Page 6 of Dare to be Wicked

Nicolas snorted, aware that Louis hated being observed when he was getting ready. His valet, a precise Englishman by the name of Elton, fussed about like an aggravating bluebottle, adjusting here and there and brushing invisible fluff from his master’s exquisite person. Elton took his work seriously, and why not? The man considered himself an artist, and if an artist were to show his work to advantage, he needed the very best canvas available.

Blessed with thick dark hair, the looks and physique of a young god and those startling blue eyes, Louis César de Montluc was most certainly that.

“If you have quite finished primping?”

“Oui,” Louis replied, giving an impatient click of his tongue.

“English, Louis,” Nic reprimanded him.

For that he was rewarded with an arctic glare.

“I am quite finished. Thank you for your patience, Nicolas. A pity you did not take five minutes longer on your own toilette or, indeed, five minutes.” Louis flicked an elegant finger at Nic’s cravat and sighed. “Quelle horreur.”

Nic batted his hand away. “Come along, we did not come ‘ere for the fun of it.”

“Here,” Louis corrected him with a smirk.

Nic glowered with irritation. “As you say, brother. We did not come here for our health.”

Louis’s eyebrows quirked. “Really? I thought that was precisely why we’d come.”

“Very well, if you need me to remind you what this is all for. We have come so you may woo the eligible Lady Elizabeth Adolphus and marry the girl as soon as may be and take your rightful place in society.”

Louis snorted, a flash of some dark emotion glinting in his eyes.

“My rightful place,” he said in disgust.

“It is your right,” Nic said, angry now. “And after everything we’ve done, I’ll not let you mess it up now. Your blood is as pure as the duke’s, and don’t you forget it.”

“I am unlikely to do so, when my very own guard dog growls the truth of it at me whenever I am in danger of enjoying myself,” Louis said with a wry smile. “Come along then, Nic, let us play nicely with the ladies and gentlemen, and do try not to bite anyone.”

Nic favoured his brother with a smile that showed too much of his teeth, and Louis laughed as he opened the door and walked out.

They made their way down the stairs and were greeted by the butler who led them through the building. Nic tried not to stare about him like some country bumpkin, but he had never seen a house as vast, as lavish, or as ancient as Holbrook. Not in daylight, at least. Creeping about in the dead of night was a more familiar experience.

The brothers had accumulated a vast fortune between them in Paris, and Louis César had made a name for himself in society. Not an entirely respectable one, but marriage to the right girl would do a great deal to smooth his way, to bring him acceptance among the higher echelons of society where he ought to be welcomed with open arms. They had been working to that end, despite the rumours about their past and the suspicion that still clung to them, and then that damned letter had arrived, threatening to ruin everything. They had decided they would do well to leave Paris. After all, English society was far more rigid, more demanding of respectability. If they could triumph here, no one would ever look down their noses at Louis César again.

Nic could not say the same for himself, having committed the heinous crime of illegitimacy—as if he had a choice in the matter—but he cared nothing for that. People could look down at him to their hearts’ content if his brother and their illustrious bloodline were secured for generations to come. So here they were, having befriended Viscount Oakley during his time in France, and having heard much of the house party his parents gave each year. The Marquess of Montagu would be here, and they had met his daughter some years ago in circumstances the marquess would certainly wish to keep quiet. Not that they would tell tales, but it was a connection they had every intention of using to the full. Most importantly, though, was the information pertaining to the Duke and Duchess of Bedwin, and more specifically their lovely daughters.

The two eldest girls were of age, and Nic had wondered if Cassius had any interest in either of them. He had told Nic and Louis at some length of their beauty and accomplishments, but he only ever spoke of them with the affectionate tones of a proud older brother. Nic hoped that was the case, at least, for the viscount had become a good friend, and it would grieve them both to hurt him by interfering with any romantic plans he may have. Indeed, Nic had been enchanted by his stories of the two sisters, especially by the description of Eliza. From what Cassius said, and the little pencil sketch he’d done to illustrate, Nic had imagined her as some angelic vision of goodness. She seemed to him to embody every charm and quality that a man could wish for in a wife. She would be perfect for Louis. Impeccable lineage, good-natured, kind and gentle… the perfect wife, and a good mother. How could Louis fail to be happy with such a sweet creature at his side? Especially if she was as lovely as Cassius had indicated.

The butler guided them out onto a sunny terrace and Nic was struck at once by how quintessentially English and charming it was. A far cry from the life they had lived in France.

These past years, Louis had been forced to distance himself from the world they had created at Rogue et Noir—the most exclusive and infamous club in Paris—but Nic had lived it to the full. A life filled with wickedness and vice, and a world apart from this picture of the perfect English summer day, from the pretty china tea set, and the table laid with mouth-watering cakes and biscuits, to the crystal bowls filled with sweet peas and roses and… and… her.

A young woman sat at the table, a cup and saucer in hand. Her head was tilted towards Cassius, the ghost of a smile hovering at her lips. Her posture was upright, her expression serene, the perfect English rose. Nic’s heart gave a most uncharacteristic thud in his chest. Longing rose inside him like a tide and no matter how he forced it down, it swelled inside him, pushing at his ribs. Non, Non. Dieu a pitié, s'il ne vous plaît pas cela. Oh no. Oh, no, no. For God’s sake. It was utterly ridiculous....

Cassius stood to greet them, and introductions were made around Nic, greetings and exchanges of names. He moved through it in a daze, waiting for the moment he discovered her name, though he knew it already, knew with some sick sense of inevitability that the universe was laughing at his expense.

“And these lovely creatures you must know already, for I have told you so much about them.”

“Lady Elizabeth,” Nic said, hearing his voice as if someone else had spoken, unable to tear his gaze from the embodiment of his wildest dreams. Her name escaped him before he could stop it and before he could hide the unguarded look he felt sure must be in his eyes.

“Yes!” Cassius said, grinning. “You see, Eliza? Your fame travels before you.”

The young woman blushed and raised her gaze to Nic, revealing thickly lashed eyes the colour of absinthe and likely as dangerous.

“I am most pleased to meet you, sir,” she said.