One Night in a Lord's Bed Read online

  One Night In A Lord’s Bed

  A "Tales From Seldon Park" Novel

  By Bethany M. Sefchick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018

  Bethany M. Sefchick

  All rights reserved

  For Catherine Jean H…

  You will be greatly missed

  Prologue

  Late February 1821

  London

  “Alex. Darling. Behave.”

  From somewhere beneath the enormous mound of covers, he could hear a throaty, female voice begging him to be good. Or perhaps not so good. That was the beauty of women like Delilah. They were mysteries and puzzles but in each and every case, they always, always ended up on their backs beneath him

  Or astride him.

  Or in other more interesting positions.

  Opera dancers like Delilah were open to just about anything.

  Or was her name Delia?

  Did it matter, really?

  He supposed not. He wasn’t bedding the chit for her name. He was bedding her for her delectable body. And what a body it was. Nice and limber with long, sinuous limbs that had been wrapped around him for the better part of the night.

  Oh, and her rather loose morals hadn’t hurt his interest in her either. There was that, too.

  He had been attending the theater with his friends earlier in the night, utterly bored as usual. That was where he had first noticed her. She’d been nothing more than a glorified chorus girl, really, strutting about the stage in a brightly spangled costume, but she had caught his eye with her thick, dark hair and exotic looks. She was Italian, or so she had said. She might have been for all he knew. Or she could have been French. Alex himself was half-French, and his slightly swarthy skin was nearly the same olive hue as hers, tempered only slightly by his father’s English blood and adding to his notoriously brooding mystique.

  Still, whatever the reason, this particular chit had appealed to him and when he had gone backstage to “compliment her singing,” he had casually hinted that he was free for the evening. Or rather Lord Pendleton’s love nest was available – and Alex had full use of it for the next three weeks. This tasty little opera dancer didn’t need to know this opulent pleasure palace they now occupied was not his, though he could have easily afforded one far more decadent than this. In fact, she didn’t need to know anything about him at all, other than that he did not take mistresses – ever – and his cock was hers for the night, but only with the use of a French letter.

  Alex was not a man to take chances. At least not with his person.

  He had seen far too many good men wither away and die of madness from the French pox, their lives ripped away simply because of their love of bedsport. Alex was not about to be counted among their numbers.

  Surprisingly, his tempting little chit had agreed to his conditions, and they had spent a lovely night together involved in all sorts of delightfully carnal activities. It might still be night for all Alex knew. The dark red velvet draperies were pulled tight, shutting out any hint of the light. That was how he preferred it. The darkness was his friend. Always.

  Oh, he wasn’t disfigured or horribly scarred or anything so dramatic as all of that. It was just that, in general, Alex shunned the light. Instead, he preferred to keep to the shadows. Bad things happened in the light, not to mention that he was just too damn exposed. In the light, everyone could see for themselves how truly wicked and depraved he was. In the darkness? Everyone assumed, but no one really knew the truth.

  That was the way he preferred things. Or had been the way. Perhaps not so much any longer, not after the Bloody Duke had gotten hold of him. Hell, these days, some people were even whispering that he, the so-called “Legendary Lover of London,” was the next best thing to a saint.

  Which was, of course, laughable.

  He wasn’t. He never would be.

  But in the light? Well, he could pretend that he was a better man, at least for a time. But in the darkness? On nights like tonight? He could be who and what he truly was. An indolent libertine leading a decadent lifestyle that was, in truth, his only vice.

  Alex didn’t smoke cheroots. He didn’t drink much more than some wine at dinner and indulged only in a small glass of scotch if the occasion called for it. He didn’t gamble or wager on horses. In fact, he didn’t do much of anything really. Other than seduce women, of course. Lots and lots of women. One might say he was famous for it. Many did, actually.

  And this night with Delilah was simply another chapter in his lengthy book of depravity, at least where matters of the flesh were concerned.

  “How would you like me to behave, pet?” Alex whispered as he pulled the woman closer so that he could nuzzle at her lush breasts before he took one in his mouth and suckled. She was not nearly as well-endowed as her dancer’s costume had led him to believe, but she was still large enough to please him. Most women were. As long as a woman was breathing and willing to spread her legs for him, she would do.

  “I want you inside of me.” Delilah laughed and bit Alex’s earlobe. She might have meant the gesture to be playful but the bite actually rather hurt. He was in no mood for pain, especially from a woman he had just met. “Now, my lord. Please. I want to feel your cock.”

  Alex had hoped for a bit more erotic play before he took her. These days, it took more and more time to excite him than it once had, especially where women like Delilah were concerned. They weren’t a challenge for him any longer. All he had to do was look in their direction and they would spread their legs for him. In short, they were boring. Even if they were willing to fuck him.

  Still, a fuck was a fuck, and he needed this. Hell, he needed more than this, but this woman would suffice for now.

  Rolling over, Alex reached toward the table for a French letter, but Delilah stilled his hand. “I thought we could...do without. Please.”

  From what Alex knew of Delilah, he didn’t believe she was trying to trap him with a child. In all honesty, she didn’t seem quite intelligent enough to come up with even that simple of a plan. However, her insistence on bareness also likely meant that she wasn’t overly choosy with her lovers. And women who weren’t choosy also tended to become victims of the pox.

  Suddenly, Alex was a lot less enthusiastic about this night than he had been only moments ago.

  Turning back to her, he stroked a lock of hair from her eyes, seeking a hint of madness in them. Nothing. Then again, that was no guarantee. “You know the rules, pet. No letter, no fucking. I’ve already taken you once before with one and you had no objection. Why now?”

  “It feels funny. I don’t like it.” She pouted rather prettily but Alex wasn’t swayed in the least. He wasn’t called a cold-hearted bastard for nothing. “All the men I am with just take me as they please. We don’t use those.”

  Which was precisely why Alex used French letters with women like Delilah. Because she wasn’t picky about her lovers. And if she wasn’t, then perhaps her lovers weren’t careful about their lovers either.

  Really, this whole “loose morals” thing was becoming rather complex and tiresome. For a moment, Alex even wondered if it was worth the bother.

  Unprotected sexual relations were an odd thing for a renowned rake like Alex to worry about, he knew. But he worried anyway. After all, he wanted to remain alive so he could continue to enjoy fucking – not expire from the aftereffects of it.

  Slowly, Alex peeled her hand away from his cock which was where
it had strayed the moment he had reached for the letter. “Sorry, pet. I won’t. You knew this.”

  “You won’t make an exception? Not even for me?” Delilah – or was it Delia? – pouted again, looking a lot less pretty than she had the first time he had bedded her. Alex was beginning to wonder what he had seen in her. Oh, yes. Loose morals and lovely tits. That was right. But it wasn’t enough. Not now.

  Alex was saved from delivering her a blistering set-down which was certain to ruin the mood by a sharp rap on the bedchamber door. Pendleton’s staff knew not to interrupt him unless it was an emergency. That they had dared to intrude meant that whatever matter had been brought to their attention was serious enough to risk displeasing him.

  “You are needed, my lord,” a voice called out from the other side of the door. “It is a matter of some urgency.”

  Alex flopped back on the bed with a sigh of disgust, though he wasn’t really that annoyed. In truth, his fucking session with Delilah was about to end anyway, but he still despised being interrupted. “I will be right there, Hallstaff!” he called out, knowing that Pendleton’s butler had excellent hearing. “I just need to...”

  He never finished his sentence for the door burst open with a loud bang and the “Bloody” Duke of Candlewood – otherwise known as Lord Nicholas Rosemont – strode inside, seeming unfazed by the lascivious scene before him. Knowing the duke, he probably was unfazed. Before he’d wed, he had indulged in all of this and much, much worse. Or so Alex had heard.

  “You just need to come with me,” Candlewood growled, ignoring Delilah after briefly taking in the sight of her nude body as casually as he might a horse race or an afternoon tea. Being married apparently changed a man. Alex didn’t know and, God willing, he never would. “We need to find Miss Denton. Now.”

  “Who in the bloody hell is Miss Denton and why do we need to find her?” However, Alex was already pulling on his trousers. Candlewood had come to fetch Alex himself. He hadn’t sent a messenger. That meant the situation was, if not dire, then extremely important.

  The duke casually tossed a robe in Delilah’s general direction. “Be a dear and put that on, would you, darling? My wife has a rule against me viewing naked women for longer than is necessary to conduct business.” Then he turned back to Alex. “Miss Denton is Francis’ sister.”

  “You are married to Francis’ sister,” Alex corrected the duke as he searched for his waistcoat and cravat. Ah, yes! Just there, on the bedpost. “Remember?”

  “His other sister,” Candlewood sighed in exasperation as if that should have been obvious from the first. “From his old life? When he was Moxham?”

  Oh. Well. That put a decidedly different spin on things. “I didn’t know he had a sister.” Alex’s head was starting to hurt.

  “I don’t know that he does.” The duke handed Alex his shoes.

  “Then how do you know this missing Miss Denton is his sister?” It seemed a logical question to Alex.

  “I don’t.” Candlewood ran a hand through his hair, indicating his level of upset. “But I suspect that she is. However, if I am wrong?”

  Alex snorted as he stuffed his feet inside his shoes. “You never are.”

  The duke held up a finger. “But if I am wrong and she is his wife? From when he wasn’t who he truly is? Then he might lose Charlotte, at least until I can figure out how to untangle the legal issues of such a marriage. And if he loses Charlotte, he will be...unhappy.”

  Suddenly, the picture became much clearer to Alex. “And if he is unhappy...”

  “Then Eliza is unhappy,” Candlewood finished for him. “Thus, you can see why this is a rather urgent matter. And either way, she is a woman alone in the world since the only family she thought she had no longer remembers her existence.” He gave a casual shrug. “For those reasons, she is under my protection. I can do no less.”

  Of course not. Because deep inside, the so-called Bloody Duke was actually a fucking feather pillow when it came to helpless females. “Do we know where to start looking for her?” Alex prayed they did.

  “No. Possibly Bath. Or Maybe Brighton. Or York. It is difficult to say.” This problem did not seem to bother the duke in the slightest. On the other hand, it bothered Alex. A lot.

  “God’s bones,” Alex swore under his breath. “Very well. Let’s be off then.”

  And with that, he strode out of the room – still quite naked save for his shoes – after the Bloody Duke leaving a very confused and very disappointed Delilah behind.

  Chapter One

  Early April 1821

  Hertfordshire

  The roof leaked. He could see the dark, almost black watermark on the old plaster ceiling. It had brownish yellow rings as well, which indicated that the roof had been leaking for quite some time. Normally, he wasn’t a man given to staring at potentially decrepit, moldy ceilings, but it was either that or count the tiny yellow cabbage roses in the ghastly wallpaper (there was a total of fifty-six such roses in the section of wall he had been studying, thank you very much) or possibly drink more of the decidedly awful tea – probably made with thrice washed leaves – that had been placed before him by a maid so fearful that she had quite literally tripped over her own feet as she fled the room, so desperate was she to be away from him.

  Well then. The sagging ceiling and leaky roof it was.

  Oh, very well. The roof wasn’t leaking now, but it had leaked at some point in the not-too-distant past and rather badly from the look of things. If he wasn’t careful, the blasted ceiling could fall upon his head at any moment and then where would he be? Where indeed? Likely still in this same wretched sitting room waiting for the appearance of a chit that he wasn’t even certain actually existed.

  He had papers that said she did, of course. Plenty of them. However, he still wasn’t certain. Which was why he was here. To make certain that she did exist. And was still alive and well and living in this God-forsaken death trap of a so-called finishing school.

  Had he mentioned that he was also in a foul mood? Because he was. Very much so.

  As a general rule, Lord Alexander Huffton avoided places with leaky roofs at all costs. Unless, of course, there was a fetching woman willing to shed her clothes for him beneath said leaky roof. After all, he was the Marquess of Buxton, a noted libertine so despicable that even the rakes of London thought him a bad sort. Which was why he would never be caught dead in such a place. He had standards to uphold, after all.

  Though Alex rather doubted he would find any such women of loose morals at Mrs. Smithson’s School For Young Ladies here in the outer reaches of Hertfordshire, which might have been in the Outer Hebrides for as remote as it was. That was why he avoided places like this as if they were filled with lepers or those carrying the plague or the pox. Places like this housed innocents. Worse, virgins. And those were the types of women that indolent lechers with horrid reputations such as himself avoided as if they did, in fact, have the plague.

  However, much as Alex might wish to leave this place, with its leaky roof and hideous cabbage rose wallpaper, behind right this instant, he couldn’t. He was here on business – official business from the Crown. At least that’s what the letter in his pocket said. Technically, it was signed by Lord Nicholas Rosemont, also known as The Bloody Duke of Candlewood and really, that was much the same thing. The good folk of England might not fear Prinny in the least, but everyone feared Nick. Well, most everyone feared him anyway.

  Alex did, at least a little. Otherwise, he would have told the duke to go stuff himself when he had given Alex this assignment. However, fear of having one’s bollocks shot off – not that Alex could be certain Nick had done any such thing, despite the rumors to the contrary – tended to make one more amenable to undertaking distasteful assignments such as this one.

  And fetching a missing, innocent, and virginal would-be heiress (or not-heiress, as that had yet to be decided) was among the most distasteful assignments Alex could imagine. He would have rather been chasing murders ac
ross the countryside than tracking down this missing chit that had become so important to the duke in recent months. Actually, the chit was important to the duke’s wife, Eliza, and if Nick had one soft spot in his otherwise frigid, black heart, it was his beloved duchess, his Izzy.

  The previous year, a man with no memory who claimed to be Eliza’s long-lost brother, Stephen Deaver (also known as Viscount Underhill), had reappeared in London under a thick cloud of suspicion. However, through a strange twist of circumstances, the man wasn’t really Stephen but rather Francis – the always-presumed-dead, first-born son of the Deaver family and the true heir to the Framingham title. Stephen himself had eventually surfaced alive and well, too, and with him, the truth about the twin boys’ birth had been revealed.

  On the day the babes were born, Francis, the true first-born, had been spirited away by the attending midwife and sold to a childless viscount and his wife in Cornwall and raised as their son and heir well into adulthood. However, at some point, Francis had suffered a blow to his head and lost his memory – a tragedy that continued to this very day as the man had no memory of his past. When someone had recognized Francis in a convalescent home as the long-missing Stephen Deaver, he had returned to London to reunite with his family, eventually being revealed as the true heir and not the spare.

  And he had reunited with them in rather spectacular fashion. Alex had been at the very ball where the truth of Francis and Stephen’s parentage and convoluted pasts had been revealed. It had been a bloody mess, but it had also been rather entertaining. In the end, the whole affair had eventually sorted itself out, and everyone was back to their proper places in Society, the heir restored and the spare – once thought to be the heir – now off living in disgrace.

  All of that had been well and good until someone, mostly likely the Bloody Duke, reminded everyone that for well over five and twenty years, Francis Deaver hadn’t been Francis at all, but rather had lived life as Lord William Denton, Viscount Moxham of Cross Hill in Cornwall. And William Denton had lived a life that no one knew much of anything about, not even the man himself. What with that amnesia and all.