Page 47 of An Enchanting Dare

She had never seen him in the flesh, though she had seen his father, and she had heard much about him and his older brother. Her heart had bled for the two boys, so like her own sons. The eldest had died in murky circumstances, from what her husband had heard. This young man was of an age with her middle child, Thomas, yet he had never stood a chance. His father had been a despicable excuse for a human being and had delighted to turn his boys out in his own dissipated image. If rumour was to be believed, the old marquess had filled the house with whores and libertines since they were children and allowed his boys to run free among them. God alone knew what horrors they had seen or been subjected to. It was perhaps for that reason Matilda did not hurry away from him but stayed, her maternal instincts getting the better of good sense.

“It is lovely,” he said, a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “I am just wondering which of them I fancy most. The countess is still a beautiful woman, and one must consider all the experience a more mature woman brings to the bedroom. She has a wonderfully naughty laugh. I think she’d be a great deal of fun. But then there’s the earl, a handsome fellow. Such powerful arms. He looks like he might have a firm hand with badly behaved boys, don’t you think? The daughters don’t interest me, though they’re pretty, I’ll grant you, but virgins are too much bother. They have a disquieting tendency to weep afterwards. I’d far rather someone who knows what to do with what.”

He grinned at her, and Matilda only smiled at him.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that if you wish to make me blush, Lord Kilbane. I have two grown-up sons. I’ve heard all the rude words and I know when children are trying to goad me,” she said gently. “I’m not easily shocked.”

He tilted his head to one side, regarding her with delight. Black curls surrounded a devilishly handsome face, and she could only feel a surge of melancholy for all he was allowing to go to waste upon a life filled with debauchery and worthless pursuits. She doubted he was happy, doubted he knew what the word meant. His expression cleared, and she suspected he now realised who she was.

“Lady Montagu,” he said on a breath of laughter. His heavy-lidded gaze roved over her with a provocative show of interest. “Well, well. I am honoured, my lady. I am almost tempted to exert myself to prove just how shocking I can be, and I never exert myself. Though I can believe your pretty feathers are hard to ruffle after so many years married to such a man. The ton fears him more than they do me, though perhaps for different reasons. I keep telling them they can only fall into sin if they really want to, if they put their heart and soul into it. Even I can’t corrupt someone by simply breathing the same air. There must be an inherent desire to sin hidden somewhere in their souls… which I admit there usually is. But you must truly want to be a villain to do it successfully.”

“I’m not sure that’s true, or at least, that all villains wish to be so. Some have villainy thrust upon them.”

He laughed at that, recognising the misquote. “I assure you, I was born a villain. With my bloodline it was never in doubt, though I like to think I have achieved far more than my due, considering my years.”

He moved closer and Matilda was suddenly aware of the strength in his tall, athletic form. Kilbane might act the lazy aristocrat, but he was all coiled power, lulling you into believing he would not strike.

“How do you fancy making the evening more interesting?” he asked, his voice low and seductive.

Good heavens, but he was deadly! Matilda was not the slightest bit tempted, not with a beautiful and adoring husband of her own, but she could well understand how this man could cut a swathe through society, seducing anyone he put his mind to. Wickedness had its own appeal, as she knew very well.

“I don’t think so, my lord. Even if I wished to—which I very much do not—my husband would feel the need to murder you slowly and painfully, and I suspect you would not enjoy the experience.”

A slow smile curved over his sensual mouth, and he shrugged. “Well, you never know, but I would be happy for him to join us,” Kilbane murmured, reaching out to touch a finger to her cheek. “I never learned to share my toys, but I could make an exception for him. Such a spectacular creature he is. Terrifying and gorgeous. Quite irresistible.”

“He is indeed,” Matilda said, feeling only regret for this damaged, beautiful man and all he might have been. “But I am the jealous kind, I’m afraid, and I should feel the need to murder you.”

“Alas,” the marquess said with a heavy sigh. “Such a disappointment, but life is full of such experiences.”

“It is,” Matilda said with genuine sadness. What might he have been if he had been her son? If he had belonged to someone who gave a damn? Though she knew it was madness, she reached out and grasped his arm gently. “You look tired. Why not have a brief respite from your dastardly ways and have an early night? Even villains need a day off.”

He gave a bark of laughter, those strangely beautiful eyes shining with amusement as his sensual mouth curved into a cruel smile. When he spoke, his voice was hard and cold. “You think I can shrug off the role like a cloak, my lady? You don’t have the slightest idea of what you deal with, though I should be delighted to show you.”

Matilda nodded, knowing it was hopeless. He was too far gone to come back now, lost in the vile world his disgusting father had created for him. She wished the man wasn’t dead so she could find a fitting punishment for him, but with luck, the almighty had that well in hand.

“Take care of yourself, Kilbane,” she said softly.

He stared at her, frowning. He evidently hadn’t expected that. Matilda patted his arm and walked away, sending up a prayer of thanks that her boys had never come to harm or fallen too far into darkness like that poor lost soul had done.

Chapter 17

Max,

Burt is sic. Plese come.

― Excerpt of a letter from Master Pike to The Hon’ble Maxwell Drake, Earl of Vane.

30th June 1841, Lady Trevick’s Summer Ball, Trevick Castle, Warwickshire.

Sylvester searched the ballroom for the third time, but there was still no sign of Aisling. She had been understandably withdrawn since the strange confrontation with Kilbane, and he was uncertain of her mood. His own feelings were easier to read, relief that Aisling was not guilty of murder at the top of the list. There was no question in his mind. Even if what she’d said had precipitated the late marquess’ descent into madness, she had merely spoken angry words in the heat of the moment. The vile man had got everything he deserved for treating an innocent so, and it seemed clear enough from what Kilbane had told them that his brother was already well on the way to madness. That Aisling believed all this nonsense she had learned from Biddy was more disturbing, but he did not know what to do about that. He would not lie to her and pretend he believed in curses or magic, yet he did not dismiss the possibility that much of what she believed was grounded in fact.

His feelings towards her specifically were not so easy to manage, though he understood them well enough. He was falling in love with her, much as he wanted to believe otherwise. It was stupid of him, and he needed to put distance between them as quickly as possible, before things went too far. After all she had suffered, the last thing he wanted was to hurt her if, by some miracle, she felt the same way. He knew that was unlikely, but she no longer seemed to loathe him, at least. He wished he were a wealthy man, or at least one with better prospects, but she was the daughter of an earl with a significant dowry and, though the admission hurt his pride, he was beneath her notice. The only reason she didn’t have more men beating down her door was because she hid herself from society and kept everyone at a distance. Perhaps now the cloud over her head was gone she could heal and move on. He hoped so, even if he would not be there to see it. Melancholy swept over him, and he badly needed a drink.

To his relief, he found a waiter carrying a tray and snatched up two glasses before he headed out to the terrace. He downed the first glass of wine, wishing it were something stronger, and set down the glass before carrying the other with him to the balustrade where two men were leaning, staring down into the dark gardens.

“How do, Sylvester,” Barnaby said, his expression gloomy. “I hope you are having a better evening that we are.”

“What’s amiss?” Sylvester asked, looking between him and Louis César, who looked as Friday faced as Barnaby did.