Some Like It Wicked. Carole Mortimer

fall rakishly across his intelligent brow, his black evening clothes and snowy white linen tailored to emphasise the powerful width of his shoulders, narrow waist and long and muscled legs. His eyes would no doubt be that cool and enigmatic grey set in his haughtily handsome fallen-angel face, with a narrow aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and a wickedly sensual mouth that could smile with sardonic humour or thin with the coldness of his displeasure.

      A displeasure that at present appeared to be directed at the woman his late father had married four years ago.

      Pandora had been only twenty at the time, and not long married herself, but she remembered that the whole of society had then been agog with the fact that the long-widowed seventh Duke of Stratton, a man already in his sixtieth year, had decided to take as his second wife the young woman it was strongly rumoured had been romantically involved with that gentleman’s son before he returned to his regiment to fight in Wellington’s army against Napoleon …

      Pandora, along with all of society, was also aware that the new Duke and his stepmother had occupied the same house ever since the death of his father the previous year—or rather houses, because whether in town or the country, Rupert Stirling and his father’s widow invariably now occupied the same residence.

      ‘As I recall, you always did have reason to fear for your life when in the bedchamber with that particular lady,’ Dante drawled drily in reply to the other man’s previous comment.

      Pandora felt the colour warm her cheeks at overhearing such intimate details of Rupert Stirling’s relationship with the woman who was now his widowed stepmother. Perhaps, after all, she had listened long enough to the gentlemen’s conversation, and should now return to the ballroom and make her excuses to Sophia before leaving? Yes, that would probably be for the best—

      ‘Half the gentlemen present this evening are currently following my stepmama about the ballroom with their tongues hanging out,’ the Duke said scathingly.

      ‘And the other half?’

      ‘Appear to be panting after a petite golden-haired woman in a purple gown—’

      ‘I believe you will find that her gown is violet in colour.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘Pandora Maybury’s gown is violet, not purple,’ Dante Carfax murmured.

      Having already turned towards the house, with the intention of leaving the men to the privacy of their brandy, cigars and conversation, Pandora found herself stilling, a chill of apprehension now running down the length of her spine at suddenly hearing her own name mentioned.

      ‘Barnaby Maybury’s widow?’ the Duke asked.

      ‘Just so.’

      ‘Ah.’

      What little colour had returned to Pandora’s cheeks during the minutes she had spent outside in the fresh air now drained away as she heard the unmistakable contempt underlying the Duke of Stratton’s knowing utterance.

      Dante gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I know your preference is for women who are dark of hair, tall in stature and voluptuous in figure, Stratton.’

      ‘And Pandora Maybury, being petite and fair haired and slender of figure, is so obviously none of those things—’

      ‘I defy even you to notice anything else about her once you have gazed into the exquisite beauty of her eyes!’

      ‘Should you, in the circumstances, be noticing the beauty of another woman’s eyes, or any other part of her anatomy, Dante?’

      The other man chuckled at the sarcasm evident in his friend’s tone. ‘I dare any gentleman, whatever the circumstances, to ignore the beauty of Pandora Maybury’s eyes.’

      ‘Pray tell what is so special about them?’

      ‘They are exactly the same shade of colour as the gown she is wearing this evening. Violets in the springtime,’ Dante added with obvious appreciation.

      ‘Can it be that your prolonged state of unrequited desire for our beautiful hostess has finally succeeded in completely addling your brain?’ Rupert drawled with obvious derision.

      ‘You are the second person this evening to suggest that might be the case,’ the other man snapped. ‘But, I assure you, where Pandora Maybury’s eyes are concerned, I merely state the truth.’

      ‘Violets …?’ The Duke was still the sceptic.

      ‘The deep, dark colour of violets in springtime,’ Dante maintained firmly. ‘And surrounded by the longest, silkiest lashes I have seen on any woman.’

      ‘And these are the same violet-coloured eyes and long silky lashes, no doubt, which succeeded in luring not one man to his death, but two?’ The Duke’s tone was scathing.

      Pandora drew her breath in sharply even as she dropped down weakly on to the wrought-iron bench seat that stood against the wall of Clayborne House, having long been aware of how society thought of her, but never actually having heard anyone openly make the accusation in her presence before.

      Except, of course, she was not in the presence of her accusers, merely an eavesdropper who, as the saying went, wasn’t hearing anything good about herself.

      ‘I believe I might take my leave as you are so out of sorts,’ Dante now told Rupert.

      ‘I will stay here and finish my brandy and cigar before making my own excuses,’ the Duke answered.

      Pandora was still too lost in her own misery to take any further heed of what they were saying. Too overwhelmed by the unhappiness of the memories their previous conversation had conjured up to do anything other than allow that misery to claim her, as it had so often this past year since her husband and Sir Thomas Stanley had both died so needlessly, and in doing so created a scandal which would be talked about for months, if not years. She—

      ‘Ah, here you are,’ a familiar voice oozed at her out of the surrounding darkness. ‘And all alone, too,’ Lord Sugdon added with satisfaction as he stepped into the dim candlelight escaping through the lace curtains at the library windows.

      Pandora eyed him warily as she rose slowly to her silk-slippered feet. ‘I was just about to go back inside—’

      ‘Oh, surely not?’ The young Lord Sugdon stepped closer still. ‘It would be a pity to waste the moonlight. And the privacy this terrace affords us …’ he added with a suggestive leer in the direction of the swell of her breasts visible above the low neckline of her gown.

      ‘Nevertheless, I feel I really should return—Lord Sugdon!’ she gasped in protest as he reached out and pulled her roughly into his arms. ‘Release me at once!’ She pushed against his chest in her efforts to escape the confining steel of his arms about her waist, struggles he completely ignored as he now lowered his head with the obvious intention of claiming her lips with his own. Just the thought of his moist, full lips upon her own was enough to make Pandora’s stomach churn in sickening protest.

      ‘You don’t mean that—’

      ‘I most certainly do!’ Pandora insisted emotionally, sure that if she did not escape his steely grip very soon that she might actually swoon. Which she did not believe for one moment, from the expression of carnal intent now darkening Lord Sugdon’s face, would succeed in securing her release either; indeed, the man looked as if he were more than capable of taking advantage of her while she lay unconscious and unknowing in his arms. ‘You must stop this immediately, my lord!’

      ‘Like it a little rough, do you, my beauty?’ Sugdon grinned in satisfaction. ‘You will hear no complaints from me on that score!’ One of his hands released her waist long enough to grasp the neckline of her gown before pulling on the delicate fabric until it ripped and allowed her chemise-covered breasts to spill into view. ‘Now there’s a pretty sight to behold, to be sure.’ His gaze was heated on her semi-naked breasts as he licked the fullness of his lips in anticipation.

      Pandora gave