The Seduction of Viscount Vice (Fallen Book 3) Page 8

  “Vice, don’t be cross with Mairi. It’s my f—”

  “Don’t talk. Not a word. I’m so damned angry with you right now…Christ. If Parkton knew about this, it would kill him. And Mama…she cannot have two sinners, damn it. You are supposed to make up for me!”

  “That is particularly unfair,” said Mairi, staring at him reproachfully, as if she had a fucking leg to stand on when it came to appropriate behavior. “Not even a bloody saint could make up for you.”

  Vice glared at her, so ready to heave her out a window he could barely control himself, but even so, he was shocked when his Highland warrior actually shrank back instead of facing him down. “I’ll thank ye to stay out of my family business. Now, go, Helena. Before anyone sees.”

  His sister shot him a defiant look, flinging her arms around Mairi and hugging her tightly before fleeing outside.

  “I didn’t invite her,” said Mairi into the hideous silence. “I swear.”

  “Oh, you swear? Well. Of course, I believe you, being the oracle of truth you are.”

  “Iain, please—”

  “How could you? This whole week? Hell. You truly are the greatest actress to walk the earth. Or should I say, walk the Worldly. I cannae believe…fuck. Every fucking time you open your mouth, you lie to me. And you play me false. Nothing has changed in ten years. Not one damned thing. I am my own worst enemy: able to be fooled twice.”

  She shuddered. “No. And you are right that nothing has changed in ten years. I still feel the same about you as I did in Scotland. Like I’m offered heaven and it’s in my grasp and then ripped away.”

  “Liar,” he snarled. “Even now I don’t deserve the dignity of truth? For once in your damned life?”

  “I am telling you the truth. You don’t know the jagged rocks beneath the surface, Iain. Or how much I regret hurting you. It hurt me, too. More and more and more as I fell in love with you all over again. But now, I’ve lost everything.”

  “Don’t. Don’t say another fucking word. I can’t believe I ever listened to you. Is this what you did with all your men in France? Lured them in with theater, then discarded them when they were no longer worthy or useful?”

  Mairi stalked up to him, her blue eyes finally igniting. “My men? You know nothing about Paris. Nothing. But if we’re talking facts and truth, there were two men in my life. Ramsey and Olivier.”

  An incredulous laugh escaped. “Oh, please. You expect me to believe that a woman with blood as hot as yours took no lovers in the middle of a high-class Paris pleasure club? Now you’re just insulting me. You need to be fucked, Mairi. You crave it. Anytime, anywhere.”

  Pain scorched across his cheekbone, and the sound of the slap hung in the air, somehow even louder than the sounds of the revelry back in the townhouse rooms. On another occasion, it might have been comical the way Mairi’s startled gaze darted between his face and her pink palm. But then she squared her shoulders and glared at him. The warrior had returned.

  “I wasn’t in the middle of the pleasure club, I was well behind the curtains. Sewing by candlelight. Lugging boxes. Covered in dirt. Yes, there was the odd kiss, but shockingly, neither the aristos nor the servants were clamoring to bed a dusty Scottish seamstress with no breasts or hips and who towered over them. No, I need to be fucked by you. I crave it with you. Anytime, anywhere with you, you damned Highland blockhead.”

  Anger and lust twisted together like a perfect storm, and Vice found himself shoving her against the wall, one thigh forcing hers apart as his hand delved under her thin, silky robe. Her legs were encased in whisper-thin stockings with soft satin rosettes at the top. The contrast between the warm, smooth skin at the tops of her thighs and the slightly rough stockings was far too erotic for his peace of mind. “Witch,” he muttered as he drowned in the scent of heat and aroused woman, one hand curving around her hips as she blatantly thrust them forward.

  “Yes.” She panted raggedly in his ear as his right hand slid up to cup her breasts in the low-cut stays. “Yes. Fuck me. Right here. I want you so badly tonight, Iain. I need—”

  “Mairi,” he groaned, not wanting to talk, only touch. But instead of hard nipples and warm skin, his hand met fabric, and he halted. Padding?

  Pretense. Always pretense, with her.

  Shamelessly, she laughed. “Stupid vanity, I know. But everyone wants to see mountains, not dales. Even you, if you would just admit it.”

  His ardor chilled like a loch in winter, and he stepped back. “No. When I said I wanted you, I actually meant it. As you are. No hidden motives. No caveats. Goodbye, Mairi.”

  “Iain! Wait…”

  Vice shrugged her hand from his arm, weary to the bone.

  Then without a backward glance, he left the townhouse.

  Chapter Six

  Fittingly, the day was unseasonably cold and gray, the sky threatening to unleash a storm at any moment.

  Pausing in her mopping, Mairi flexed her aching shoulders and stared out the front parlor window at the hardy couples still out walking. It was a relief to have a short break from the absolute mess behind her. Worldly’s grand opening the previous evening had been successful, but the spilled food and drink, sweat, dried mud, and other fluids she didn’t want to study too closely were proving hard to dislodge from the wooden floor.

  “Don’t let Madame C catch you dreaming,” warned Olivier, as he stacked brandy glasses into a cloth-lined box. “I had to tell many maids they must go home because she does not want to pay them, and Ramsey said she’s in a temper because the reviews of her show were bad. Too fussy and, ah, what is the word, common. Why did you cry off, Lady Mairi? You were so excited to be onstage.”

  Mairi gritted her teeth. “I didn’t bloody cry off. I was getting dressed to perform and discovered that in just a few days I had gained a lot of weight and suddenly my costume didn’t fit me. So Yvette took my place.”

  Olivier frowned. “That is…”

  “Quite a coincidence, as they say,” snapped Ramsey as he lugged in two buckets of fresh heated water to rinse the floor. “Especially when the seam stitching changed color also.”

  “No,” said Olivier. “Not…sabotage? Mon dieu. But why?”

  “Because she had no intention of ever letting me on her stage. She…she…” Mairi pressed her fist to her lips to compose herself as the betrayal shredded her once again. “She only wanted information about Fallen. I was just a pawn to be sacrificed.”

  Olivier wrung his hands. “You must do something, my lady. Say something.”

  “Do or say what? I am in a worse position than those maids. I cannot afford to lose my employment here. I don’t have family or anywhere else to go.”

  “You have Lord Vissen,” said Ramsey, setting the buckets down with a thump.

  “Iain hates me. And I don’t blame him. Every single thing I’ve done has wronged him in some way.”

  “He didn’t seem to hate you when the two of you christened the window seat.” Olivier arched an eyebrow. “Or when you stayed the whole night in his bed at Fallen. In fact, I think he might love you very much. Not as much as Ramsey loves me, but enough for a lifetime, I suppose.”

  “Who says I love you, you bloody annoying French dandy?” grumbled Ramsey, the tips of his ears bright red.

  “Bah. It is as plain as the nose on your face, my dour Scottish bull,” beamed Olivier.

  Mairi sighed. “You two make it all look so easy. But then, you’ve never made mistakes and hurt the one you love like I have.”

  Both men stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

  “Oh, my lady, no,” said Olivier. “We’ve both done bad things. Very foolish things. Had fights like the cat and the dog. Sometimes I want to drop a pianoforte on his head. And I’m sure back in Paris he wanted to toss me into the Seine every week.”

  “Every day,” said Ramsey. But there was a softness in his eyes that made her heart clench.

  “How did you keep going, then? At the start? When you knew there was somet
hing strong between you, but so many obstacles in your path?”

  “We talked,” said Olivier. “Well, I talked and he grunted. But we each took a chance and put all the cards on the table because a deux was so much better than alone. Have you done that with his lordship? Bared your true soul?”

  Mairi shivered. “I…I don’t know how. I’ve always had to be someone other than myself.”

  “Except with Lord Vissen,” said Ramsey sternly. “Even as a lad, he only wanted you.”

  “Choose love.” Olivier folded his arms and gave her an impatient look, the cleaning quite forgotten. “I have already told you this.”

  Choose love.

  Two simple words, and yet remarkably difficult to consider. From the time her parents had deemed her old enough to be married, her whole life had been about survival. Not love or happiness, but assessing the least worst option presented, crossing her fingers, and leaping.

  And yet if she stayed here at Worldly, what future did she have?

  She would never be the leading lady. Not as long as she worked for bloody Yvette. The woman would never let another female anywhere near her stage, that was painfully obvious now. And humiliating, that she’d been blind to her employer’s tricks and treacherous nature for so long because of one act of service in Calais. Ten years’ worth of aching fingers, grimy clothing, reddened eyes, and stooped shoulders for nothing was a cruel blow, but far crueler was hurting Iain so terribly. She’d lied to him over and over for a woman who wasn’t worth a farthing. A woman who carelessly used others and felt no remorse. If she remained in this townhouse Mairi wouldn’t even be the woman she’d been in Paris, but a puppet on a string dancing to her employer’s tune. There would be no freedom or comfortable living. No applause or roses or beautiful sets. No wearing of breeches, or naked afternoons on window seats. Worst of all, there would be no Iain, the man she loved with all her heart.

  “But he doesn’t want me,” she whispered painfully. “He said goodbye.”

  “Of course he wants you,” said Ramsey. “That is why he is so angry. Because he thinks you have played him false twice over, that you don’t love him the way he loves you. He’s never known the why about Scotland, my lady. And it is long past time you told him.”

  Olivier burst into applause. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. The highest compliment I can give.”

  Mairi blinked. “I think that may have been the longest speech you’ve ever given, Ramsey.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there like a featherbrained twit,” her manservant growled, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Go and fight. Drag him back to your lair like a proper Highland lass.”

  Tears burned her own eyes. “He…he told me I was a warrior.”

  “And he is right. So show him. Show him that you love him,” sniffled Olivier.

  She swallowed hard. To do that, she would have to both fight and surrender. Could she do it? Could she swallow her pride, the only thing she still possessed, and lay all her mistakes and regrets and secrets at Iain’s feet? Offer her whole heart, raw and unsure and yearning, and humbly ask him to love her again?

  It would take every bit of courage she had. But there was only one answer.

  Yes.

  “All right, all right!” She hiccupped on a sob. “And I love you both. You are the most wonderful friends.”

  Leaving her mop behind, Mairi dashed for the door. Then halted and instead made her way upstairs to her chamber to change. Never would a Highland warrior present for battle in a shabby gown and apron. Swiftly she tore off her clothing, then unlocked her small trunk of keepsakes. She selected a ruffled white muslin shirt with lace cuffs and her best hunter green spencer, like the top half of a riding habit, and tugged them on. Instead of a skirt and petticoat, she finished the outfit with a pair of old-fashioned black breeches. Her hair she pulled loose from its serviceable chignon and brushed to a silken shine, until the curls flowed down her back like the night of her dinner at Fallen.

  Mairi stared hard at the looking glass. Someone she thought she could quite like smiled hesitantly back. And winked.

  Perfect.

  Almost breathless, she hurried back downstairs and along the hallway toward the front door.

  “And just where do you think you are going, dressed like that?”

  Mairi inclined her head. “Good morning, Yvette. I am going out, of course.”

  “I think not. There are many chores to be done before we reopen tonight.”

  “My apologies,” she said slowly, “but I am not available. Perhaps you should not have fired all those maids.”

  “Not available?” Yvette’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You do not say that word to me. After everything I have done for you, I own you. I decide when you eat and sleep and work. And you must work.”

  “I don’t think so. Actually, I think my debt to you is more than repaid after ten years of hard labor. And your opening night was successful. Well, apart from the entertainment.”

  Yvette released her breath in a hiss. “I was excellent.”

  “That is not what the reviews said. Perhaps the reason Worldly failed in Paris was not the others, but you. You are so damned lazy and selfish. Using everyone you meet. Well, I have had enough. It ends today.”

  Her employer’s smile was pure malice. “He does not love you, this Vice you think to run to. How could he? A man like that wants a real woman. A lady. Not a plain and dried-up stick. Not a filthy seamstress.”

  In the past, the words would have struck like arrows. But strangely, they drifted over her as harmlessly as snowflakes. “Men have varied tastes, as do women. But when you love someone, one thing does not decide yes or no. It is everything together. I didn’t understand that before.”

  “Nonsense.” Yvette scowled as she stomped her foot. “All nonsense. Now you get back into the parlor. Must Ramsey and Olivier always make up for you? Must they? You are a disgrace. A freakish whore from a dirty Scottish village…don’t you dare turn your back on me! Mairi!”

  “Au revoir, madame,” said Mairi over her shoulder.

  “You go one step farther and you may never come back. Ever!” Yvette spat.

  Mairi shrugged. “Very well. I guess I have no other option than to choose love.”

  And she walked out into Charlotte Street to search for a hackney.

  It was time to fight for her future, once and for all.

  …

  “Vice! Open this bloody door, or we are going to break it down.”

  Taking another comforting swallow of whisky, Vice glared at the talking door. Or at least he hoped he was glaring at it. Everything had become rather blurry in the last few hours. It could just as well be a tree trunk or a docile bear. “Can’t. I ate the key, and it was deli…delish…very fucking good.”

  The handle rattled ominously. “We have more whisky. And food. Wouldn’t you like some nice hot food to eat? Damn it, open up…of course I’m bloody well calm. Yes, this is my calm voice…I assure you it is, madam…Vice!”

  Christ Almighty, the door was not only a nag, it fought with itself. And sounded far too much like Sin when it would be infinitely more agreeable if it sounded like a beautiful, curvaceous Prussian. “I’m quite fine. I brought scones in with me last night. I’m not a complete fool.”

  The door muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “debatable.”

  Fucking English doors—nags, oddballs, and judgmental to boot.

  Without warning there was an ear-shattering crash, and what had once been his bedchamber door was now two jagged bits of wood, one on the floor and the other hanging drunkenly from a hinge.

  “Oh, hello,” Vice said unevenly as a row of blurry figures marched into the room. It took several blinks and head shakes, but eventually Devil, Eliza, Sin, Grace, and his mother came into focus.

  Fuck.

  “What are you all doing here?” Christ, couldn’t a man wallow in angry misery for a few hours without being harassed?

  “You’ve been in here twe
lve hours and missed two meetings,” said Sin.

  Two meetings? Impossible. He’d never missed a meeting in his life, let alone two. No woman was worth that, not even Mairi MacNair. Well, once upon a time she might have been. But certainly not now.

  “I am quite well. Not thinking for a moment about the woman of whom we shall not speak. You know, if you lads did have a care for me, you’d have brought a dozen beautiful and talented lightskirts. Not your wives and my mother.”

  Lady Parkton smiled grimly. “My darling boy, I love you more than life itself, so know that this is done with all care and concern.”

  He started to smile back, only to be engulfed in a bucket’s worth of freezing cold water.

  “Mama!” he spluttered as, remarkably, his head began to clear. “What the bloody hell was that for?”

  “To remove the layer of dust, whisky, and sweat on your skin.” Devil wrinkled his nose. “We have hot water to attend to the rest.”

  “By the by, Cook is serving roast lamb and potatoes downstairs,” added Grace brightly. “Your favorite.”

  “With parsley butter sauce?” he asked, trying to talk over the sudden embarrassingly loud growling of his stomach. Perhaps he hadn’t eaten in a wee while.

  Eliza nodded. “On the side, so you can pour and make sure each potato has the right amount.”

  A lump settled in his throat, one so huge he could hardly breathe. Said like that, his annoying compulsion sounded positively normal. “That sounds adequate. You’re all here. Apart from Helena.”

  “Thanks to the generosity and goodwill of Lady Eliza,” his mother said, “your sister has this morning been packed off…er, accepted into the Brimley Finishing Academy. There is no way she can get into trouble there, praise the good Lord.”

  “And of course we’re all here,” said Sin. “We’re your family.”

  “Have there been any notes? Any callers?” he said casually, not making eye contact with anyone while rubbing his prickly jaw. Hell. As well as hungry, it seemed he might be a little rough around the edges.