mood tonight, Sinclair,” Georgiana observed. “Almost contemplative, I would say.”
“Really? How droll. I suppose I should be thinking of how I might spend the next few hours lying in sin and regret before I am forced to confront my future. I might very well be dead come the morrow. A send-off worthy of the most proliferate rake should be in order.”
“It should. I offered and you declined.”
“Ah, yes. Well, a man needs to have his head—both of them—in the right place during these matters. Rest assured, after I have satisfied the terms of your husband’s duel I shall come and release all the pent-up frustration and contemplation that is building inside me. Will that suffice?”
She flopped back onto his bed with a pout, her legs sliding evocatively against each other. “I suppose,” she muttered. “But you’ll think of me when you are on that field, fighting for my honour?”
“Trust me, I shall be thinking of nothing else.” Christ, he needed another drink. He was getting bilious, nattering away about such tripe. All he could say was that she—and this damned duel—had better be worth it. If he didn’t discover anything about Orpheus from Lady Larabie, he might just end up putting a bullet in his own chest.
“Are you afraid to meet him?”
“Larabie?” Iain snorted. “Not in the least.”
“No, the Grim Reaper.”
“Him? Why should I? I already know the path of my destiny.”
“And have you any regrets?” she whispered, watching him with eyes that were suddenly very clear and knowing—eyes that made the hairs on his neck rise in warning.
“No, none.”
“No business left unattended? Nothing left unsaid? No apologies to be made?”
“Not a one, I’m afraid,” he growled as he fitted his sporran around his waist. “I never apologize. It means I was in the wrong—and I am never that, luv.”
“Such brass bollocks you possess, my lord. No atoning for your sins before you fall to the earth, never to speak again. No absolution for past transgressions.”
He froze, not wanting Georgiana’s words to have any sort of impact upon him, but they did, damn it. Unknowingly, the witch made an image flash in his mind, one that left him tense and uncomfortable, his mouth curling in disdain—for himself, for his foolish, hurtful past, and a damnable pride that had caused his fall.
“Ah,” she whispered, and he saw cruel delight flare in her dark brown eyes. “Perhaps the Aberrant Alynwick is not so deviant, after all?”
“You goad me, and I shall exact punishment upon you after this infernal duel is complete.”
“I do look forward to it.”
After bowing to her, he reached for his tumbler of Scotch and headed to the door. Before leaving he turned back around. “I expect I’ll find you tonight?”
“I expect you will—and most likely someone else.”
Slamming the door behind him, Iain hurried down the stairs. Tossing back the remainder of the Scotch, he passed the crystal glass to his butler, who then handed him his greatcoat. Waving off the hat and walking stick, Iain left his house and hurried down the steps to his waiting carriage. Ducking his head after barking out the direction he was going, he climbed in and settled himself against the crème-velvet squabs.
Lurching forward, the carriage began its journey, the click of the horses’ hooves echoing down the street. It was November, and Mayfair wasn’t as busy as it was during the Season. Pity that, for he could have used the noise of life outside to keep him from reflecting on life inside the carriage.
He had thought to go to his club, have a bit of supper, a hand of cards and a few more drinks before his dawn appointment at Grantham Field. But all that had changed now. He had something he needed to do—not just out of duty, but because he felt compelled, driven, utterly consumed to see someone before the unthinkable happened tonight and he landed on the damp grass, toes cocked up, blood seeping out onto the green blades, while Lucifer’s hand rose from the ground, grasped him and tugged him down to his lair below.
Yes, Iain needed to see that person and … apologize.
But how did one effectively seek mercy and forgiveness for a crime that was more than a decade old? “I’m sorry” hardly seemed enough.
By the time he reached his destination, he had practiced a dozen pretty speeches, all better than the one before. As the footman opened the carriage door, he was firmly fixed upon the one he would use, assured that, at least, the lady would give him a moment to vent his spleen and do the honourable thing.
The Sumners’ majordomo took in the sight of him from head to toe before holding out his white-gloved hand for the invitation to the insipid musicale.
“I have a standing invitation,” Iain muttered.
“Very good, my lord,” the butler murmured. “I shall announce you.”
It was rather disturbing that the old geezer knew him by sight. It was not good in this instance to be reminded that his reputation preceded him.
Clearing his throat, the retainer announced in chilling tones, “His lordship the Marquis of Alynwick and laird to the clan Sinclair.”
Emerging from the shadows, Iain entered the room, aware it had gone still with shock. He stood tall and proud, wearing his Highland dress as he scanned the room for his quarry. He found her, and any thoughts of apologizing flew out of his head when he saw her arm in arm with a man. They were whispering and smiling to each other beneath a portrait of a classic nude, completely unaware of others around them.
Apologize? No. Murder, most likely. With eternal life in hell a damned surety.
Feral and enraged, and sotted from his finest Scotch, Iain prowled the room, the guests parting before him like the long grass of the African savannah does when a hungry lion presses through.
He would go for the throat—the man’s first. Then he would carry off his prey and bring her to his den, where he would play with her, torment her, before finishing her off.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SUSSEX ANGEL WAS feeling far from angelic on this, the most exciting evening she had experienced in years. Such a strange notion, because she, Elizabeth York, elder and only sibling to the Duke of Sussex, was as giddy and mischievous as a schoolgirl attending her first ball.
Such a strange observance, for she was far from a young girl. In truth, she was only a few months shy of her thirtieth birthday, and most firmly on the shelf.
If her age hadn’t turned her into a spinster, then her infirmity most certainly had. To put it bluntly, she was as blind as a bat. But Elizabeth didn’t care—not tonight. Tonight she had the strange sense that anything was possible. She had not felt that way in a long, long time, and the sensation was a welcome one. She had never wallowed in self-pity, but would be a fool not to admit there were times when she hid her true feelings behind a shield of strength and determination—a shield that was sometimes little more than a
