Chapter One
London, 1812
From the momentMorgan, Marquess of Searle, discovered the true identity of the Spanish guerrillero responsible for his capture by French troops, he had set three objectives.
Objective one: sell out his commission and return to England before the Spaniard.Accomplished.
Objective two: ruin the bastard’s sister so she would be forced to wed him.In medias res.
Objective three: make the rest of the Spaniard’s life a living hell until he ended it on the field of honor.A promise.
Retribution was the sole thing on his mind when Morgan first saw Lady Leonora Forsythe. She was seated on the periphery of the ballroom, attended by a turban-wearing dowd with a wan complexion. The turban was obviously the lady’s mother.
He’d been told Lady Leonora suffered an unfortunate limp, which precluded her from dancing. However, he had not been told she possessed the breathtaking beauty of an angel. The former did not deter him. He could easily guide her into a darkened alcove or an empty hall. Nor did the latter. Even angels were meant to fall.
Watching her, he sipped from his glass of punch. The stuff was sickening and sweet, and its only saving grace was in the bite of the spirits lacing it. When he imbibed, he preferred unsullied spirits. The sort that made him forget, if only for an evening. Sadly, not even a drop of illicit Scottish whisky was to be had at the Kirkwood ball.
The man owned a gaming hell that served the best liquor in the land. Morgan would have expected better, but he supposed anything less than proper ballroom fare would have been frowned upon by the tittering lords and ladies who had assembled here this evening. Kirkwood’s wife was a duke’s daughter, and it would seem the festivities were his attempt to blur the boundaries between his world and the quality.
Morgan didn’t give a damn for balls. He also didn’t give a damn about the punch he was drinking or the room in which he stood, or the fact he was not imprisoned and being tortured by French soldiers who wanted answers he refused to give. His body, beneath the trappings of his evening finery, was marked with scars and burns, all testaments to his inability to ever give a damn about anything again.
Anything except making the Spaniard suffer, that was.
El Corazón Oscuro, the Dark Heart. Also known as the Earl of Rayne, half-brother to Lady Leonora. It was almost impossible to believe as he flicked his gaze over her, marveling at her white-blonde hair and skin pale enough to rival cream. But it was true. The blackest-hearted devil he had ever known and the lovely woman in the diaphanous silver gown shared blood.
And soon they would share one more connection.
Morgan’s wrath.
But first, he needed an introduction.
Fortunately, he did not have far to look or long to wait, for his trusted friend and old comrade-at-arms Crispin, the Duke of Whitley, joined him by the next thudding beat of his heart. Revenge would soon be his. He could taste it, bitter and dark and delicious, upon his tongue. He could feel it in the surge, the pounding pulse of blood coursing through his veins, much as it had before a battle: fierce, fast, consuming.
It was a rush, and for the first time since his return to England, since he had been freed from captivity, he felt alive. So gloriously, viciously alive.
“Morgan.” Crispin exchanged a stilted greeting with him, his bearing, his tone, and even his expression, stiff with guilt.
Much as it had been ever since their reunion.
Crispin had been with him on the Peninsula that fateful day, whenEl Corazón Oscurohad taken Morgan captive. The bleak, hideous, hateful day it had all begun…
But he would not think of that day now. Nor would he think of the torture that had ensued. For if he did, then the madness would come. And he could not entertain the madness today. Today, he must remain determined. Today, he must stay the course and keep the madness at bay.
He must begin his retribution. Imprisoned as he had been all those months, he had been given ample time to meticulously plan the foundation of his revenge. In the end, he had become so inured to even the beatings, that he would separate his mind from his body. His mind would wander while his body faced unimaginable cruelties and degradations. And in his mind, it was always London to which he returned, sweet revenge which he earned.
His heart sped up, pounding in his chest and in his ears.
But he could not give in here. He gulped down the rest of his punch to distract himself. “Tell me Kirkwood has something better than this swill hidden somewhere. Some misbegotten Scottish whisky, perhaps.”
“Of course he does,” Crispin returned, studying him with a gaze reminiscent of the manner in which one would survey a wild animal. A snarling fox, perhaps, with its fangs bared, about to decimate creatures smaller than himself. “But one does not partake of whisky at balls, Searle.”
Morgan felt not so much like a snarling fox as a rampaging lion, hungry for blood. Too large and too angry and too voracious to be stopped.
“Balls would be so much less tedious if one did.” A servant hovering nearby approached with a tray at the ready, whisking away his empty glass.
“I am glad to see you here, Morgan.” Crispin paused. “My duchess has convinced me to play the role of the gentleman and indulge in the social whirl.”
“Glad to see me at all, you mean to say.” He cocked his head, considering his old friend, who had gone pale beneath his scrutiny.
