Pursued For The Viscount's Vengeance

Chapter Four (#ub7cd1c62-f24a-5aa4-8f68-e07d0dfffb35)

Chapter Five (#u4dd11ce7-48d1-5c3b-b4fd-d3cfb28b1a4c)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u8fc83a77-ed84-57e7-9ad8-01d9473f2229)

So here was his quarry. Miss Deborah Meltham.

Standing at the side of the assembly room, away from the glitter of the chandeliers, Gil studied the lady as she went down the dance with her brother. There was a decided likeness between the pair although Randolph, Lord Kirkster, was taller and fairer. Gil had to admit he was a handsome young buck, fashionably dressed and with his thick, waving hair brushed back from his pale brow. He was also a graceful dancer, but there was an air of indifference about him, a restlessness to his face, as if he wanted to be elsewhere. The epitome of a Byronic hero, thought Gil, his lip curling, and already as dissolute as the poet himself. He turned his attention to the lady.

Beneath the plain round gown of green muslin her figure looked good, but she was very slim. Petite. Not at all his style. A mirthless laugh shook him at the irrelevance of the popular saying. He had never shown preference for any lady, for he was convinced that soldiers should not marry and he was a soldier. Or he had been. Having sold out, he supposed that at some point he would take a wife, but it would be a marriage of convenience for both parties. There was no need for the heart to be involved. In his experience love meant only loss and unbearable pain.

What he was planning now had nothing to do with marriage or courtship. It was to fulfil an oath he had taken and was the only way to assuage the grief that threatened to devour him. Since leaving the army last summer he had withdrawn from society, a prey to his grief and determined upon revenge. Which was why he was so interested in Deborah Meltham. He turned his attention back to her.

Her features were regular and he supposed she might be quite pretty, if she dressed her hair more becomingly, instead of having it scraped back so severely into a knot. She wore no jewels and her dress was high necked and long-sleeved. A dowd, Gil decided, coldly assessing her. Not at all attractive. But at that moment Lord Kirkster spoke, she looked up and a sudden smile transformed her face. The lively animation in her countenance and the decided twinkle in her green eyes forced him to revise his opinion. Reluctantly he admitted that she was more than pretty.

He felt a sudden contraction in his chest, a jolt of unwelcome attraction. Beneath that puritanical dress and severe hairstyle she was quite beautiful.

‘So it should be no hardship to court her,’ he muttered.

He pushed aside a tremor of distaste. He had never before seduced a woman, although in more than a decade of military service he had seen other men do it, dozens of times. He had no time for such knavery, nor for romance: in his opinion there was no room for such emotion in a soldier’s life. Not that there had been any shortage of women willing to throw themselves at him and he had taken some of them to his bed, but only those who understood the rules, who knew he offered nothing more than dalliance. The liaisons never lasted long and when it ended Gil always provided a generous settlement to soften the blow.

This, however, was different. He would take no pleasure in it, although it must be done. He raised a hand to his cheek, rubbing one finger lightly along the fine, jagged line that ran down to his jaw. The scar might cause some small difficulty, especially since he was using neither his title nor his wealth to entice the lady. Well, time would tell.

The music ended and he watched Miss Meltham leave the floor on her brother’s arm. The looks they exchanged confirmed that they were clearly fond of one another. Her disgrace, her downfall, would hit the young lord hard. From all he had learned Gil was convinced that the only way to be avenged upon the man was through his sister. The fellow had already gambled away most of his fortune and seemed to care little for the fact. It was only his sister who was keeping him from bankruptcy and disgrace. Deborah was the only thing Kirkster now cared about. Gil turned away from the dance floor, trampling his scruples. It had to be this way. Merely forcing a duel upon Kirkster would not be punishment enough. He must be made to suffer as Gil had suffered. Although if the scoundrel should call him out for ruining his sister, then Gil would take pleasure in putting a bullet through him.

And Deborah Meltham?

Again Gil stifled his conscience. It was only a whisper, easily pushed aside. His years as a soldier had inured him to much greater suffering than anything he was likely to inflict here. After all, it was not as if he planned any real harm to the woman, nothing more than a bruised heart and loss of character. And he would not force her. She would come to him willingly, but her seduction would be his revenge upon her brother. An eye for an eye. A seduction for a life. Two lives.

Or three, if you counted the unborn child.

* * *

Deborah’s spine tingled as she went down the dance. He was here again, the stranger in the shadows, watching her. She had never seen him clearly, but she was aware of him, it was as if she could physically feel his presence. As the dance ended and she accompanied her brother from the floor she glanced across the room. Yes, there was the tall figure of the man she had noticed around the town several times in that past few weeks. He kept his distance and was always just turning away whenever she glimpsed him, or disappearing into a doorway. He was plainly dressed, but he carried himself with such assurance that she was sure he must be a man of substance.

Not for the first time she thought of telling Ran, but what could she say, that she had noticed the stranger on several occasions? The man had not accosted her; she had never caught him ogling her. Indeed, he had never been that close to her, but somehow her body knew when he was in her vicinity. She sensed him, like a wild animal sensed danger.

Randolph would only laugh if she told him that. He would dismiss it as female fancy. Perhaps it was. She squeezed his arm.

‘Ran, they are striking up for another country dance. Shall we not return to the floor?’

He shook his head. ‘By no means. I have done my duty and stood up twice with you. Now I mean to go to the card room.’

‘But you are such a good dancer. Would you not like to stay for one more measure?’

He grinned at her. ‘No, dear sister, I would not. I am determined on cards.’

Knowing his good mood could evaporate in a twinkling, she did not argue but said cheerfully, ‘Very well, I will come, too, and watch you. That is, if you do not mind.’

‘Not at all, but it will be dull work. Would you not prefer to dance?’

Deborah had been burying her own preferences for so long that she did not even hesitate.

‘Not without you.’

‘Come along, then, Deb. You shall be my good-luck charm.’

She tucked her hand in his arm, but she knew from the intent look upon his face that he had all but forgotten her existence, even before they entered the card room.

Deb watched the play, discreetly waving away the waiter when he would have refilled Ran’s glass. She knew there was not much to fear when her brother was playing cards here. The gentlemen gathered around the table had known her and Randolph since they were children. Sir Geoffrey would not allow the stakes to grow too high and old Mr Appleton would call a halt to the game if her brother’s losses became too great, so it was only Ran’s drinking she needed to keep in check, because that could lead to more dangerous cravings. However, when he called for another bottle she did not embarrass him by publicly remonstrating. The best she could hope for was that he would grow weary of the game and escort her home very soon.

She remained at his side, obliged to hide her chagrin as the evening progressed. The more Ran drank the wilder his play. As the losses mounted she saw his frown deepening, but she knew better than to protest when he threw down yet another losing hand. Instead she fluttered her fan.

‘Heavens, I vow ’tis close in here tonight, anyone would think it was high summer rather than March. Dear Brother, I do not know how you can concentrate, I feel quite faint with the heat.’

‘Do you? Go on home then, if you wish. Take the carriage, I will follow later.’