Lydia Dare - A Certain Wolfish Charm

Table of Contents

Copyright

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright © 2010 by Lydia Dare

Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc. Cover design by April Martinez

Cover images © Retrodiva88/Dreamstime.com; billnoll/ iStockphoto.com; StanRohrer/iStockphoto.com

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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One

Maberley Hall, Essex August 1816

Lily Rutledge had never contemplated murder before, though she was warming to the idea. The most recent column in the

Mayfair Society Paper

taunted her at the breakfast table. The Duke of Blackmoor seemed to have plenty of time to gamble away his funds in one hell or another, race his phaeton along the old Bath road for sport, and spend every other waking hour enjoying the entertainments of one Mrs. Teresa Hamilton or visiting fashionable bawdy houses throughout Town. Not that Lily was terribly surprised. They were the same sorts of things he'd done for years, though she hadn't cared until now.

"Aunt Lily," called her twelve-year-old nephew, Oliver York, the Earl of Maberley, from a few seats away. "Your face is turning purple again."

Purple indeed. Lily sighed, looking at the boy. What was she to do with him? Especially when she couldn't get Blackmoor to even respond to one of her letters. Of course, he sent funds every time she wrote him, though that was not what she asked for. Infuriating man! Did he even read her letters?

The Maberley estate was not terribly far from London. Visiting Oliver would only interrupt his debauched lifestyle for a day or two at the most. Was that truly too much to ask of her nephew's guardian? After all, he hadn't seen the boy in years.

"Finish your breakfast, Oliver," she directed, glancing again at the maddening society rag. There must be some way to get His Grace's attention. Perhaps if she picked up and went to London—

"I'm through," the young earl responded. "May I be excused?"

Through

? Food had been piled high in front of him just moments ago. Lily's eyes flashed to Oliver's plate, only to find it completely empty, as was the sideboard behind him. Not a crumb was left uneaten. Where had he gotten this appetite? It wasn't natural. And how could he possibly have devoured all the food in the room so quickly and quietly? It was another one of the unexplained transformations she'd noticed in her nephew over the last month. "Yes, of course. You would do well to go over your Latin before Mr. Craven arrives."

Oliver scowled as he pushed away from the table. "I'd rather not."

He never wanted to go over his Latin, which was a problem. According to Mr. Craven, his tutor, Oliver was far behind in that particular subject. When he began his first term at Harrow in October, he'd need to do better. That was assuming Lily sent him off to school, and, at the moment, she didn't know if she could do so. It was one of the many things she needed to discuss with that scoundrel Blackmoor.

Lily shook her head. "Mr. Craven says you need to practice, Oliver. Please do so."

The young earl stomped from the room in a manner she was getting unfortunately accustomed to. Just a month ago, Oliver had had the sweetest disposition. Now she barely recognized him. His shoulders were suddenly broad enough to fill a doorway, and he almost had to duck to cross the threshold as he left the breakfast room. Gone was the little boy in short pants. The young earl's valet had replaced Oliver's clothing twice in as many months and had sent more than one pair of trousers to the seamstress to have the seams reinforced.

To make it even worse, Oliver had developed a terrible temper, with the smallest annoyances setting him off. He seemed to rumble more than talk, his singsong voice replaced by a gravely growl. Entry into adulthood was hard, but Lily had never expected it to come on so suddenly and with such force.

Perhaps things would be different if Oliver's parents were still alive. Perhaps things would be different if Blackmoor showed even the slightest interest in the lad. Perhaps if she'd ever raised an adolescent boy before, she'd know if Oliver's

changes

were normal— though she couldn't imagine they were. Lily knew in her heart that something was drastically wrong with her nephew, and she was at a complete loss for what to do.

Blast Blackmoor for ignoring her letters!

An idea occurred to her. If

he

couldn't be troubled

to visit Oliver, she'd simply have to pay

him

a visit instead. His Grace would have an impossible time ignoring her in person. She was hard to miss.

Lily picked up the society rag, rereading it. Everything was there. Everything she needed to know. Where he spent his time and with whom. The Duke of Blackmoor would regret shirking his duties, if making him do so was the last thing she ever did. *** ***

e only thing Simon Westfield, the Duke of Blackmoor, regretted was purchasing the services of one whore instead of two. Two would have been a great deal more fun and would have helped ease some of the restlessness that seemed to be his constant companion of late. He could count on the disquiet seeping into the dark recesses of his mind the same way he'd learned to expect the fullness of the moon with each lunar cycle. It just happened. It wasn't something he thought about. He simply began to feel an anxious flutter, a

want.

To ease the discomfort and restlessness, the duke began his infamous prowl. He'd spent so much time and money perfecting his routine that he'd even been written about in the society pages. He supposed he should feel some shame at being reviewed so harshly. One paper even said that he'd lost more than he had to spend, but that was rubbish. He had a lot more to lose. A lot more to enjoy. He usually won at the gaming tables, even when he had a wench settled upon his knee waiting for him, like now.

He reached around the plump brunette, seated solidly on his groin, to tap the table, asking for another card. The doxy squirmed in his lap, giggling as he lifted her bottom to put more of her weight on his thigh. "Sit still," he mumbled at her. She squirmed again, becoming more impatient. He sighed and laid his cards on the table, as he lost the hand. "You don't listen very well, do you?" he drawled slowly.