He gave a quick glance over his shoulder at the runner, who now stood up with his mouth agape, and realized that he, Oliver Whitely, Earl of Bellamy, was about to enter the Black Raven’s house. It was a place where no gentleman had entered before, or at least not in the last two years. It was quite the achievement, really.
Bravado was a marvelous thing when one was desperate and drunk.
It was to be short-lived.
Legs like lead made Oliver stumble over the threshold. The warmth of the entryway seared his chilled flesh. Another discomfort soon followed—pins and needles racked his lower extremities with merciless fervor. He whirled to leave, wager completed, but the butler closed the door behind him so he was forced to turn back to face the entryway.
Capital! Trapped, by his own cleverness.
The butler seemed as eager as Oliver to have this business over with. He demonstrated such by snatching the hat from Oliver’s head then waiting impatiently for Oliver to peel off his gloves. If the man only knew how difficult standing was at the moment he may have shown some mercy. The butler’s eyes narrowed to slits.Perhaps not, then.
They began down the hall. Every step shot agony up Oliver’s legs, but he carried on stomping loudly to regain some blood flow to his legs. The butler stopped and looked over his shoulder at him with a raised brow.
“Pins and needles,” Oliver offered.
It was obvious the spindly fellow was unconcerned by Oliver’s predicament and simply carried on down the hall. Oliver looked around him as he followed. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see as they continued. Cobwebs, maybe, or ghoulish statues at least, but the house was remarkably unremarkable. This could be his Aunt Petunia’s place for all its apparent dullness. No, Aunt Petunia’s house smelled like her foul tonics and, besides, there was no snoring coming from the parlor.
He now stood at a door. Another one! How long would he have to wait outside this one? He realized the butler had left him. He followed the grain of the wood on the door with his forefinger.
Without warning, the door opened, and Oliver was confronted with the two faces of the butler, both frowning. “This way, my lord.”
Oliver nodded and fell in step behind the butler and soon found himself in the library. But this was not Henry’s library; it was somebody else’s. He took a few seconds to steady his stance and cleared his throat as discreetly as was humanly possible, blinking rapidly to get his eyes to focus appropriately.
“The Earl of Bellamy, my lady,” the butler announced.
“Where?” Oliver said, expecting to see his brother. Then rememberedhewas the Earl of Bellamy now. An ache erupted in his chest, but weeks of practice had enabled him to keep from choking on his grief. The butler gave him one last ferocious frown, then backed into the hall and closed the door.
He was going to be alone with the Black Raven. All of a sudden, he didn’t feel quite so clever and realized he was more than a little foxed. His lack of intelligence was directly related to his state of intoxication, but even in this lowered mental state he knew it was a bad combination. He was in no state to stand, let alone converse with this woman.
What had he been thinking? Not much at all apparently. His brain seemed to be swimming in porridge and no small amount of brandy. Belatedly, he recalled the Black Raven was a suspected murderess.Not at all convenient timing.
From what he could recall of Dalmere’s hasty tête-à-tête on the hack ride over, which was precious little now, she had never been convicted. Not enough evidence or some such thing. Still, one could not be too careful. Never underestimate the enemy and all that.
He could make his apologies now and leave before this turned embarrassing. He had accomplished what he set out to do, which was simply to gain entrance to the Black Raven’s lair. He was sure ravens didn’t have lairs, but entry to the Black Raven’snestdidn’t have quite the same ring to it.
He could have left, but he didn’t.
Before he could quite make up his mind what to do next, a swishing sound came from behind him and a fragrance he knew could only belong to a woman drifted across his nostrils. Fresh, sweet, with a hint of something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. His heart sped up considerably. A tingle of awareness settled uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. He tried to shrug the discomfort away.
A soft, slightly husky voice emanated from some place behind him. “Stay still. I want to have a look at you.”
He straightened, tensed. Ready for what, he wasn’t sure.
She came around from his left side, disarming him instantly. He could do naught but stare at her. Lord, she had the most incredible blue eyes. They were dark and rimmed around the edge with an even darker blue. They were intense, unnerving, remarkable—and studying him.
“Lord Bellamy?”
He had to shake himself mentally. Dalmere had left out some important information, it seemed. He had expected an old crone not this… goddess before him.
“Lady Blackhurst.” He bowed, though it was risky and not nearly as elegant as it should have been. Had she noted the slight wobble?
He really shouldn’t have kept looking at her. He didn’t expect to turn into stone or anything as dramatic as that, but because what he saw stunned him more than if he’d been bitten by a cobra. The reality of her made him regret every drop he’d taken tonight. It was a sobering effect indeed, yet made him feel light-headed in a whole different way.
Surreal in the shadowy light of the library, her features were small and elegant. Oliver couldn’t look away, hypnotized, lured into the dark sapphire depths of her eyes where he would surely have drowned, and gladly.
He was damned for sure now! Well, he’d be damned if he would be damned alone. So, damn Dalmere, damn brandy, and damn the French for makin’ it. Damn Henry, too, for dying and leaving him in this damned position. If not for his brother, he wouldn’t have taken on this damned ridiculous wager or any of the other damn wagers he’d taken on in the last couple of days.
Damn, but she was beautiful!
