Susan Krinard - Lord of Sin

Once you have walked into the Gray , the elders had said, the Black Gate is only a step beyond . But she had stepped through without thinking, without considering the price. Not only exile, but an endless span of days and years and, finally, centuries.

And guilt. The sickness of knowing that she had used her abilities for evil. The gradual acceptance of her new work for the good. The hope that one day she would have done enough.

But good works alone were not sufficient. Ultimately she had failed, and the magic was gone. As it should have been taken from her on the day of her sin.

She shook off her wretched self-pity. She had learned to live without magic. If she was no longer a witch, she could be something else.

I can be Lady Orwell’s friend . Surely there was nothing wrong with that. She had not dared to have real friends in her old life. But now that she had settled in London, she must find a new purpose, new challenges to fill her empty days. She must learn to adapt to this world, as Charles would have wanted.

Perhaps she and Lady Orwell might do it together.

“Have you reached a decision, Nuala?” Tameri asked.

Nuala snapped out of her reverie and faced the dowager. “Yes,” she said. “The girl is very much in need of peers who will not judge her decisions. It would be a kindness to let her join us.”

“Even if she fails to keep the vow?” Frances demanded.

“Let us accept her as a provisional member, then. If within a year she is still resolved to remain as she is, she may be fully inducted.”

The group was silent. Frances frowned and then shrugged. Lillian nodded, content to go along with the majority. Maggie popped up in her chair, her short ginger hair falling into her eyes. “I quite agree,” she said.

“Then let it be done.” Tameri rose, her golden earrings swaying. The widows followed her out of the drawing room. Lillian dropped back to walk with Nuala.

“You know she cannot keep the vow,” Lillian said softly, placing a plump hand on Nuala’s arm.

“Perhaps not. But sometimes we must think of the welfare of others above our own preferences.”

“Oh, yes.” Lillian smiled. “She is such a dear child. I should hate to see her unhappy.”

Nuala squeezed her arm. “Perhaps she will take an interest in orchids.”

“Oh, that would be lovely.”

They walked into the corridor and continued on to the Gold drawing room, where the others were already seated. Lady Orwell glanced from face to face, her anxiety manifest in the way she clenched her hands in the folds of her black skirts.

“Please be seated, Deborah,” Tameri said.

The girl sat, nervously adjusting her clothing with pale, slender hands.

“You have been accepted,” Tameri said, “on a provisional basis. You will not be required to take our oath as yet, but will become fully one of us if you find you have no interest in remarriage after one year has passed.”

Lady Orwell leaned forward in her chair. “I assure you, Duchess—”

Tameri raised her hand in an attitude reminiscent of the kings and queens depicted on the drawing room walls. “We do not stand upon formality here, Deborah. But in order to become a provisional member, you must put off your blacks. Half-mourning is permissible for the time being. You must not judge the interests of any of your fellow members, nor may you speak of anything you see or hear during our meetings. Is this acceptable to you?”

“Oh, yes, Duch—Tameri.”

“Excellent. We shall rely upon your honor.” Tameri smiled her exotic, secretive smile. “Now that our formal business is concluded, I suggest that we enjoy our tea. Babu!”

She clapped her hands, and one of her footmen, dressed in spotless white linen shirt and trousers, entered the room and bowed. He took his mistress’s instructions and retreated, while Deborah stared after him.

Nuala wished she could take the girl aside and assure her that everything would be well. She would have much to learn, but among so many unusual women she was certain to find the courage to be herself, not a ghostly figure doomed to a life of widow’s weeds.

And would you not give anything to be with Christian again?

Nuala let her mind go blank as the tea was served. But it was all a sham. She could not forget a single day of her long life. That was a witch’s curse. Her curse.

For her, just as there would be no more magic, there would be no other man. And that was as it should be.

I shall never marry again .

THE ROYAL ACADEMY was hot and crowded, even though the Season had scarcely begun. It was supposed to be a private viewing, open only to the best and brightest of Society, but that seemed to include half of London.

St. John, the Earl of Donnington, yawned behind his hand and glanced at the paintings with only the mildest interest. He was far more intrigued by Lady Mandeville’s backside. Unfortunately, she was very happily married, unlike a great many of the peerage, and her husband was a rather large man.

Sinjin strolled the Exhibition Room, seeking more amenable prey. There was Mrs. Laidlaw, whose husband was known to be involved with Lady Winthrop. She was quite acceptable in every way but her hair. It was blond, and that was anathema to him.

Lady Andrew, on the other hand, was dark-haired, and her gown was very tight in the bodice, the impressive curve of her bosom all the more accentuated by the severity of her garments. Her husband was a known philanderer, making her ripe for the plucking.

As if she felt his stare, Lady Andrew turned. Her eyes widened as she saw him, and he wondered what was going through her pretty head.

The Earl of Donnington. Wealthy, handsome, possessed of every grace a peer ought to display. Impeccable clothing. The bearing of an Indian prince.

Sinjin laughed to himself. Ah, yes. The very pinnacle of perfection.

And London’s most notorious bachelor rake.

He smiled at Lady Andrew. Her lips curved tentatively, and then she turned back to the painting. It was enough. She was interested, and when it wasn’t so damned hot, he might choose to pursue the opportunity that had so readily presented itself.

Out of habit, he continued his hunting. Far too many blondes. But here, a little beauty with soft brown hair, a figure too abundant to be fashionable, and a much older husband by her side. There, an Amazon with shining black tresses and the confident manner of a woman who has been desired.

And across the room, standing before one of the new Alma-Tademas…

A mass of curling ginger hair that couldn’t quite be contained in the tightly wrapped styles of the day, a height neither petite nor tall, a figure neat and fine, a dress so unobtrusive that it made her fiery head all the more striking.

Ginger hair was not fashionable. But it drew Sinjin like a roaring hearth in winter. It collected all the heat in the room and crackled with light.

“Ah. You noticed her, too.”

Mr. Leopold Erskine joined Sinjin, his tie somewhat wilted, his auburn hair disheveled and his tall, rangy body bent as if the heat were a physical burden riding on his shoulders. The second son of the Earl of Elston, Leo had been one of Sinjin’s best friends since their first meeting ten years ago as hopelessly foolish and naive young men. They’d spent considerable time together since, and Sinjin valued Leo’s opinion—though in many ways Erskine had never quite grown up. He spent months at a time either traipsing around the deserts of North Africa and Arabia, or with his head buried in one of his incomprehensible scholarly books.

He had also declined to become a member of the confirmed bachelor set of which Sinjin was undisputed leader. Erskine was constitutionally incapable of being a rake; he actually regarded women as friends and equals.