Page 1 of Too Wicked for Heaven

Chapter One

LONDON, 1802

“Some ball this turned out to be,” Lady Althea Ransome grumbled as she escaped onto the balcony of Lord Farthington’s town house. She peered back into the ballroom. The pompous fop who’d been bearing down on her was staring about himself in confusion.

Thank heavens she had lost him. Another encounter with that overly powdered dandy, and she might just stuff his wig in his mouth to shut him up about his high-flyer phaeton and matched pair of roans.

She inched back from the doorway, not wanting him to spot her. So much for her first masquerade ball. Her first ball, period. Clearly, such affairs weren’t for meeting witty, eligible young men. They were for subjecting unsuspecting young ladies to the largest assortment of simpering coxcombs, aging rakes, and smooth-tongued fortune-hunters ever collected in one place.

And from these, Uncle Winston expected her to choose a husband? Impossible! She’d marry a law clerk and live in a garret before she’d tie herself to any of the men who’d ogled her bosom this evening.

But surely Uncle Winston wouldn’t press her into an unwanted marriage. Then again, he’d only brought her to London to find her a husband and be rid of her.

She forced down her usual pang. She mustn’t blame Uncle Winston for his eagerness to pack her off to a husband. When made her guardian after her parents’ deaths, he’d only been twenty-five. And though he’d always led a sober life, her presence was probably still an encumbrance, even if he did keep her isolated at Kensingham Hall with only servants for company.

Even now he was off dancing with his fiancée, leaving her to deal with her troublesome fop. Darting a glance back into the ballroom, she caught sight of the popinjay, still standing guard near the balcony as if expecting her to reappear any moment. Devil take it, would he never leave?

Then he peered through the doorway to the balcony. Alarmed, she backed into the shadows. A rod of something hitting her calves told her she’d made a drastic error just as she tumbled backward over the potted rose bush someone had placed very inconveniently.

“Blast, blast, and double-blast!”

Her top half now lay ignominiously on the marble floor, while her feet were thrust in the air with her stockinged legs bared and her panniers making it difficult, if not impossible, for her to rise. A squirm or two only served to confirm that her skirts and her panniers were caught in the thorny branches.

With a grimace, she laid her head on the cold floor. A fitting end to an abominable night. Hadn’t she endured enough? Now she was trapped like a turtle flipped onto its back. She couldn’t call for anyone. It would be too mortifying to be found like this, or worse yet, have Uncle Winston brought here, forcing her to explain what she was doing on her back on a balcony.

He wouldn’t approve of her ducking suitors. It wasn’t proper, and after everything his fiancée‚ Theresa, a young widow who shared his high moral standards, had done this summer to make Althea presentable for society, the least Althea could do was give the appearance of being proper.

But if she didn’t call for anyone ...

As she envisioned lying there until the maids found her tomorrow, tears burned her eyes. She swiped them away with an oath. She wouldn’t sit here and blubber like a silly girl. She was quite capable of taking care of this without making a fool of herself. Somehow, she would get herself out of this fix before she was discovered.

Experimentally she tugged on her skirts, but they held fast. She tugged harder, but they didn’t move, and she dared not risk tearing them. Torn skirts would be impossible to explain away to her uncle’s satisfaction.

Even worse, her panniers seemed to have taken root in that infernal pot along with the rose bush. That was what she got for masquerading as Marie Antoinette. She simply wasn’t used to wearing the preposterous things.

The autumn air chilled her to the bone, especially since she’d come out without her wrap. “Devil take it,” she muttered as she rubbed her scantily covered arms.

“Not very ladylike language,” rumbled a distinctly male voice somewhere above her.

She closed her eyes. Oh, no. Some man had found her. It wasn’t the popinjay she’d been avoiding—this fellow’s voice was deeper—but she was afraid to discover what other wolfish rogue was eyeing her as if she were a plump hen for his supper.

Still, she wasn’t a coward. Schooling her features to remain even, she lifted her gaze to find a man standing over her, his face in shadow and his arms crossed as he surveyed her.

“Not a very ladylike position either,” he added, the amusement in his voice growing more pronounced.

She fought down waves of shame. Though she couldn’t make out his features, it was obvious what kind of man he was. And her fears were confirmed when he merely stood there watching her.

Shame was replaced by anger. “You could help me up.”

A wicked chuckle escaped his lips. “I could.” He let his gaze trail to her exposed legs. “But then I’d deprive myself of a truly enticing view.”

How many rakes were in this place anyway? “Excuse me, sir, but I mistook you for a gentleman.”

With a laugh, he unfolded his arms and leaned down to clasp her about the waist. “That was indeed a mistake.” He lifted her in his arms, carrying her up and over the rose bush. “But be glad I’m not one. A gentleman might have averted his face and gone to summon your family, which I suspect you wouldn’t have appreciated.”

He was right, but she certainly wouldn’t let him know that. She’d thank him and send him on his way.

Unfortunately, when he set her down, he only tightened his grip on her waist. She lifted her head to give him an acid rebuff, but the words died on her lips when she saw his face.