Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Atmospheric,” she said evenly, forbidding any note of impatience or frustration or bitter heartbreak to tweak her voice. “I was going to say it’s very atmospheric.”


Portia looked to their host. “Denny, what did you think?”

Cecily shot him a pleading glance. She and Denny had practically grown up together, and she knew him well enough to recognize the peril in Portia’s question. He was a good-hearted, uncomplicated man, and he had a way of being too honest at times, without realizing it. Come on, Denny. Give her a kind word. A convincing one.

“Capital,” he exclaimed, rather too loudly to sound sincere. “First rate, I’m sure. At least, I know I could never write a thing to touch it, what with the torrents and the sluicing and those Byzantine crevasses.”

Portia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lord. It is rubbish.”

“If you want my opinion…” Brooke said, lifting a decanter of whiskey.

“I don’t.”

Brooke, of course, was undeterred. To the contrary, a keen anticipation lit his eyes. The man possessed a cutting wit, and used it to draw blood. Some gentlemen angled trout while on holiday; others shot game. Arthur Brooke made it a sport to disenchant—as though it were his personal mission to drive fancy and naiveté to extinction.

He said smugly, “My dear Mrs. Yardley, you have assembled a lovely collection of words.”

Portia eyed him with skepticism. “I don’t suppose that’s a compliment.”

“No, it isn’t,” he answered. “Pretty words, all, but there are too many of them. With so many extravagant ornaments, one cannot make out the story beneath.”

“I can make out the story quite clearly,” Cecily protested. “It’s nighttime, and there is a terrific storm.”

“There you have it,” Denny said. “It was a dark and stormy night.” He made a generous motion toward Portia. “Feel free to use that. I won’t mind.”

With a groan, Portia rose from her chair and swept to the window. “The difficulty is, this is not a dark and stormy night. It is clear, and well-lit by the moon, and unseasonably warm for autumn. Terrible. I was promised a gothic holiday to inspire my literary imagination, and Swinford Manor is hopeless. Mr. Denton, your house is entirely too cheerful and maintained.”

“So sorry to disappoint,” Denny said. “Shall I instruct the housekeeper to neglect the cobwebs in your chambers?”

“That wouldn’t be nearly enough. There’s still that sprightly toile wallpaper to contend with—all those gamboling lambs and frolicking dairymaids. Can you imagine, this morning I found myself humming! I expected this house to be decrepit, lugubrious…”

“Lugubrious.” Brooke drawled the word into his whiskey. “Another pretty word, lugubrious. More than pretty. Positively voluptuous with vowels, lugubrious. And spoken with such…mellifluence.”

Portia flicked him a bemused glance.

He added, “One pretty word deserves another, don’t you think?”

“I don’t suppose that’s a compliment.”

“This time it is.” He raised his glass to her. “But if it’s gothic inspiration you seek, Mrs. Yardley, I suggest you look to our companion.” He swiveled to face Luke’s corner. “Lord Merritt, I must say you are the picture of decrepitude. Lugubrious, indeed.”

Luke said nothing.

Did they teach men that in the army? Cecily wondered. Drill them in the practice of cold, perfect silence? Years ago, he’d been so open and engaging. So easy to speak with. It was one of the things she’d most lov—

No. She must not use that word, not any longer.

“Actually,” said Portia, giving Luke an assaying look, “with that dark, ruffled hair; the possessive sprawl of his limbs… I would say he is the picture of gothic intrigue and raw animal magnetism.” With a dramatic sigh, she returned to her chair. “That’s it. I shall put aside my novel for the evening and work on my list instead.”

“Your list?” Denny asked. “What kind of list?”

“My list of potential lovers.”

Cecily coughed. “Portia, surely you don’t…”

“Oh, surely I do. I am no longer in mourning. I am a widow now, financially and otherwise independent, and I intend to make the most of it. I shall write scandalous novels and take a dozen lovers.”

“All at once?” Brooke quipped.

“Perhaps in pairs,” she retorted, without missing a beat.

The two locked gazes in challenge, and Cecily did not miss the current of attraction that passed between them. Portia, be careful. She knew her friend’s salacious plans to be nine-tenths brave talk. But Brooke could take that last tenth, her vulnerable, lonely heart, and slice it to ribbons.

“Luke Trenton, the Viscount Merritt,” Portia said, scribbling in her notebook. She gave Brooke a spiteful glare. “We widows do favor those dark, haunted types.”

No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t possibly be so obtuse. During all the years Luke was at war, Cecily had never told Portia of her hopes—she’d scarcely dared admit them to herself—but surely her friend must know her well enough to understand, to intuit…