Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“I thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Yardley,” Luke said from the shadows.

No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t possibly be so cruel.

“Actually, Portia,” Cecily said, determined to cauterize this vein of conversation, “you may find gothic inspiration in the neighborhood, if not within the house. Denny, tell her that story you used to tell me when we were children, summering here.”

His brow creased, and he ruffled his sandy hair. “The one about the vinegar bottle?”

“No, no. The one about the woods that border Corbinsdale.”

“Corbinsdale?” Brooke asked. “Isn’t that the Earl of Kendall’s estate?”

“The very one,” Denny said. “And well done, Cecily. Now that is a story for Portia’s gothic novel.”

“I don’t know about my novel,” Portia said, scribbling again, “but the Earl of Kendall definitely goes on the list.”

“Now wait,” Luke protested, “I cease to be complimented, if you’re lumping me in with that old devil.” He eased his chair into the firelight, and Cecily could not divert her gaze in time. Or perhaps she simply could not bring herself to look away. Portia was right; he did look haunted. Haunted, haggard, in perpetual need of a shave. The rough suggestion of a beard covered a sharply angled jaw and crept up gaunt, hollow cheeks. His face seemed more shadow than substance now. And his eyes… She could scarcely make out the green anymore, through that persistent glaze of liquor. When their gazes met, she saw only the pupils: two hard, black lodestones that trapped her gaze, pulled the air from her lungs, drew on her heart.

Oh, Luke. What has happened to you?

He turned away.

“The old devil you refer to died almost a year ago,” Denny informed him. “The son’s inherited now. A good enough fellow.”

“So the ladies report.” Portia flashed a wicked smile as she underscored Lord Kendall’s name in her book. “He’s quite a favorite with the widows, you know. Oh, Mr. Denton, do invite him for dinner!”

“Can’t. He’s not in residence at Corbinsdale. Never is, this time of year.”

“Pity,” said Brooke dryly.

“Indeed,” Portia sighed. “My list is back to one.”

“Leave him alone.” Cursing her unthinking response, Cecily added, “Lord Kendall, I mean. And do put away your list. Denny was about to tell his story.”

Luke moved to the edge of his armchair. Those cold, dark eyes held her captive as he posed a succinct, incisive question. “Jealous, Cecy?”

Cecy. No one had called her that in years. Not since that last night before he’d left, when he’d wound a strand of her hair about his finger and leaned in close, with that arrogant, devastating smile teasing one corner of his mouth. Won’t you miss me, Cecy?

Four years later, and her blood still responded just as fiercely as it had that night, pounding in her heart and pushing a hot blush to her throat.

She had missed him. She missed him still.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Why should I be jealous of Lord Kendall?”

“Yes, how absurd.” Portia gave a throaty laugh. “Everyone knows Cecily’s going to marry Denny.”

Lifting his tumbler of whiskey, Luke retreated into the shadows. “Do they?”

Was it disappointment she detected in his voice? Or merely boredom? And for heaven’s sake, why couldn’t she simply forbid herself to care?

“Denny, won’t you tell Portia the story? Please. It’s so diverting.” She forced a bright tone, even as tears pricked her eyes.

“As you wish.” Denny went to the hearth and stirred the fire, sending up a plume of orange sparks. “The tale begins well before my time. It’s common knowledge, among the locals, that the woods stretching between Swinford and Corbinsdale are cursed.”

“Cursed,” Brooke scoffed. “Ignorance and superstition are the true curses. Their remedy is education. Don’t you sponsor a school on this estate, Denny?”

“It’s a story,” Portia said. “Even schoolchildren know the difference. And they could teach you something about imagination. Your cynicism is not only tiresome, but pitiable.”

“You pity me? How amusing.”

“Pity won’t get you on my list.”

“Really?” Brooke smirked. “It seems to have worked for Lord Merritt.”

Enough. Cecily leapt to her feet. “A man-beast!” she exclaimed, gesturing wildly toward the windows. “There’s a fiendish creature living in those woods, half man and half beast!”

There, now she had everyone’s attention. Even Luke’s, for the first time all week. He was regarding her as though she were a madwoman, but still.

Denny pouted. “Really, Cecily. I was getting to that.”

She gave him an apologetic shrug. She was sorry to ruin the end of his story, but it was what he deserved for dithering so.

“A man-beast?” Portia asked, her eyes widening. “Oh, I do like the sound of this.” She put pencil to paper again.