The Wicked Baron. Sarah Mallory

his eyes Luke reached down, curled his fingers around one slim ankle and lifted her foot on to his knee. A murmur of anticipation ran around the room, while the lady herself leaned back on her chair and smiled.

      ‘Well, milor’? What do you propose? What will the wicked Baron Darvell do?’

      He grinned. ‘I will keep my word.’

      His hand moved over the pink silk stocking and she shivered delightfully when he reached the ribbon-and-lace garter at her knee. He hesitated, then his long fingers moved back to her ankle. He began to untie the strings of her pink satin slipper, calling to the waiter to bring another bottle of champagne.

      ‘Now what are you about, Darvell?’ cried Major Denby gaily. ‘Do you propose to undress the lady in public?’

      ‘Not at all, my friend. Patience and you shall see.’ He pulled the little shoe free and held it aloft, the ribbons dangling over his wrist. When the waiter returned with the champagne he took the bottle from the tray. ‘I wish to drink a toast to you, Angel.’ He poured a little of the wine into the shoe and quickly raised it to his lips.

      ‘You fool, Darvell, the satin won’t hold it!’ laughed Sir Neville.

      But Luke was not listening; he had swallowed some of the champagne, the rest was seeping through the slipper and running over his hand, soaking the white ruffle around his wrist.

      ‘It held enough,’ he said. ‘And witness, Angel, that none of the bubbles escaped—I drank them all.’

      Angelique sat up and clapped her hands. ‘Bravo, milor’, I am enchanted. But we should use glasses for the rest.’ She looked at him, an invitation in her dark eyes. ‘Per’aps you would like to drink with me privately?’

      ‘I regret not, Angel. I am obliged to leave you very soon.’ He filled two glasses with champagne and handed one to the lady. ‘I am off to England tomorrow.’

      ‘England!’ cried Major Denby, signalling for a fresh pack of cards. ‘Never tell me you are going home.’

      ‘I am indeed. Peacetime soldiering is not in my line. I have spent one winter in Paris and that is enough.’

      ‘He’s going back to Darvell Manor to become a gentleman farmer,’ declared Sir Neville, smoothing the wrinkles from the sleeve of his grey silk coat.

      Luke grimaced. ‘Devil a bit! I plan to enjoy myself for a few more years yet. But I have a fancy to see England again. Besides, I have a commission from my brother. You may recall he was in Paris last month. He is touring Europe with his bride until the summer and wants me to make sure his new house at Malberry is ready for his return.’

      ‘Ah, the fortunate James,’ nodded Sir Nicholas. ‘He married his heiress.’

      ‘Fortunate indeed,’ agreed Luke. ‘Not only is she rich, but pretty and agreeable, too.’

      ‘Perhaps you should try marriage, Darvell,’ suggested the major.

      ‘I think not, my friend. It would take a paragon indeed to make me give up my freedom.’

      Angelique drew a finger gently along his cheek. ‘Milor’, it is not necessary that you should give up everything.’

      For a moment he looked serious. ‘Oh, yes, it is. Only a deep, long-lasting devotion could tempt me into matrimony.’

      ‘And what would tempt the lady, his prowess in the bedroom, perhaps?’ quipped an officer in scarlet regimentals.

      ‘That and his title,’ responded another.

      Luke joined in the general laughter. ‘Aye, that would have to do it, gentlemen, since there’s no fortune to speak of.’

      Angelique held up her glass. ‘Then you will come back to Paris, mon cher?’

      ‘Perhaps.’ He handed her the wet satin slipper. ‘It is past midnight: I must take my leave.’

       Chapter One

      The atmosphere in the morning room of Broxted House was decidedly tense. Carlotta stared at her uncle, her chin raised and a hint of defiance in her dark eyes. Lord Broxted met her look with a frown of exasperation.

      ‘Carlotta, you are no ordinary débutante. It is no matter that your mother is the daughter of an earl; twenty years ago she eloped with a penniless Italian artist.’ He paused and a faint look of distaste flickered across his aristocratic features. ‘They both of them…paint…to earn their living.’

      Carlotta clasped her hands even more tightly in her lap. ‘I am not ashamed of my parents, Uncle.’

      Lady Broxted, sitting beside Carlotta on the elegant little sofa, reached over to pat her hands. ‘No, of course you are not, my dear, and no one is suggesting that you should disown them, only…’

      ‘Only what, Aunt?’

      Lady Broxted avoided Carlotta’s eyes and fluttered her fan nervously. ‘Tonight we attend Lady Prestbury’s rout—your very first ton party. It is what we have been working for, is it not, ever since we carried you off from Malberry last June and installed you in Miss Currier’s extremely select seminary? Not that I think it was necessary to send you there; no one would know you were brought up in Rome, for the English governess your mama employed gave you an excellent education, and all that was needed was a little polish—but there, your uncle was adamant.’

      ‘I was, madam, but I fear we are straying from the point,’ put in the earl, frowning at his wife.

      ‘Yes, of course, my dear. Carlotta, now we are in London and…that is, I think it might be best if…’

      Lady Broxted twisted her hands together, looking very uncomfortable.

      Carlotta prompted her gently. ‘If what, Aunt?’

      ‘Well, as you know, we decided at the outset that you should take the family name of Rivington—so much simpler for us all, my love, and quite usual when one is taken up by relatives—but perhaps also it would be as well if we did not mention your parents. Broxted thinks it best if we merely say they live retired in the country, should anyone ask.’

      ‘And is it the fact that my mother eloped or my father’s occupation that would be most unacceptable?’ retorted Carlotta, bridling.

      ‘Well, you will admit that either of those things would set tongues wagging,’ came the frank reply. ‘Any hint of gossip could be quite ruinous to your chances of making a good match. Not that I want you to lie,’ added Lady Broxted hastily. ‘That would never do. Merely that you do not offer the information.’

      ‘Should a gentleman show a marked interest in you, then of course it would be necessary for him to know the truth,’ put in Lord Broxted. ‘And if he is fond of you, then I am sure it will make no difference.’

      Carlotta bit her tongue to prevent herself from saying she did not care what anyone said of her. After the kindness she had been shown by her aunt and uncle over the past year, it would be churlish in the extreme to admit how little she cared for anyone’s good opinion. Part of her wished she could return to her parents, but they had been so happy to think of her going into society and making a good marriage. It was what she must do to repay all their goodness to her.

      She had been in London with Lord and Lady Broxted since the beginning of May; a flurry of shopping trips and visits to my lady’s dressmaker had filled her days and at last she was ready to attend her first ball. She only wished she could summon up more enthusiasm for it, but her depression was always there, just below the surface. A sadness she had tried to hard to overcome, but even now, after almost twelve months, her dreams were still haunted by a tall, handsome man with laughing, wicked eyes. Determination kept her smiling, made her hide her bleakness from her aunt and uncle. Lady Broxted was patting her hands.

      ‘I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to launching you into society, my love. It has