eyelashes. Or perhaps it was her plump rose-pink lips. Or those long, long legs. But any which way, none of that mattered when she was a fucking spy, trying to seduce him into spilling all his secrets, and he hated her for it.

  “I’d rather,” he said lightly, picking up her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles, “hear about this livery of yours.”

  Her forehead creased in confusion. “Livery?”

  “Darling. I admire your distraction techniques, I really do. But spying is just not on.”

  “Spying?” said Mairi with a brittle laugh. “What a thing to say.”

  “Forgive me, but I’m struggling to think of an alternative explanation.”

  “Perhaps I merely wanted to see Fallen for myself.”

  “You could have made an appointment to see me,” he said easily, relieved to the core that her armor was cracking. Perhaps now he could get some answers.

  “I didn’t bloody well know you were Vice!”

  “And you’re wearing our livery and breeches.”

  “I happen to like breeches,” she snapped. “Gowns are beastly things, designed for discomfort. Stays are worse.”

  Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her chest, then her hips and lower. God knew what she had stuffed in the front of her breeches to resemble a flaccid cock, but her backside was just as perfect as it ever was. A ripe peach, high and firm. He couldn’t stop his hand from sliding over the slight curve of her hip and behind to caress it.

  Mairi inhaled shakily, and he glanced up to see pure lustful yearning on her face.

  Smiling to himself, he let his other hand drop so he grasped her hips. His thumbs rubbed light circles across the tops of her thighs, making her quiver.

  “So,” he said, “tell me more about the breeches. I’m 100 percent in favor; legs and a backside like yours should never be hidden by a gown.”

  “I’m…” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Wh—”

  Pain exploded in his groin, and he dropped like a stone onto the floor to curl up in a gasping ball of agony. She’d fucking kneed him in the balls!

  “Mairi,” he croaked, fighting the urge to vomit. His hand flailed to grab her foot as she nimbly leaped over his prone body toward the door. “You—”

  She paused briefly and turned her head. “I really am sorry. But I’m not at all in the mood for questions, Iain.”

  Then she fled the room at a sprint, turning left toward the kitchens. The next thing he heard was a maid asking where the fire was with a screech, and Mairi replying something about a serious dildo emergency because they’d run out of scented oil. If he didn’t want to hurl her into the Thames, he might have laughed.

  Damned witch.

  She might have bested him today, but he would find her. And he would get all the answers that had been eluding him for ten fucking years.

  She’d thrown down the gauntlet, and hell yes, he’d taken it up.

  This was war.

  Chapter Two

  “And what happened next? Tell us!”

  Mairi sighed and looked away from her townhouse parlor audience of three. Her longtime manservant Ramsey, Ramsey’s rascal French lover, Olivier, and their employer, Yvette, all stared in rapt expectation, but the final part of the story stuck in her throat like a damned boulder. While there were most definitely men who deserved a knee jab to the privates, Iain wasn’t one of them. But she’d panicked. His strong hands on her hips, the heat and scent of him, the sizzling quiver along her nerve endings when he’d started stroking her—she’d been seconds away from begging him to kiss her. To strip her bare and take her hard and deep against the wall.

  Heaven knows what she might have confessed in the throes of passion to the man who was not only her ex-lover, but now her professional rival. The fates were forever cruel. Of all people, why did Iain have to be Fallen’s Vice?

  “And then,” she said reluctantly, “I drove a knee into his groin, sent him sprawling to the floor, and fled.”

  Yvette hooted with laughter, her short blonde curls bobbing around her port
rait-perfect face. “Oh, chère. With your unfeminine bony limbs, you would have caused him much pain. I hope it is not permanent, or a large mob of Londoners will hunt you down and make you suffer.”

  Guilt twisted her insides. “I’m sure it won’t be permanent. He’s a Scot, after all, bred tough.”

  “Bad form, my lady,” Ramsey said in his surly voice, his bulky arms folded and thin lips pursed with disapproval. “I taught you that defense only so you could protect yourself in a time of great risk. But on Lord Vissen, of all men? After everything he did for—”

  “Errands! We all have errands to attend to,” Mairi snapped. “And don’t call me my lady.”

  Olivier raised a delicate eyebrow and sat forward on his chair, his slender, elegant form a striking contrast to Ramsey’s brawn. “Wait. Something was at risk after all. Lady Mairi’s chains of abstinence!”

  “I doubt it,” said Ramsey. “It’s been ten years.”

  “Au contraire, mon amour,” said Olivier. “For the knee to hurt him so, the viscount must have been close. Very close. His hands away from his body…oh, my lady. What happened just before you maimed his lordship? That is the story I want to hear.”

  Mairi scowled. “Nothing happened. Don’t be ridiculous. And it’s Mairi. Just Mairi.”

  “Exactly. Do not be ridiculous,” said Yvette, clapping her hands together. “A man like Lord Vice would hardly bother with a seamstress. Now go. Mairi has a large pile of torn hems to mend. As for you two, you have more fabric samples to fetch.”

  Ramsey stood, flicking at an imaginary speck of dirt on his immaculate brown trousers. “As you say, madam. My lady.”

  The two men left the parlor arm in arm, and Mairi sighed in frustration. It wouldn’t be a normal day unless they had the title battle at least a dozen times. Ramsey had served the MacNair family for many years before the two of them fled to France, and he refused to break the habit. Olivier merely followed his lover’s lead. Damn them. Sometimes living with a couple who were so loyal to each other, who understood jokes and quirks and were madly in love, was a sweet and welcome thing. Sometimes it just hurt terribly.

  “Mairi.”

  She blinked and turned back to look at Yvette. The petite and voluptuous Frenchwoman smiled as she lounged on her favorite chaise surrounded by fabric swatches for the club, but her gaze was sharp and icy.

  “Yes?”

  “Is this man a problem? After giving you everything and asking so little in return, it would be impossible to bear if my plans failed because of you.”

  “No!” Guilt lashed Mairi, even though Yvette’s words weren’t precisely true. “I promise, Worldly will open as scheduled. And be the best.”

  She meant it, too. Reopening the club here in London was a small favor for the woman who had saved her and Ramsey’s lives. Fleeing their plights in Scotland—her hideous fiancé and Ramsey’s vindictive ex-lover—had been difficult enough. But during the storm-tossed voyage in an ancient and not particularly seaworthy vessel, Ramsey had become unwell. By the time they reached Calais he was desperately ill, and another passenger who offered to help had instead stolen the satchel containing most of their money. Yvette had been visiting a friend and found Mairi trying to half-walk, half-drag Ramsey to a physician. Not only had she paid for Ramsey’s medicine, she’d provided food and lodging for the night. In the morning, she’d offered employment for Mairi as a seamstress and Ramsey as a footman if they accompanied her back to Paris. They’d accepted without second thought.

  Life hadn’t always been easy at Worldly. Yvette had very high standards; the hours were long and the work often backbreaking. But there was no alternative. Especially when the horrifying news arrived that, rather than admitting the scandalous truth—that their wayward daughter had run away—her endlessly rigid and stonehearted parents had instead proclaimed her dead.

  “Good,” said Yvette. “What are your plans for this evening? Some ball?”

  “Yes. I’m going to pose again as a footman, this time at Lord and Lady Castlereagh’s soiree. The very cream of society will be there, and I want to hear the gossip about the Midsummer Night’s ball at Fallen. What people liked, didn’t like, what they are envious about, wouldn’t go near, that sort of thing.”

  Her employer’s forehead creased. “Breeches again? Ugh. That is dangerous, Mairi. The home of the Foreign Secretary and his very proper Almack’s patroness wife is not a place you want to be caught. I cannot pay to free you from prison if you are.”

  “I won’t get caught. This will be much easier than getting into Fallen. The Castlereaghs hire temporary staff and make them wear a very plain uniform. Besides, I won’t stay long. Just until I get the information I need to finalize plans for the grand opening of Worldly. That I will take the lead in.”

  Yvette shrugged. “Perhaps, chère, perhaps. You certainly did quite well at Fallen. It’s just such a pity you are so lacking in curves. Men, they love them well.”

  Shame burned, but apart from stuffing padding into her stays, there wasn’t much she could do about her lackluster front. “I will talk to you tomorrow morning.”

  Dashing back to her sparsely furnished chamber, Mairi gave herself a swift sponge bath, then began the process of transforming into a footman. Binding her breasts with a long length of linen was an easy, if uncomfortably hot and sticky task. A crisp white shirt, waistcoat, black jacket, and white cravat followed. Gray breeches, stockings, and heeled shoes with silver buckles completed her uniform. Then came the difficult part—taming her hair into a tight coiled braid to fit under an old-fashioned white wig. Her long black curls were about the only part of herself she loved, so she refused to cut them as Yvette often suggested. Last of all, she kohl-penciled her temples to look like short side-whiskers and thickened her eyebrows.

  “Not bad,” she said softly, doing a slow turn in front of the looking glass.

  There was something altogether magical about putting on a costume and becoming somebody else. It was so…liberating. Like all the bad could be put aside, all the mistakes and failures, and she could strut out into the night as someone with a wonderful life of excitement and happiness ahead. This was freedom. Not trapped and stifled in harsh society as a lady, or in a corner with thread and needle mending costumes. Being as bold and wicked as her imagination dared, anytime, at any place.

  Perhaps that is how Iain feels when he does his performances.

  The unbidden thought lodged in her head, and she scowled at the looking glass. Iain had overseen that magnificent event last night; he was responsible for all the shows at Fallen. Not only were they pleasure club rivals, but production rivals as well. The thought was aggravating. And nerve-wracking. “I am not thinking about Iain tonight…No, Vice, damn it, his name is Vice. I am a professional with a job to do. I am Murray the footman, and that is that.”

  Poking her tongue out at her reflection, Mairi straightened her jacket, smoothed her cravat, and pulled her shoulders back. If she succeeded tonight, Yvette would surely agree to a lead role in the grand opening. Then she could turn her back on thimbles and hems and reddened eyes and swollen, aching fingers forever.

  She could not—would not—fail.

  …

  “Goddamned English torture device!”

  Tugging too hard on his cravat, Vice glared at his reflection in the looking glass. Usually his valet did a sterling job, but today the man had arranged the silken folds so intricately he could hardly breathe, and one fold was slightly puffier than the other. At this point, he was tempted to discard his rarely used gentleman finery and attend the Castlereagh’s soiree half-naked in his favorite short kilt, but it was always prudent to toe the line with the Foreign Secretary. Besides, he liked Robert and his rather eccentric wife, Emily, a great deal. And of course, tonight he would be doing his filial duty and escorting his mother and younger half-sister.

  Usually, wearing respectable clothing and attending a soiree didn’t bother him overmuch. He could play the gentleman for one night and smile,
sip champagne, converse about the weather, and ignore matchmakers with the best of them. But when Mairi MacNair had just cannonballed her way into his life again, that was an entirely different matter.

  It was still difficult to grasp the fact she was alive after mourning her for so many goddamned years. When Mairi’s parents, Lord and Lady Leithbridge, had told him the news, he’d shut himself away, broken beyond repair. All that grief, regret, and self-loathing he’d felt over not defying them and storming every house in Paris until he’d fetched her back had been wasted on a scheming liar.

  A fist pounding on his chamber door was his only warning before it crashed open to reveal Sin and Devil with faces like thunder.

  Shit. They knew.

  “Hello,” Vice said pleasantly, as he calculated the likelihood of injury should he leap from his balcony to avoid interrogation. “Something I can assist you two with?”

  “I’m going to put a bullet in you,” growled Sin. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us we had a security breach? We had to find out from Nell!”

  Nell! The bloody traitor.

  Vice sighed. “It was, and it wasn’t.”

  “No riddles, Scot.” Devil glared at him over his spectacles in a very evil Etonian headmaster manner. “The truth about the man who had a fake uniform and wandered about Fallen. Was he from a newspaper? A do-gooder? Spying for a rival establishment?”

  On another occasion the questions would have been perfectly sensible. Right now, the only thing that halted an eye roll was that his friends looked ready to commit murder. Slowly.

  “No, no, and no.” Vice rubbed a hand across his jaw. “And it wasn’t a young man, it was a lady.”

  “You mean,” Sin bit out, “that it was a woman dressed up as a footman?”

  “No, definitely a lady.”

  “Who?” barked Devil. “Who would dare?”

  Vice folded his arms and tilted his head. “Mairi MacNair.”

  Both his friends stilled, their expressions easing from rage to confusion.

  “Lady Mairi MacNair?” said Sin carefully. “As in the Earl of Leithbridge’s daughter, who fell ill and tragically passed away while visiting Paris?”