The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Read online

  The Wicked Lady

  Blackhaven Brides

  Book Two

  Mary Lancaster

  Copyright © 2017 by Mary Lancaster

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Books from Dragonblade Publishing

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  Word of Honor

  Marked By Honor

  Code of Honor

  Journey to Honor

  Heart of Honor

  Legends of Love Series by Avril Borthiry

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  Isolated Hearts

  Sentinel

  Heart of the Corsairs Series by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Captive of the Corsairs

  Also From Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Dark Heart

  Knight Everlasting Series by Cassidy Cayman

  Endearing

  Midnight Meetings Series by Gina Conkle

  Meet a Rogue at Midnight, book 4

  Second Chance Series by Jessica Jefferson

  Second Chance Marquess

  Imperial Season Series by Mary Lancaster

  Vienna Waltz

  Vienna Woods

  Vienna Dawn

  Blackhaven Brides Series by Mary Lancaster

  The Wicked Baron

  The Wicked Lady

  Queen of Thieves Series by Andy Peloquin

  Child of the Night Guild

  Thief of the Night Guild

  Dark Gardens Series by Meara Platt

  Garden of Shadows

  Garden of Light

  Garden of Dragons

  Garden of Destiny

  Rulers of the Sky Series by Paula Quinn

  Scorched

  Ember

  Viking’s Fury Series by Violetta Rand

  Love’s Fury

  Desire’s Fury

  Passion’s Fury

  Also from Violetta Rand

  Viking Hearts

  The Sons of Scotland Series by Victoria Vane

  Virtue

  Dry Bayou Brides Series by Lynn Winchester

  The Shepherd’s Daughter

  The Seamstress

  The Widow

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Books from Dragonblade Publishing

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mary Lancaster’s Newsletter

  Other Books by Mary Lancaster

  About Mary Lancaster

  Chapter One

  Tristram Grant stepped into the glittering ballroom.

  “Grant!” a familiar voice called.

  Dr. Lampton, the town physician, and his wife were seated opposite the door. Since it was they who had invited him to come, he edged his way around the dance floor, smiling and murmuring greetings to the regular members of his congregation whom he recognized.

  “You came,” Mrs. Lampton observed in delight, as he bowed and took his seat beside her. “So, what do you think of our devilish entertainment?”

  “Be reasonable, my dear,” Dr. Lampton said wryly. “When has he ever called anything devilish?”

  The Lamptons were Grant’s only friends in Blackhaven who didn’t attend church. The doctor was a self-confessed, free-thinker.

  “I’m very happy to be here,” Grant said pacifically. “And I hope you will dance with me,” he added to Mrs. Lampton.

  “I insist upon it,” she said at once. “Now, who else would you like me introduce you to?”

  Grant blinked. “No one in particular. I know most of them already.”

  Lampton grinned at him. “You haven’t caught on yet, have you? You’re here so Mary can find you a wife.”

  Grant couldn’t help it. He laughed. “I’m a curate. Supposing I could afford a wife, who would have me?”

  “Most of them,” Mrs. Lampton said stoutly. “See how they watch you from behind their fans?”

  “No,” Grant said, refusing to remove his gaze from her face. “I am quite content with the view I have.”

  Mrs. Lampton clapped her hands. “Oh well said, sir! You are a natural.”

  Dr. Lampton poured him some wine from a bottle by his elbow. “Drink up,” he advised.

  His wife leaned forward confidentially. “Now, Mr. Grant, which young lady has caught your attention over the two months you’ve been with us?”

  “I find them all most charming.”

  “He does,” Lampton agreed. “And it’s my belief he doesn’t need your interference to find himself a wife.”

  “Then why doesn’t he have one?” Mrs. Lampton asked with an air of triumph.

  “Because he doesn’t want one?” Lampton suggested.

  “Nonsense. Every vicar should have a wife.”

  “I’m not the vicar,” Grant pointed out.

  “You are while Mr. Hoag is away … and if he obtains the promotion he’s hoping for, who knows? I’m sure Lord Braithwaite will like you.”

  “Everybody likes him,” Lampton said wryly.

  “Why do I feel at fault here?” Grant murmured, raising his glass.

  “Because you make the rest of us look bad,” Lampton said at once. “Here you are, upright and handsome, good-natured, compassionate, hard-working on behalf of the poor, with just the right manners to extract donations from the rich. Apparently, content in any company from drunken sailors to aristocracy. And the ladies, from old biddies to young maidens, drool after you. Of course you are at fault.”

  “At least I don’t tell lies.”

  “Neither do I,” Lampton said at once. “Now, for the love of peace, point out the most deserving young lady to my wife, so that she might present you and relax. And don’t tell her you’re already acquainted with everyone in Blackhaven, because, trust me, you’re not. Mary is.”

  Mrs. Lampton frowned quellingly at her husband and returned to the matter in hand. “It can be a stranger, a visitor,” she said encouragingly. “In case you don’t wish to single out a girl of your congregation just at first.”

  Lampton sat back with a grin, watching Grant for signs of discomfort. Grant, however, was quite happy to dance, since he’d come to a ball. On the other hand, he saw no harm in teasing.

  “Miss Bramley,” Mrs. Lampton suggested. “Her mother is taking the waters and she is such a charming girl.”

  “She is,” Grant agreed. “But her gown is too white.”

  Mrs. Lampton pursed her lips at his frivolity. “Miss Bainbridge. Being no longer a debutante, her gown is not white, but she is a most intelligent—and pretty—young lady.”

  “Her mother terrifies me.”

  “No, she doesn’t! Miss Smallwood, then. So sweet and good-natured.”

  “And young. Too young.”

  “Mr. Grant, are you taking this seriously?”

  “Not remotely,” Grant admitted, just as the most beautiful woman imaginable walked into the ballroom alone.

&n
bsp; She was breathtaking. Raven-black hair most elegantly styled to frame a face of exquisite beauty. Perfect, creamy white skin and full, rosy lips. Huge, dark eyes that seemed at once to smolder and yet regard the world with distant, wry amusement. Surely a creature of fascinating contradictions.

  “For example,” Grant said, without taking his eyes off her, “I would be most grateful for an introduction to that lady.”

  “That lady?” Mrs. Lampton said in dismay. “Oh, dear me, no, you wouldn’t. Trust me, she would do no good to your career or your marital hopes. That is Lady Crowmore.”

  Grant spared her a blank glance. “Should I know the name?”

  “She was here before, one of the earl’s house guests for the castle ball in the spring. Since then, her husband died. Does she look like a widow to you?”

  He had to allow that she didn’t. There was no trace of black about her dress. She wore a gown of deep, dusky pink and diamonds winked around her slender throat and dangled from her delectable ear lobes. Other jewels sparkled in her hair and in the clinging gauze folds of her gown. Her gloves were exactly the same shade of pink.

  Grant’s were not the only eyes drawn to her. In fact, nearly everyone was looking, covertly or overtly, and conversation died away to almost nothing. If it hadn’t been for the orchestra continuing its waltz, the ballroom would have been eerily silent.

  The radiant Lady Crowmore appeared not to notice, making her way around the edges of the dance floor. She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and her lips moved in a brief murmur of thanks. Oddly, that was what decided Grant.

  He stood.

  “But I don’t know her,” Mrs. Lampton objected. “Why do you have to pick the one woman in the room I’ve never met? And whom you can’t possibly marry.”

  “I can introduce myself,” Grant said calmly. “There are, after all, some benefits in being a clergyman. Excuse me.”

  As he moved among the groups sitting and standing around the dance floor, he couldn’t help overhearing some of the remarks from those also watching the beautiful Lady Crowmore’s entrance.

  “Look at her! Not a hint of mourning!”

  “My dear, she has no shame.”

  “Considering where they found her to break the news of Crowmore’s death…”

  “Does she even have an escort? She’s quite alone.”

  “What is she doing here? Is she even going to speak to anyone?”

  The criticism nearly all came from women, although no gentlemen sought her gaze or her company. Except young Bernard Muir, who, kicking his heels between his stepmother and his aunt, suddenly leapt to his feet, grinning. His hand began to lift just as Lady Crowmore perversely veered to the left away from him, and almost walked into Grant.

  They both came to an abrupt halt. The lady’s eyes looked somewhat startled as they met his, but they didn’t fall as she waited for him to stand aside. Brave and beautiful dark eyes, uncowed by convention or expectation. On the contrary, they seemed to challenge the world head-on, and yet held a hint of mystery as well as some open, almost cynical honesty. Something in Grant leapt. It felt like recognition. Certainly, on a much more basic level, his blood stirred.

  “Forgive me,” he said mildly. “I always seem to be in someone’s way.”

  “The fault is trivial,” she replied, “but clearly mine. Excuse me.”

  Her voice was enchanting, too—low, modulated, with just a hint of fashionable drawl. But since he was so uncivilly slow in moving aside, she began to walk around him.

  “Perhaps you’d allow me to escort you to … wherever you’re going?” he suggested, turning belatedly aside.

  Her lips curved into a sardonic smile. “To the devil, sir? I could not ask it of you.”

  “Precisely my subject of expertise,” he said at once. “I might be your best protection.”

  “Oh, I don’t need protection. The devil and I are old friends.”

  “Then I might at least surprise him.”

  Her step paused. She turned her head to face him once more, a hint of amusement in her deliberately distant gaze. She raised her perfectly arched eyebrows quizzically.

  “Being a clergyman,” he explained.

  A breath of surprised laughter fell from her lips. “Truly?”

  “Truly. Tristram Grant, curate of St. Andrew’s Church here in Blackhaven.”

  She cocked her head to one side, consideringly. “Are you trying to save my soul, Master Curate?”

  “Actually, I’m trying to dance with you, but if your soul is in need, I am at your disposal.”

  The amusement in her eyes grew more pronounced. “You’re a very odd clergyman. But I’m disposed to like you, so I shall do you the favor of passing on with a mere nod of respect.”

  “If you would truly do me a favor,” he said, keeping pace with her, although at a respectful distance, “you would grant me a dance. My friends are trying to marry me off and I need a shield.”

  The smile faded from her eyes. “I think you are trying to be kind to me.”

  “For purely selfish reasons. I would very much like to waltz with you.”

  She laughed, and set her untouched glass down upon the tray of a passing waiter. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Grant?”

  “I know your name.”

  “Then by all means, let us see whether I ruin you or you save me in the eyes of your congregation. If you’re bold enough.”

  Smiling, he bowed and took her hand, leading her onto the dance floor. Unexpectedly, he felt the faintest tremor of her fingers in his. He wasn’t coxcomb enough to imagine his nearness affected her. But it was enough to arouse all his protective instincts, because the lady was not as invulnerable as she pretended. The slighting of the townspeople bothered her, might even hurt her. And when he placed his hand at her waist, she felt frail and brittle.

  But she followed his lead quite naturally and with flawless grace.

  “I don’t remember you,” she said abruptly. “I didn’t know Mr. Hoag had a curate.”

  “He didn’t until a couple of months ago, when it was felt his congregation had grown too large for one vicar to administer on his own.”

  “Well, I imagine you waltz better than Mr. Hoag,” she allowed.

  “I don’t believe Mr. Hoag does waltz.”

  “But he doesn’t forbid it in his presence as I recall.”

  “He is not so foolish as to imagine impropriety where there is none.”

  “And has learning to waltz been part of your training?” she inquired.

  “Hardly.”

  “And yet you are quite accomplished, Mr. Grant. How come?”

  “I learned abroad,” he confessed.

  “In war time,” she said, thoughtfully.

  “I learned many things abroad. What brings you to Blackhaven, Lady Crowmore?”

  Annoyingly, the music was ending. She smiled. “Why, no one would dance with me in London. Thank you, Mr. Grant.” She slid her gloved hand free of his and curtseyed with a hint of irony. “I hope your friends find you a kind and dutiful wife, one who waltzes and makes you laugh. Goodbye.”

  And she slipped through the throng of departing dancers. He wanted to stand still and just watch her graceful, retreating back, see where she went next and to whom she spoke. But he knew what was due to her, and to his own calling. So, he turned instead toward the Lamptons, and walked back to ask Mary to dance.

  *

  Lady Crowmore, known to her friends as Kate—in the days when she’d had friends—continued her promenade around the ballroom. Walking away from the handsome curate felt a little like turning her back on her savior.

  But then she’d been foolish to come here, to imagine no one would have heard of her disgrace, or if they had, that they would behave any differently from London society. A fatal mixture of boredom and defiance had driven her alone from her hotel rooms to seek diversion among people whom she vaguely remembered as unpretentious and kind.

  As soon as she’d stepped into th
e room, she’d recognized her mistake. The familiar hush and contemptuous stares had greeted her, followed by the shocked tittering of women behind their fans, and the salacious grins of men as they wished, secretly or otherwise, to have been in the shoes—or at least the bed—of Lord Vernon, her lover.

  For Kate had finally committed the ultimate sin of her society. She’d been caught. Which was ironic in itself. And to top it all, she refused to wear widow’s weeds, or sit quietly at home pretending a grief the world knew she didn’t feel. Well, few men were less deserving of grief than the late Lord Crowmore. One had only to ask his servants, his tenants, or his wife. Only, of course, no one ever did. Or would, now that he was dead. Death apparently conferred some kind of bizarre sanctity.

  The chairs around the ballroom were all taken, even if only with shawls or reticules hastily placed there as she approached. Kate pretended not to notice, let alone care. And in truth, it was easier now since her encounter with the curate. Pride had prevented her simply leaving again as soon as she’d stepped in the door. But now she’d walked, drunk champagne, and danced. When she’d strolled just a little more, she could leave and go back to her safe if unutterably dull hotel.

  At last, she spied a solitary chair, pushed aside by a group of young men. She sat in it and summoned a waiter with a flick of her eyebrow. A glass of champagne in one hand and a lethargically waving fan in the other, made her more comfortable.

  Mr. Grant, she saw, was dancing now with a lady of about her own age. Although this woman had little of what the world saw as style, she was pretty and she laughed up at the curate with a natural friendliness, an intimacy that Kate found she envied.

  Well, he was a good-looking man in any profession. Tall and straight with hair the color of ripe chestnuts, he possessed a pair of compelling eyes, almost green in hue, that were both steady and ready to laugh. His face, like the rest of him, was just a little too lean, giving him a faintly ascetic appearance. And yet those eyes were not remotely unworldly. Neither was his conversation.

  She wondered if Mr. Grant realized just how grateful she was for his attention. More than that, he’d captured her interest. He’d intrigued her. He’d taken the awfulness away, just for a few minutes. He’d been fun.