Page 25 of The Seduction of Viscount Vice

Damnation. She was right.

Vice nodded brusquely. “Is there a rear door we can leave through?”

“Yes,” said Mairi, and she got to her feet. Helena also stood up, and after putting her cat mask back on—one that he had brought her home from a trip to Venice—she curled an arm through Mairi’s. His sister’s solidarity with a near-stranger rather than her own brother, especially after everything Mairi had done, felt like another stab to the gut.

He followed the two women down the hallway toward the back of the townhouse, clenching his fists at the profuse apologies his sister whispered.

“My carriage is waiting,” said Vice to Helena, ignoring Mairi completely. “You will go and wait in it, and I will be out in a few minutes to take you home. Understand?”

“Vice, don’t be cross with Mairi. It’s my f—”

“Don’t talk. Not a word. I’m so damned angry with you right now…Christ. If Parkton knew about this, it would kill him. And Mama…she cannot have two sinners, damn it. You are supposed to make up for me!”

“That is particularly unfair,” said Mairi, staring at him reproachfully, as if she had a fucking leg to stand on when it came to appropriate behavior. “Not even a bloody saint could make up for you.”

Vice glared at her, so ready to heave her out a window he could barely control himself, but even so, he was shocked when his Highland warrior actually shrank back instead of facing him down. “I’ll thank ye to stay out of my family business. Now, go, Helena. Before anyone sees.”

His sister shot him a defiant look, flinging her arms around Mairi and hugging her tightly before fleeing outside.

“I didn’t invite her,” said Mairi into the hideous silence. “I swear.”

“Oh, you swear? Well. Of course, I believe you, being the oracle of truth you are.”

“Iain, please—”

“How could you? This whole week? Hell. You truly are the greatest actress to walk the earth. Or should I say, walk the Worldly. I cannae believe…fuck. Every fucking time you open your mouth, you lie to me. And you play me false. Nothing has changed in ten years. Not one damned thing. I am my own worst enemy: able to be fooled twice.”

She shuddered. “No. And you are right that nothing has changed in ten years. I still feel the same about you as I did in Scotland. Like I’m offered heaven and it’s in my grasp and then ripped away.”

“Liar,” he snarled. “Even now I don’t deserve the dignity of truth? For once in your damned life?”

“I am telling you the truth. You don’t know the jagged rocks beneath the surface, Iain. Or how much I regret hurting you. It hurt me, too. More and more and more as I fell in love with you all over again. But now, I’ve lost everything.”

“Don’t. Don’t say another fucking word. I can’t believe I ever listened to you. Is this what you did with all your men in France? Lured them in with theater, then discarded them when they were no longer worthy or useful?”

Mairi stalked up to him, her blue eyes finally igniting. “My men? You know nothing about Paris. Nothing. But if we’re talking facts and truth, there were two men in my life. Ramsey and Olivier.”

An incredulous laugh escaped. “Oh, please. You expect me to believe that a woman with blood as hot as yours took no lovers in the middle of a high-class Paris pleasure club? Now you’re just insulting me. You need to be fucked, Mairi. You crave it. Anytime, anywhere.”

Pain scorched across his cheekbone, and the sound of the slap hung in the air, somehow even louder than the sounds of the revelry back in the townhouse rooms. On another occasion, it might have been comical the way Mairi’s startled gaze darted between his face and her pink palm. But then she squared her shoulders and glared at him. The warrior had returned.

“I wasn’t in the middle of the pleasure club, I was well behind the curtains. Sewing by candlelight. Lugging boxes. Covered in dirt. Yes, there was the odd kiss, but shockingly, neither the aristos nor the servants were clamoring to bed a dusty Scottish seamstress with no breasts or hips and who towered over them. No, I need to be fucked by you. I crave it with you. Anytime, anywhere with you, you damned Highland blockhead.”

Anger and lust twisted together like a perfect storm, and Vice found himself shoving her against the wall, one thigh forcing hers apart as his hand delved under her thin, silky robe. Her legs were encased in whisper-thin stockings with soft satin rosettes at the top. The contrast between the warm, smooth skin at the tops of her thighs and the slightly rough stockings was far too erotic for his peace of mind. “Witch,” he muttered as he drowned in the scent of heat and aroused woman, one hand curving around her hips as she blatantly thrust them forward.

“Yes.” She panted raggedly in his ear as his right hand slid up to cup her breasts in the low-cut stays. “Yes. Fuck me. Right here. I want you so badly tonight, Iain. I need—”

“Mairi,” he groaned, not wanting to talk, only touch. But instead of hard nipples and warm skin, his hand met fabric, and he halted. Padding?

Pretense. Always pretense, with her.

Shamelessly, she laughed. “Stupid vanity, I know. But everyone wants to see mountains, not dales. Even you, if you would just admit it.”

His ardor chilled like a loch in winter, and he stepped back. “No. When I said I wanted you, I actually meant it. As you are. No hidden motives. No caveats. Goodbye, Mairi.”

“Iain! Wait…”

Vice shrugged her hand from his arm, weary to the bone.