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  “She had no one to blame but herself for her weakness. And she swiftly came to regret her grievous error in judgment.”

  “Forgive me if I sound disrespectful, Aunt,” Raven replied with sarcasm, “but how could you possibly know?”

  “Because she told me so in her letters. Elizabeth wrote to me upon occasion over the years.”

  Raven found herself staring. “I never realized Mama wrote to you.”

  “She did indeed.” Catherine’s gray eyes remained cold. “Her later letters clearly showed she had come to her senses. She bitterly regretted her fall from grace and losing the rank and privilege to which she was raised. She missed the life she could have had and thought you deserved… Which is why she was so determined you should have a different fate.”

  That much was certainly true, Raven reflected somberly. Her mother had been nearly obsessive about rectifying her mistake. Elizabeth had spent countless hours-every afternoon over tea, in fact-trying to instill the graces of a lady in her daughter so that Raven might eventually take her rightful position in English society. On her very deathbed, she had made Raven swear to marry into the nobility…

  “Do you still have any of Mama’s letters?” Raven asked, desirous of changing the subject.

  “No. I didn’t keep them. But I’m certain she would be relieved to know you had landed a duke for your husband.”

  “She would be relieved,” Raven corrected, “to know I needn’t worry about being labeled a bastard. She knew how cruel the ton could be, and she wanted me to be protected by rank and wealth, should my past ever be discovered. A duchess won’t be as vulnerable to such slights as a mere Miss Kendrick.”

  “Well, I for one am relieved you have done nothing to shame your family, as she did.”

  Raven curled her hands into fists, striving for control. “If you were so concerned that I would shame you, Aunt, I wonder that you gave me a home and sponsored my Season.”

  “Because I was determined to keep up appearances, of course. And because your grandfather would hear of nothing else.” Catherine gave an elegant sniff. “In my opinion, Jervis has behaved rather foolishly, fawning over you as if you were his prodigal daughter. But when Elizabeth died, he formed the absurd notion that he had been too harsh-”

  “Because he had been too harsh,” Raven interrupted. Her grandfather, Jervis Frome, Viscount Luttrell, had experienced a change of heart upon learning of his daughter’s death, regretting never having reconciled. When his health began to fail, he’d invited Raven to England, desirous of meeting his only grandchild and of making amends for his past intransigence and his estrangement from Elizabeth all these years.

  Apparently Aunt Catherine had said her piece, though, for she turned away, every inch the imperious dame. “Enough dallying. You had best make haste. It won’t do to keep the illustrious duke waiting at the altar.”

  “No,” Raven forced herself to say coolly. “As one of the chief arbiters of society, Aunt, you should know.”

  When she was alone, Raven glanced down blindly at the pearls, still feeling the sting of her aunt’s scorn. Being scorned was a familiar experience to her.

  Elizabeth had infuriated her haughty family, imperiling their social standing by developing a passionate love for a married American shipping magnate and conceiving a child out of wedlock. Disaster had been averted only by marrying her off to an impoverished neighbor’s younger son-one who held her in complete contempt, and her bastard daughter as well.

  Raven cringed inwardly as she remembered the man who was presumed by the world to be her father, Ian Kendrick. For twenty years now, she had been Miss Kendrick in public, but privately he had never accepted her as his child. Never let her forget that she was in truth a bastard.

  He had deliberately made her feel tarnished, unworthy…somehow to blame for both her mother’s weakness and his own misery. The terms of his marriage contract were clear: a small plantation and monthly income in exchange for remaining in the Caribbean with Elizabeth. Yet until the moment of his death in a riding accident eight years ago, Ian Kendrick had railed at his fate-being exiled to a backwater isle with barely the means to support his preferred standard of living-while his wife languished away, torn by unhappiness over her long-lost love. As for their daughter…

  Raven steeled her shoulders, willing herself to calm. She’d carried the secret shame of her conception since she was old enough to comprehend the word “bastard.” And though her fear of discovery might be irrational, it was the chief reason she had favored Halford above all the other candidates who’d courted her so assiduously. And why she had carefully avoided the unsuitable ones. If she married high enough, if she aligned herself with a nobleman of power and consequence, then she would be shielded from her dubious past.

  Admittedly she was guilty of deception for concealing her origins from her intended husband. But Halford would be getting exactly the sort of bride he required, Raven thought defiantly. She was virginal, possessed an acceptably winsome appearance, was of good blood and family connections, and had adequate countenance to fill the role of duchess. And she would willingly give Halford the heirs he wanted.

  She would be getting precisely what she wanted as well: acceptance at last by the polite world that had never considered her good enough. And a husband who was safe. She would never make her mother’s mistake. Better a cold, loveless contract than a blazing passion that could rip her heart to shreds.

  She was in no danger of falling in love with her duke, although she had hopes for eventually developing both affection and a satisfying friendship with him. Sometimes she even managed to delve beneath Halford’s stiff, straitlaced reserve and make him smile.

  But theirs would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. They would live together in civilized harmony, both understanding exactly what was required of them.

  In any case, her imaginary lover would keep her satisfied. And if she had to resort to fantasy in order to feel passion, to experience desire and warmth and fulfillment…well then, she would need such an escape if she hoped to endure a lifetime of her illustrious husband’s rigid British formality.

  Truly, though, her fantasizing wouldn’t present any real harm to her husband or to her vows. She would be entirely faithful to Halford…except in her mind.

  Raven took a deep breath, renewing her resolve as she turned to ring for her maid. She had made her own bed, as the saying went. Her betrothed would soon be awaiting her at the church-St. George’s, Hanover Square-along with several hundred of their friends and acquaintances, the very cream of the ton. And she intended to look her best for her special day.

  Two hours later she descended the stairway to the entrance hall where, with the aid of a cane, her grandfather stood alongside his sister Catherine. The elderly viscount stayed here on the rare occasions when he came to town, rather than open his own cavernous mansion.

  Lord Luttrell was tall and silver-haired like his sister, though not as handsome. He’d been ill for a long while, suffering from a weak heart.

  Tears brimmed in his eyes, Raven saw when she reached him.

  “So you approve, do you, Grandfather?” she asked, offering him a smile. She couldn’t totally forgive him for repudiating her mother so many years ago, but they had come to terms of sorts during the nearly eight months since her arrival in England.

  He took her hand in his own shaky one. “Very much, child. You are exceedingly beautiful.”

  Raven did think her appearance pleasing. Her empire gown was of pale lemon lustring, with an ivory net overskirt shot with gold threads. And she wore her mother’s pearls, while her raven hair was gathered high into an elegant coiffure.

  Beside the viscount, her dragon of a great-aunt agreed even while sniffing in disapproval. “She is indeed beautiful, Jervis, but you will turn her head with such flattery. And Raven is not a child in the least. She turned twenty months ago.”

  As usual, her grandfather ignored his sister’s waspish tone and patted Raven’s hand. “I
have never been so proud of you. You will make a grand duchess.”

  Raven bit back an instinctive reply. In her grandfather’s opinion-along with the much of the world’s-a woman’s worth was only measured by her husband’s position in society. Yet to his credit, Grandfather only wanted her to be well settled in life.

  Despite the strain that had marked their early relationship, Lord Luttrell had welcomed her with a touching eagerness, making her feel like a cherished member of his family. And Raven had found herself immensely glad for the connection. He and Lady Dalrymple were the only blood relations she had left, other than an American half brother whom she could never publicly claim. She’d never even known her real father, the wealthy American shipping magnate who had died some years past.

  And she knew the viscount truly mourned his late daughter and regretted his intractability.

  “I am sorry your mother is not here to see you,” her grandfather said now in a trembling voice.

  Raven felt her own throat constrict. She, too, wished her mother could be here to witness her triumphant union.

  “Jervis, if you are finished wallowing in sentimentality,” Aunt Catherine interjected sharply, “we have a ceremony to attend.”

  “Yes, of course,” Luttrell grunted with a quelling look at his sister.

  After accepting her cloak from the Dalrymple butler, Raven allowed her grandfather to lead her slowly down the entrance steps of her aunt’s residence to where the viscount’s grand, crested carriage stood ready to transport them to the church.

  To Raven’s delight, her long-term groom, Michael O’Malley, waited beside the carriage to see her off.

  “ ’Tis a grand sight you are, Miss Raven,” the Irishman said in his lilting accent, beaming when she reached him. “And a proud day to be sure.”

  With a brilliant smile of her own, Raven stepped aside to embrace the hulking, gray-haired fellow. “Thank you, O’Malley,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

  She kissed his grizzled cheek, ignoring her aunt’s sudden stiffening and her grandfather’s obvious frown of disapproval. For most of her childhood, O’Malley had been more father than servant to her. And he had accompanied her to England from the West Indies when she’d come to face her haughty, unknown relatives. She was immeasurably grateful to him for standing her friend.

  Turning then, Raven allowed O’Malley to take her elbow so he could hand her into the elegant barouche. When she heard a sudden commotion, though, she glanced curiously up the street to see a closed carriage barreling toward them, its windows shuttered, its coachman wearing a hooded cape that made him appear phantomlike.

  Strangely, the coach slowed as it passed the barouche, then rumbled to a halt while three armed, masked figures leapt out. To Raven’s shock, two of them pointed pistols directly at her, while the third brandished a cudgel.

  “Ye’re to come with us,” one said in gruff voice, gesturing at her.

  “Who the devil are you?” Lord Luttrell demanded.

  When Raven stood frozen in bewilderment, the leader lunged at her and gripped her arm, dragging her toward the coach.

  With a fierce growl, O’Malley made to intervene, but the man with the cudgel moved directly into his path, swinging his weapon viciously, preventing her groom from coming to her aid.

  For an instant Raven wondered if she were imagining this nightmare, but the pain in her arm was very real as she was hauled toward the open door of the coach.

  “What is the meaning of this outrage?” her aunt exclaimed in her iciest voice. “I demand you unhand my niece at once!”

  But Raven’s assailant paid no mind to the order. Instead he wrenched her around and snaked a thick arm about her waist from behind, lifting her bodily off her feet.

  Gasping in fury, she fought back, struggling to be free of this rough, crude oaf, but her slippered heels made no dent in his beefy shins. When she bent her head in desperation and bit his shoulder through his tweed coat, her defiance earned her a cuff to the temple from his fist, a blow so violent that she saw stars.

  Dazed, she glanced back to see the look of horror on her aunt’s face, the fear on her grandfather’s.

  Her own fright grew as she realized the direness of her situation: she was being abducted in broad daylight!

  Then she saw O’Malley struck down with the cudgel. Raven gave an anguished cry of protest, a cry that was cut short as she was shoved roughly inside the coach and facedown on the floor. She felt her gown rip at the shoulder as the coach door slammed behind her.

  Stunned, the breath knocked from her, she scarcely comprehended the shouts from outside the coach as the vehicle lurched forward and began to move off. Groping the swaying seat to brace herself, Raven dizzily scrambled onto the rear-facing leather cushions.

  She was not alone.

  “You!” she exclaimed, recognizing the black-haired gentleman who sat opposite her. He was the same obsessive brute she’d barely escaped from once before: an unwanted suitor who’d assaulted her after refusing to accept her rejection. When she last saw him, he had been fighting O’Malley, who had come to her rescue.

  Sean Lasseter’s savage smile held unmistakable menace, but it was the pistol aimed at her chest that made her heart jump to her throat.

  “So you do remember me, Miss Kendrick, after all these months. I am flattered.”

  “What do you want?” she demanded breathlessly, eyeing the pistol.

  “Simple revenge,” her abductor replied, his own tone silken.

  “Revenge? For what?”

  Drawing a flask from his coat pocket, he raised it to his lips and drank deeply. She could smell the strong liquor in the close confines of the coach, could see the alcoholic glaze in his eyes.

  “Surely you know,” he said, his voice grim.

  Suddenly he lifted the butt of the pistol, and Raven flinched, knowing he meant to strike her. Frantically she raised her arms to protect her face from the threat, but he rammed the butt into the side of her skull, and she saw no more.

  Chapter Two

  “Doubtless you have a good reason for summoning me from my fencing match,” Kell Lasseter remarked mildly as he reached the second floor of his gaming house.

  His beautiful hostess, Emma Walsh, awaited him at the head of the stairs. “A most urgent reason,” she replied in obvious agitation. “Your brother…”

  Kell felt a prick of alarm, his familiar protective feelings suddenly roused. “What’s amiss? Has Sean been hurt?”

  “No, not hurt. But he brought a lady here, Kell, and I fear he means her harm. He has a whip, and he has bound her to the bed.”

  Kell’s dark eyebrows snapped together, a different kind of alarm coursing through him. His charming rogue of a younger brother could be wild at times, even dangerous when driven to it-yet he’d never known Sean to act with physical violence toward a woman. Still, during these past months Sean’s black moods had come more and more frequently…

  “Our reputation.” Emma shuddered in horror. “If he rapes her…”

  Emma was as desirous of protecting the club’s renown as he was, Kell thought grimly, but she would doubtless feel sympathy for any vulnerable female because of her own harsh past. Yet his own stomach knotted at her talk of rape.

  “You must stop him, Kell. Miss Kendrick is well-known in society, and she has powerful connections.”

  At the notorious name, he felt himself stiffen. Miss Raven Kendrick was the darling of the ton, and for a time last summer, she had turned his brother’s life into a living hell-delivering him to the unspeakable brutality of the British navy.

  “Where are they?”

  “In your bedchamber.”

  Kell clenched his jaw, striving not to leap to conclusions. Sean had struggled with his inner demons for years, but since his impressment in the navy, he’d been bitter, brooding, vengeful. Had the torture he’d suffered during his enforced service finally driven him over the edge?

  Swiftly Kell strode down the corridor to the bedchamber
he normally used when staying overnight at his club. The Golden Fleece was an elegant gaming hell, but the gambling took place on the ground floor below, while this floor held only private rooms.

  The door to his bedchamber was locked, he discovered. Kell rapped sharply, uttering one terse word. “Sean.”

  When there was no reply, he spun on his heel and made his way to the adjacent study, then crossed to a second door that connected with his bedchamber. Finding this one unlocked, Kell entered and came up short, taking stock.

  On the bed, a disheveled woman lay on her side, her bound hands stretched overhead and tied to the headboard. She wasn’t quite naked, but her fine cambric shift was hiked up above her knees, exposing long slender legs, while her ebony hair flowed in wild disarray over her bare shoulders.

  Kell felt his heart give an unsteady jolt. So this was Miss Raven Kendrick, the dazzling debutante who commanded the homage of nobles. Their paths had never directly crossed before, probably because he actively shunned her ilk and her elevated social circles-unlike his brother, who’d earnestly aspired to join her elite ranks.

  Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t stir, yet she was clearly a damsel in distress.

  Kell’s first urgent impulse was to rescue her from her plight, but he fought down his natural instincts-shock, horror, fury that his brother would treat any woman so cruelly. He had to remember who she was. A deadly temptress with a heart of ice. One who lured impressionable young men to their doom simply for sport. She deserved to be punished in some fashion for the misery and suffering she’d caused his brother-although this was unquestionably too harsh a penance.

  Kell’s gaze shifted to his brother. Sean sat slumped in a wing chair near the hearth, cradling a whiskey bottle in one hand, a riding whip in the other. Three long scratches scored the left side of his face.