Lucien's Fall Page 26

  Without her knowledge, her father had arranged the marriage before his death a year ago. As his consumption stole the breath from him, he worried obsessively over the fate of his daughters and wrote at length to the Earl of Glencove, Tynan Spenser, whom he'd met in London a few years before, to offer his eldest daughter's hand in marriage.

  Spenser had written to Adriana two months ago, almost a year to the day after her father's death. Although she had at first been appalled at both her father's belief that Julian was dead—else there would be no need to arrange the marriage at all—and at his high-handedness in arranging the match, Adriana knew how desperately the family estates needed the influx of capital Spenser would bring.

  And he, by trading on her father's good name, hoped to buy a seat in the English House of Commons. It amused her, and she'd written him an acerbic letter, making sure that he knew of his future wife's scarlet past before he committed himself.

  The return mail had carried a very short missive. "It does not matter," he wrote. "Will be arriving in London, 10 September. Will correspond further then."

  And in many ways, the solution had been the answer to a prayer, so Adriana tried to make the best of it. Knowing nothing of him, save the blatant facts of his tide and holdings in the west of Ireland, she had conjured a picture of him from clues she could gather from his letters. The handwriting was bold and sprawling, marred with blotches of ink and hastily crossed-out words. It suggested to her a man of energy, a plain-speaking country Irishman with political ambitions. Someone near her father's age, perhaps, portly or balding. Yes, she could make such a trade.

  Such bliss in ignorance!

  Wrapping a warm woolen shawl around her shoulders, Adriana heard a squeal, quickly hushed. Her sisters again. They were so young, she thought with a pang. A wedding, no matter how it was arranged, was to them the height of excitement.

  She peered once more toward the road, and saw with despair that it remained empty.

  It was Adriana's sister Cassandra who'd brought the truth of the Black Angel, gleaned in gossip. Tynan Spenser was no portly, balding squire. Instead, he was the very stuff of Adriana's nightmares, a rake with a silver tongue obscuring a heart as black as a winter night. He was rumored to have slept with every great beauty in London, and a good many wives of the Irish Parliament, and was said to make a fine game of it, passionate one moment, cold the next, so the women sighed in longing for him.

  The Black Angel.

  Adriana tried not to think what he might look like. She tried to remind herself of the way Malvern had looked that misty morning in Hyde Park, dissipated and sodden and distasteful.

  Instead, her rogue imagination insisted upon dishing up other memories: the feel of her lover's mouth upon her throat, the brush of his hands over her breasts and gliding up her thighs—

  She put her face in her hands, hating the betrayal of her flesh. Five years, and she still remembered. Not him, not her foolish, vain lover, but the pleasure he gave.

  This was her most dangerous, and most private, failing—that she still ached for that pleasure. That she had not yet found a way to keep it from her thoughts, the wish for it. And now she would be forced to lie with a rake who'd made such pleasure his trademark, and she feared desperately that it would be her undoing. As it had been in the past. Somehow, some way, she had to armor herself.

  * * *

  Adriana clapped her hands sharply, and the noise of a half-dozen girls and women abruptly ceased. "Enough chatter! If we do not settle my attire, the bride will be late."

  The chastening lasted barely an instant before the voices rose again. All four of her sisters, aged fourteen to twenty-one, plus two of the younger house maids, even Adriana's new girl, Fiona—oddly enough the first Irish maid she'd had—chimed in with opinions.

  "Riana, please not the bombazine!" Ophelia begged. Fifteen and prettiest of them all, she clasped her hands under her chin in a prayer. "At least the blue silk."

  "Oh, you only think of blue because it suits you," Cleo said with a toss of her head. Dusky as her half sister was fair, she rivaled her in beauty. "But, Riana, perhaps at least the gray brocade? It is more festive."

  Cassandra, a widowed twenty and languid, sprawled over a divan, one hand on her cheek, a tendril of red hair falling down her forehead. "Since she's inclined to throw herself to sacrifice for our benefit," she drawled, "at least let her choose the gown of her doom."

  Adriana, exasperated, looked to Phoebe—twenty-one and prim. "Help!"

  "If you want to stay, halt your chatter," Phoebe said, her voice stiff as whalebone. Briskly, she pushed the maids out of the way and plucked a brush from one of their hands. "Can't you find some work elsewhere? We'll tend to our sister."

  Summarily dismissed, they left. And as Phoebe's reign took hold, the others lit on the bed and the trunk. "There," Phoebe said with a smile. "You have some peace."

  Adriana closed her eyes and took in a breath of air to steady the race of her heart. "I'm terrified," she whispered, and put her hands to her bloodless cheeks. "And it shows."

  "You've let yourself be swayed by the gossip," Phoebe said, yanking the brush through Adriana's long, thick hair. "No man could live up to that reputation."

  "I've heard otherwise," Cassandra drawled. A happy widow with no intention of marrying again, she kept a house in London. Her drawing room was famed for the wit and gossip batted about. "But in that you should find some comfort, sister. If he's the rake they say, he'll not want to molder about at Hartwood. He'll come in, and bed you, and be off again in a day. You'll be free."

  "Cassandra!" Adriana hissed, tossing a warning glance in the direction of the two youngest girls.

  "Perhaps he'll be so handsome you'll fall in love on sight," Ophelia offered. Her eyes went misty. '"The Black Angel' is such a dangerous nickname. I think he sounds exciting."

  Adriana stared resolutely at her reflection, watching Phoebe purse her lips as she twisted her hair away from her face and pinned it severely in place. "His reputation matters very little to me," Adriana said. "He has the fortune and we have the political connections. Marriages have been made on worse."

  "Indeed." Phoebe met Adriana's eyes in the mirror for a sober moment. Of all of them, Phoebe, who had kept a hawk's eye on the accounts the past year, knew how critical that infusion of wealth had become. A good deal of the family fortune had been sunk into their father's island estates—all but lost to them in the current wave of revolutions in the colonies. "It's his fortune that matters—as it will be when you marry, Ophelia."

  "I intend to marry for love."

  "Intend all you wish, my sweet," Cassandra said dryly. Her foot swung monotonously, up and down, showing the tip of a boot every second. Every third or fourth time, she wiggled it a bit.

  "Cassandra," Adriana said, "please be still."

  "Ophelia is beauty enough to find love and fortune," Cleo declared.

  Adriana only nodded mildly. "Perhaps." Suddenly weary of the pretense she had to maintain for the sake of the younger girls, she added, "Why don't you two check to be certain all is ready for our guest's arrival?" With a smile, she added, "Perhaps he'll bring an entourage."

  Interest sparked between them, arcing from Ophelia's Dresden blue eyes to Cleo's dark brown as they smiled at each other in secret mischief. The pair were only ten months apart in age, and were close as twins. For a moment, looking at the contrast between fair and dark, Adriana thought again, this time with a pang, of her brothers.

  "Let's!" they said together, and giggled.

  When they'd departed, the room grew quiet. "They don't really remember the scandal," Cassandra said.

  "Which is just as well." Adriana pinched her cheeks in a vain attempt to bring some color to them. "I have a more than vivid enough recollection for all of us."

  "Riana, you wrong yourself in this." Phoebe put her hands on her sister's shoulders. "You were foolish, and young—he was powerful and beautiful and turned your head. It has happened thousands of times.
"

  Adriana bit back her sharp reply:

  How would you know? But of course it was mean-spirited, and no one could be so evil to Phoebe.

  Cassandra leaned close to take Adriana's hands. "Listen to her. Malvern was relentless in his pursuit. A far more sophisticated girl than you would have been swayed."

  A familiar ache, half regret, half humiliation, rose in her throat. "Please… I cannot bear to speak of it. Even now."

  Cassandra slid from the sofa to kneel before her sister, tightening her hands around Adriana's. "I despise that you feel you must sacrifice yourself this way, that you feel you must atone for your sins by marrying some rake you've never seen."

  "You are too dramatic, Cassandra." Adriana pulled her hands free. "There is no sacrifice here. Papa arranged the matter before he died—he must have had some reason to do so." She smoothed a wisp of hair from her face. "I am simply being practical. Besides, as you said, if he's the rake they all say, he'll be little inconvenience."

  A sound of shouts reached them, and all three turned toward the window. For a moment they froze together. "I expect that is the groom's party," Adriana said, and stood, smoothing her skirts and lifting one hand to her tightly coiled hair. "Shall we greet him?"

  Cassandra gripped her hand. "Are you absolutely certain, Adriana?"

  Adriana lifted her chin. "Yes."

  * * *

  Tynan Spenser, Earl of Glencove, Baron of Tynagh, had carefully orchestrated his arrival at Hartwood Hall. He rode a black gelding, fifteen hands of glorious Irish horseflesh, aristocratic and graceful enough to have pleased one of the ancient kings. The saddle was made of Spanish leather, and worked with silver, and in a moment of fancy he'd braided the beast's mane in the old way, with ribbons of scarlet.

  He'd considered gathering a small party of young lords for this event, but had discovered he could not bear the company of them on the long ride. As a result he rode in alone, with only his man Seamus for company. They'd spoken little, for Seamus disapproved of the match. Disapproved of anything English, come to that. Some might consider three days of sulky silence an impertinence, but Seamus had been Tynan's father's man before him, and one permitted a servant of forty years some leeway.

  And as no family of his own remained, Tynan wished some familiar company on so momentous a day.

  Tynan himself was splendidly attired in close-fitting breeches and tailored coat and tall boots, mud-spattered a little now, but none the worse for all that. He'd allowed one clue to his true nature, donning a black cloak embroidered around the edges by the women in his village with a bright Celtic design. At his throat was an ancient brooch, in his family for longer than anyone could remember, woven of red and white gold, set with a ruby the color of the fuchsias that grew along the road to Glencove castle.

  Even Seamus had grunted a miserly approval.

  A twist of anticipation rose in Tynan as they rode between the neatly clipped boxwoods lining the drive, past acres of wide lawns dotted with tiny white daisies, surrounding the house like a carpet. Here it was—Hartwood Hall. An English earldom if his wild gamble paid off; and the lost earl, Julian St. Ives, did not return. Tynan suspected his chances were better than even. There had been not a word of St. Ives in five years. Likely, he lay at the bottom of the sea, victim of some ill-built packet.

  But even if his gamble did not gain him the title, Tynan knew he'd gain political power through his highborn wife. Scandals could be overcome. One way or the other, he planned to win this hand.

  Against the gloomy sky, the hall rose in ancient grandeur. 'Twas more of a castle than the manor he'd expected. He'd known it was old, in the family for centuries, since it had been awarded to the first Earl of Albury in 1342. The main hall, a square four stories, was the only remnant of that time, though Tynan thought he could make out the uneven swell of ground that once marked the curtain wall. He sought—and found—the dry moat, now filled with earth and flowers.

  The rest of the rambling structure had been added over the centuries, a little here and there, a wing, a room, a tower, all shaped by native red stone that brought unity and a certain dignity to the hodgepodge of styles.

  Gathered on the wide steps leading to the main entrance stood a group he assumed must be the sisters and their servants. Undoubtedly one of them was Lady Adriana. Faced now with the finality of the act he was about to commit, Tynan suddenly hoped she would not be too plain. With curiosity, he studied the faces of the five ladies, flanked by servants in green livery, who awaited him on the wide sweep of steps leading to a pair of carved wooden doors.

  The first girl was a beauty, blond and sweet—very young. She linked arms with another girl with long dark eyes, mulatto by the look of her, but as finely dressed as the first. Just behind them stood a woman as plain as a country mouse, her pale brown hair swept up from a strong, kind face. She resembled her father, Tynan thought with some fondness. The Earl had been a good, kindhearted man of no particular attractiveness but that in his clear blue eyes.

  Next to the plain girl stood a tall, straight woman whose ill-fitting black bombazine obscured the shape of her body and leeched all color from her face. Her hair appeared to be blond, but he thought it must be a poor texture, for it had been pulled back tightly and braided in a coronet.

  The last one stood on the top steps, her arms crossed, her face hard. Even her legs were slightly askance, as if to give her firmer grip on the world, and he noticed with some amusement that she wore boots, not slippers. Her hair was a particularly glorious shade of red-gold, and though he could see an attempt had been made to tame it, wisps slipped free to drift around her face. He pursed his lips, measuring. This one might own that brisk voice he'd read in her letters, and yes—he could see her falling to passion too young.

  His spirits lifted and he dismounted with a spring in his step. "Good morning, ladies," he said, and bowed.

  The young girls giggled, and Tynan favored them with a broad grin, as rakish as he could summon. It pleased him when they blushed happily. "You must be Ophelia and Cleopatra."

  They curtsied prettily, and nudged each other over the hothouse flowers he bestowed upon them from the armload Seamus carried behind him. He looked to the next sister.

  "You do favor your father, lass," he said, offering a handful of some yellow blossom he couldn't name. Up close, he saw that her skin was fine, and her eyes were of a singularly piercing blue. "A good man he was."

  Her gaze was clear and direct, and in it he saw that he had found her softness immediately. "He was, sir."

  That left the final two, who awaited at the top of the steps. Yes, the one in black must be the widow—Cassandra. Poor girl was paler than the moon, and she kept her eyes carefully downcast. From the bouquet, he selected a perfect white rose, and one of deepest red.

  Only then did he allow himself to raise his eyes to the glorious redhead, and was startled to see active dislike on her face. He cocked a brow ironically and gave her the red rose. "My lady," he said with a slight bow.

  "I am Cassandra, sir." She gestured with a slim white hand. "This is my sister, your bride-to-be, Lady Adriana St. Ives."

  Tynan had learned to control his expression in a thousand circumstances, and had polished his gift for flirtation to an art, but for a single instant he stumbled. His gaze flew to the pallid blond, and sought some single beauty he could admire, flatter her about.

  But he could find nothing. The features were even enough, he supposed, with no glaring flaw he could pinpoint aside from the paleness. Pale lips, pale hair, pale cheeks. Her figure looked plump in the ill-fitting stiff gown.

  And in that heartbeat's length of time that passed before he could hide his dismay, she raised her eyes and saw his true feelings. Her nostrils flared and her chin tilted faintly, and he read in the expression the haughtiest disdain.

  A bad show, that lapse of his expression. In an instant he gathered himself and smoothly took her cold hand in his own. With all of his charm—and there were many who said it w
as considerable—he pressed a warm kiss to it. "At last we meet, my lady," he said in a voice meant to roll down her spine.

  She raised one sharp, arched brow—darker by far than her pale hair—and he saw he'd moved her not at all.

  Taking her hand back, she said only, "My lord," in a voice as distant as her cool nod.

  The lady of the manor, soiled by Irish riffraff. The message could not have been more clear. Tynan smiled, coldly, and offered his arm. "Shall we?"

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  NIGHT

  OF

  FIRE

  (Excerpt)

  by

  Barbara Samuel

  The St. Ives Family Series - Book Two

  Part One

  Ask me why I send to you

  This primrose, thus bepearled with dew?

  I will whisper to your ears

  The sweets of love are mixed with tears.

  ~ ROBERT HERRICK

  Prologue

  London

  May 1788

  Cassandra told herself that she had recovered. That she was a woman of the world, and did not fall to pieces over a doomed romance. But the moment she saw him, when he walked into a box across the opera hall, she knew she had lied to herself.

  He was out of place, and so unexpected that she gaped for a long moment before she could fit her mind around the fact that it was him.

  Basilio.

  Here, at the opera.

  In London.

  Blackness prickled at the edges of her vision. She realized she had not breathed, and inhaled deeply, but she could not look away.

  Behind him was a man she vaguely recognized, a ruddy-faced lord from a county near her estate, which only made it all the stranger. Two women had settled at the front of the box, but the men continued some deep discussion, their heads bent together, one graying, the other darkest black.