The Seduction of Viscount Vice (Fallen Book 3) Page 3

  “Yes. But she didn’t die,” snapped Vice. “Apparently that was a particularly nasty lie concocted to explain her running away to France with her manservant Ramsey.”

  Devil blinked. “My ledgers can wait. I want to hear this story. Immediately.”

  Slumping onto the edge of his carved oak four-poster bed, Vice let out a slow breath. These two men were like brothers to him. They fought like cats and dogs on occasion, but he knew without question they would stand shoulder to shoulder with him against any threat.

  “Mairi lived in the next parish to mine. I was seventeen and made a complete fool of myself, trailing around after her like a moonstruck calf. Next thing I know, she is engaged to the rich old Earl of Farnsworth. So I go and fetch the best whisky I can find to drown my sorrows and head off to my favorite fishing spot.”

  “And then?” Sin gestured impatiently.

  “And then Lady Mairi appeared, and in a very short space of time the two of us were on the ground, naked, and enjoying the first of four goddamned spectacular fucks.”

  “Hell,” said Devil. “So you were caught? Happens to the best of us.”

  “No. We weren’t. I thought what we’d done meant she loved me and we would elope…as you know, Scottish law is so different, young couples don’t need parental consent or to be over twenty-one to marry. So I purchased a ring, gathered some belongings, and waited at a prearranged spot the following day. She didn’t arrive. Her father did, explained she had run away with a footman in the night, and then proceeded to thrash me unconscious.”

  Sin grimaced sympathetically. “Shit.”

  “Exactly. And I never heard from her again. Until she looked me in the eye in that antechamber downstairs and said ‘Hello, Iain.’ Once I got over the shock, our conversation was acrimonious, to say the least.”

  “And you got your balls crushed.” Devil winced. “One of the harem told me that.”

  “I survived,” Vice said irritably. Christ. The maids of Fallen, or the harem, as they were affectionately known, could probably run the War Office. Nothing got past them.

  “So what are you going to do now?” Sin asked.

  “I’m off to the Castlereagh’s tonight, since I promised Mama and Helena weeks ago I’d escort them. But tomorrow…”

  Devil let out a low whistle. “Lady Mairi had better watch out. Just make sure you wear armored trousers this time.”

  “Fuck off, the both of you. You’re making me late.”

  Ten minutes later, Vice’s luxurious, well-sprung carriage was on its way to his mother’s townhouse in Upper Brook Street. And his frustration boiled over.

  “Really? Mairi MacNair?” He punched a butter-soft leather squab as a cartload of unwanted memories rammed themselves into his mind. Much like Mairi’s bloody knee, which had nearly left him singing falsetto forever.

  Yet again she’d made a fool of him. As much of a fool as he’d been at seventeen.

  Christ, the stupid things he’d done. Attending dull teas and church fetes just for the opportunity to wish her good afternoon. Maiming his hands gathering sweet gale because she liked the scent. Riding to Perth because a shop there sold her favorite kind of cream cake. Smuggling his Latin and science textbooks to her in embroidery baskets because she wanted to learn and her parents rejected anything even vaguely bluestocking. While his friends had been honing their seduction skills and tupping a different lass every week, he’d held back, ignoring their incredulous laughter and loftily informing them that he would have no one but Lady Mairi.

  Damned idiot.

  “Fuck,” he snarled. “Why now? And not by accident in the street or at a soiree, but in my own bloody house?”

  A sharp rap on the window startled five years from his life. Vice swallowed hard, his cheeks burning as he realized not only had the carriage arrived at the Parkton townhouse, but his mother and Helena were peering at him with quizzical amusement.

  Swiftly he unlatched the door and held out a hand to assist both women inside, then the carriage continued to the Castlereagh residence.

  “Did Parkton get to his meeting as planned?” Vice asked, just to fill the awkward silence. “And no, I won’t call him stepfather. He’ll only become evil if I do, and then life will be terrible for you and Helena. See, I live to ensure your health and happiness.”

  Lady Parkton gave him an arched look. “My, my. Conversing with yourself followed by idle chatter. Something drastic is afoot. Now is the time to confess, my darling boy. Your mother is here with open mind and open heart. Because at this point in time, nothing can shock me.”

  It was no use changing the subject or lying. His mother could sniff out a falsehood at a thousand paces and possessed the tenacity of a bloodhound. Besides, she might be the only person in England who would truly understand his predicament. She had heartily approved of his desire to marry Mairi, and had been equally devastated when informed of her death. “I, ah…I saw Mairi yesterday.”

  Her indrawn breath was gratifyingly sharp. “What?”

  “I thought you said you were unshockable?”

  “I was,” Lady Parkton said unsteadily, smoothing her silver-touched blonde hair with a distracted hand. “But now you are seeing ghosts? I’m taking you to the archbishop to be blessed.”

  “I’m not hallucinating, Mama. Mairi is alive.”

  “Lady Mairi MacNair?” Helena’s eyes were agog. “But she is dead. Her papa and mama said so.”

  “No. She’s very much alive. And she was at Fallen, posing as one of our footmen. She got in through the kitchens and was circling the damned ballroom serving apple tarts.”

  “Good heavens,” said Lady Parkton solemnly, but her lips twitched.

  “It’s not funny, Mama,” he growled.

  “Of course not. Don’t mind me, I’m still attempting to comprehend that Mairi lives, let alone is wandering around in men’s clothing. How could the Leithbridges have told such a lie?”

  Vice grimaced at the thought of Mairi’s parents. He’d been given the cut direct by some ice-blooded sticklers in his time, but they all paled in comparison to the frigid and utterly unpleasant Earl and Countess of Leithbridge. It had always been a mystery how they’d managed to produce a woman like Mairi. “That is what awful people do.”

  “I suppose. But why would Mairi dress up as a footman? It seems like a lot of effort just to see the inside of your club.”

  “I’d like to see the inside of Fallen,” said Helena.

  “No bloody way,” he and his mother answered simultaneously.

  “You two are just mean. All the stuffy old bats shun me because my brother is the most scandalous man in the world; I should get at least some benefit from it.”

  “Perhaps when you are married,” said Lady Parkton.

  “Perhaps when you are forty,” Vice said with a sigh, attempting to shrug the tension from his shoulders. Helena was nine years his junior, an unexpected and entirely beloved baby sister, and he was liberal about everything except any matter that pertained to her.

  His sister pouted. “But—”

  “Oh look, we’re here.” He’d never been so glad to see the ornate Castlereagh townhouse at number 18 St. James’s Square. “You’ll have gentlemen lining up to talk to you.”

  “Pah. They are all silly and dull. And they’ll only want to ask about you and your latest show. Are they really as debauched as the protesters claim?”

  Vice tugged on his cravat. His fucking valet would be unemployed tomorrow. “Come along.” He opened the door and assisted them both onto the footpath. “Don’t want to be tardy.”

  “This conversation isn’t finished.” Helena’s gaze narrowed.

  “Oh, yes it is, Hellion.”

  “Darling, please don’t call her that in public.” His mother smoothed his cravat and tucked a blonde curl behind Helena’s ear. “I’m trying very hard to get your sister accepted into the Brimley Finishing Academy for a term to, er, polish the diamond.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? That i
s no more than a quick word with Dev or Eliza—”

  Vice broke off as his gaze locked on a shockingly familiar figure staring down at him from an upper-level window. Seconds later, the window was empty.

  Mairi was here.

  That did it. To hell with waiting for tomorrow, he would make her talk tonight. Pin her to a wall. Dangle her over the oversized punchbowl. Truss her up with those damned breeches.

  Any which way, the answers he sought would be his.

  …

  Damn him! What the hell was Iain doing at the Castlereagh soiree? And with his mother and another woman to boot?

  Her heart pounding, Mairi leaned against the wall next to the window.

  Everything had been going so well, even easier than she’d thought. There was little interaction between temporary and permanent staff. Which was perfect, because no talking meant no probing questions while she spied.

  It had been illuminating walking around the ballroom ostensibly to remove empty champagne and brandy glasses, but actually eavesdropping on the conversations of the political elite, plus ton sticklers, tabbies, and rulers. Away from the ears of innocents, the gossip flowed freely, and as she’d hoped, the talk centered around the Fallen ball. It seemed every scandal sheet in London had included a front-page article, and the detail from “anonymous sources” was eye-openingly accurate. Best of all, she had a key piece of information to report back to Yvette: it was the exclusivity of Fallen that rankled most, not the activities. Those who couldn’t afford or had been refused membership loathed those who could and had. It wasn’t puritanism. It was pure, old-fashioned jealousy. And Worldly could exploit that with lower costs and a far wider-reaching invitation list.

  But now she had to make a discreet exit and flee. Because the main attraction from London’s most hedonistic, uninhibited party was a guest at possibly the stuffiest. How could that be? And who was the beautiful blonde he was escorting with such un-Vicelike decorum?

  Picking up her empty tray, Mairi then hurried back downstairs and into the ballroom proper. A hand grabbed her arm, and she froze. “Boy?”

  “Yes, sir?” she replied in her most refined voice, relieved it was a haughty senior footman and not a certain Scotsman.

  “Get out onto the balconies and retrieve any glasses you find. Oh, and boy…if you happen to see, er, anything untoward, you leave immediately. Understand?”

  Mairi nodded, resolutely swallowing a giggle. She would wager this particular footman never remembered to “leave immediately” if he spotted a couple making use of a darkened alcove. “Of course, sir.”

  After the cloying odor of unwashed bodies, perfume, and sweat, the cool air out on the thankfully empty balcony was a welcome change.

  Breathing deeply, she picked up two empty brandy tumblers.

  “Is footman the only disguise you possess, or are there others?”

  Mairi’s palms went damp at the leashed anger in the words, and she barely managed to retain her hold on the glasses. Placing them carefully on her tray allowed time to regather her scattered wits. How did Iain see through her disguise so easily, first at the window and now in this shadowed space?

  “I’ve no idea what you mean, my lord.”

  “Don’t you fucking my lord me, Mairi. You forgot such sensibilities fast enough when you attempted to crush my cock to powder.”

  She shrugged. “It’s what a lady does when accosted.”

  “Accosted? You nearly burned my clothes off with the need in your eyes. Spread legs, hips tilted, offering me your pussy…then you panicked. Why was that?”

  Damn him twice! He saw far too much, was getting closer and closer, and yet again she found herself foolishly craving his big, hard body locked against hers, the fierce, soul-shaking climaxes he would give her. It had been so very long. “My, my, don’t you think highly of yourself. If I want pleasure, I have many options.”

  “No husband, then?”

  “Unnecessary.”

  “I suppose it would be difficult, finding someone who accepts your need to transform into another for a while.”

  Mairi stilled. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Interesting that you choose to disguise yourself as a man, though, and never a maid.” He picked up a half-full champagne glass and added it to her tray.

  “As I said last night, why would any woman choose stays and gowns when she could enjoy the freedom of breeches and jacket?” Her voice trembled slightly, and she wanted to kick Iain when a brandy tumbler slid from her hand and hit the champagne glass with an overloud clink.

  “Except your breasts are bound. With linen? That must chafe horribly.”

  It did. Removing the linen at the end of the night and applying salve to her abused nipples was a thoroughly unpleasant task. Even the softest fabric scratched like sackcloth when worn like a bandage.

  “I am not discussing my breasts with you.” She fetched another empty glass from behind a small potted plant.

  “Pity.” His gaze was hot and raw. “I feel an obligation to speak on their behalf, as you certainly seem to be failing in duty of care.”

  “Go away,” Mairi hissed as her nipples hardened in remembrance. When it came to pleasure, he took duty of care very seriously. “I’m trying to work.”

  “No, you aren’t. To be working, you’d have to be employed by Lord and Lady Castlereagh. And there is no way in hell that the Foreign Secretary and an Almack’s patroness would hire a woman to dress as a footman for a party attended by the pettiest politicians and the fiercest society dragons in London.”

  “Which begs the question of how the most scandalous man in the country, and a Scot to boot, received an invitation.”

  Iain grinned, a genuine smile that made him even handsomer. Damn him thrice. “Touché, darling. But don’t change the subject. You know, I should report such shocking deceit as invading the home of a very high-ranking politician. Expose you to the world as you really are.”

  Her breath hitched. What he meant was having her taken away by the Watch. And yet all she could imagine was him dragging her inside and tearing off her men’s clothing in front of everyone. Roughly parting her thighs and fingering her soaked pussy to prove beyond a doubt she did not possess a cock.

  Sizzling heat swept through her body, and she barely suppressed a moan at the thought of an audience staring at, and being transfixed by, her nakedness. Watching as Iain teased and stroked her. Coveting her. Silent with greedy lust and anticipation as he led her to the center of a raised dais, pushed onto her hands and knees, and fucked her hard and deep until she screamed in ecstasy. Then they would cheer and applaud and their appreciation would dance along her skin like a cloak of warm mist, and, just for a moment, she would know how it felt to be loved.

  “You wouldn’t.” She almost choked on the disappointment that her fantasy would never be a reality.

  “Wouldn’t expose you? On the contrary. You’d be stripped bare.”

  Mairi whimpered, the words licking her skin like a flame. He was talking about something completely different, but if he kept saying things like expose and stripped bare, she’d be forced to attend to her throbbing clit right in front of him.

  “Witch,” he snarled, and seconds later his lips were mastering hers. Unforgiving. Brutal. Expert.

  Grabbing the lapels of his jacket as an anchor, Mairi surrendered to the kiss. One hard, muscled thigh forced itself between her legs, spreading them and allowing her to grind her aching pussy against it. She groaned in helpless, grateful need. It wouldn’t take much. If he opened his trousers and she opened her breeches, the engorged cock nudging her belly could be plunging deep, filling the emptiness inside her. “Iain.”

  His mouth moved, his teeth scraping her earlobe. “These breeches fit well enough to be made for you. Did you bring a tailor from Paris as well?”

  “No,” she gasped, mindless. “I made them. I do all the sewing.”

  “They’re good. Stage-worthy.”

  “Everything
has to be.”

  Iain hesitated, then his hand splayed down across her stomach, his fingertips agonizingly close to her clit. “The stage is about selling pretense. Is this real? If I ripped open your breeches, would your cunt be so wet, so ready, that you drenched my fingers and tongue in juice?”

  She shuddered at the blunt, erotic words, her whole body straining for the orgasm hovering just out of her reach. “Yes. Please. Please.”

  Abruptly, he was gone, lounging against the side of the balcony several feet away. “You missed a glass, laddie. Hey. You, there! Wherever did you find such a lackluster beginner?”

  What?

  Mairi blinked rapidly, her legs threatening to buckle, and the perspiration on her skin cooling rapidly without Iain’s warmth. Really, there should be less breeches and more breaching right now. This was altogether not right. “I…I…” she stuttered.

  “Terribly sorry, my lord, as you know, temporary staff can be most inadequate.”

  Her gaze flew to the right, then back to Iain. No. He had oh-so-casually called in the same haughty senior footman from before, and the older man was now standing in the doorway leading back to the ballroom.

  “Don’t I know it,” said Iain in a bored tone, his fingers running along the lapel that she’d crushed with her grip. “A compliment to the host that footmen for hire are necessary, but this one has outstayed his welcome. Not overly helpful.”

  Oh, the feral skunk.

  “Get to the kitchens, boy,” said the footman in an awful voice. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to pay you, in light of such poor service.”

  Sketching a bow, Mairi leaned down and picked up her abandoned tray with shaking hands. Her body practically screamed in displeasure at what it had missed out on. “Beg p-pardon, sir. My lord.”

  Iain might have won this time. But she would pay him back for this tenfold.

  He could count on it.

  Chapter Three

  In less than a quarter hour, he would don gloves and begin a third round with Mairi.

  Shifting restlessly on his carriage squab, Vice watched the streets of London fly by. Truth be told, he was both exhausted and on edge after a restless night. How could he sleep after the Castlereagh soiree? Bloody hell. It had taken every ounce of his willpower to keep asking her questions and eventually pull away from her on that balcony. The urge to forget his interrogation and lose himself inside her tight, wet heat had been overwhelming. At this point, his cock was probably about to petition parliament for a divorce; two nights in a row of being left in agony definitely bordered on excessive cruelty.