Midnight's Wild Passion Read online

  Midnight’s Wild Passion

  Anna Campbell

  Dedication

  For my dear friend Annie West,

  who turns the writing journey into a party!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  By Anna Campbell

  ASCENSION Sneak Peek

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  London

  April 1827

  Beneath hooded eyelids, Nicholas Challoner, Marquess of Ranelaw, surveyed the whirling snowstorm of white dresses. A debutantes’ ball was the last place the ton expected to encounter a rake of his appalling reputation. A rake of his appalling reputation should know better than to appear at any such respectable gathering.

  With his arrival, the chatter faltered away to silence. Ranelaw was accustomed to causing a flutter. Neither curiosity nor disapproval distracted him. As the orchestra scratched a trite écossaise, he scanned the room for his prey.

  Ah, yes. . .

  His jaded gaze settled upon his mark.

  The chit wore white. Of course. The color symbolized purity. It convinced buyers in this particular market that no human hand had sullied the merchandise.

  For Miss Cassandra Demarest, he’d ensure that promise was a lie. Nothing much excited him these days, but as he contemplated his victim, satisfaction stirred in his gut.

  After the brief, shocked silence, the room exploded into hubbub. Clearly Ranelaw wasn’t the only person convinced he belonged elsewhere.

  A fiery, subterranean elsewhere.

  The guests were right to be perturbed. He carried mayhem in his soul.

  A smile of wicked anticipation teased at his lips as he studied the girl. Until a caricature in black stepped between him and his object of interest, spoiling the view. He frowned, then turned when Viscount Thorpe spoke beside him.

  “Sure you’re ready for this, old man? The tabbies are giving you the cold eye and you haven’t asked Miss Demarest to dance yet.”

  “A man reaches the age to set up his nursery, Thorpe.” He glanced up again, seeking his quarry. The black barrier hindering his inspection resolved itself into a tall woman with a nondescript face. At least what he saw was nondescript, under tinted spectacles and a lace cap with ugly, dangling lappets.

  Thorpe scoffed. “Miss Demarest won’t give you the time of day, my good fellow.”

  Ranelaw’s smile turned cynical. “I’m one of the richest men in England and my name goes back to the Conquest.”

  Thorpe released an unimpressed snort. “The name you’ve done your best to disgrace. Your courtship won’t be the doddle you imagine, my fine friend. Miss Demarest has the kingdom’s most fearsome chaperone. You might gull the filly, but the redoubtable Miss Smith will send you packing before you get your paws on the girl’s fortune. Before you get so much as a whiff of it, I’ll wager.”

  “I’m not interested in Miss Demarest’s fortune,” Ranelaw said with perfect honesty. “And surely you don’t rely on some sparrow of a spinster to circumvent me. I eat chaperones for breakfast.”

  He ate courtesans and widows and other men’s wives for lunch and dinner, with much more pleasurable result. He trusted very little in his life, but since his first heady experience of sex, he’d trusted the fleeting delight he found in a woman’s body. He asked nothing more of his lovers, frequently to their chagrin.

  Thorpe’s eyes brightened with greed. “A hundred guineas say Miss Smith dismisses you with a flea in your ear when you make your bow.”

  “A hundred? A paltry risk for a sure thing. Make it five.”

  “Done.”

  Lady Wreston wove through the throng to greet the arrivals. Thorpe had made sure his aunt sent Ranelaw a card for the ball. Nonetheless she looked less than overjoyed to see him.

  A pity. She’d looked overjoyed to see him yesterday afternoon in her summerhouse. She’d looked even more overjoyed half an hour later with her drawers around her ankles and a hectic flush heightening her famous complexion.

  Devil take their delicious hides, but women were a capricious sex.

  Ranelaw glanced past his comely hostess to where Cassandra Demarest shifted back into sight. He’d had the girl followed since her arrival in London a week ago and he’d observed her himself from a distance. She was a fetching little piece. Blond. A graceful figure. Ranelaw had never been close enough to read her expression with accuracy. Doubtless it would reveal the same vacuous sweetness that shone from the face of every maiden here.

  If one excepted the chaperones.

  His attention returned to the woman leaning over Miss Demarest like a sheltering tree over a ewe lamb. As if divining his thoughts, the chaperone stiffened. Her head jerked up and she focused on him.

  Even across the room, even through her spectacles, her gaze burned. Severe, assessing, unwavering. Absolutely nothing fetching there, but he found himself unable to look away. Uncannily the surrounding cacophony faded to expectant hush.

  As blatant as a tossed glove, she flung down a challenge.

  Then she turned to answer something her charge said, Lady Wreston bustled up in all her plump glory, and the instant of hostile awareness splintered.

  Unaccountably disconcerted by that wordless exchange of fire, Ranelaw bowed over his hostess’s hand and asked to meet the Demarest heiress. Millicent, Lady Wreston, couldn’t hide her flash of pique, but she knew what their world demanded. Girls were born to be wedded then bedded. Single men did the honors. Even single men who had sown a continent of wild oats required a legitimate heir.

  The polite fiction of his interest in the marriage mart was convenient, although he rarely used respectability to cloak darker intentions. Hypocrisy counted among the rare sins he didn’t commit on a regular basis. Nor did he indulge in willful self-deception. He knew that he’d roast in hell for what he plotted. Cassandra Demarest was an innocent who didn’t deserve the fate he intended. But what he wrought was too important for him to ignore how perfectly the girl fitted his purposes. He couldn’t allow scruples to discourage him.

  Scruples and he had long been polite strangers.

  He lingered to soothe his hostess’s vanity, all the while watching Miss Demarest’s every move. She’d accepted a dance, and her partner now returned her to t
he fearsome chaperone. The fearsome chaperone was a long Meg under that loose, rusty black gown at least five seasons out of date.

  Then the Demarest chit spoke and the uninteresting Miss Smith smiled.

  And became no longer quite so uninteresting.

  Ranelaw felt winded, like someone had punched him in the belly.

  Ridiculous, really, to be intrigued. So the crone possessed a lush mouth. Except now that he sauntered closer, he recognized Miss Smith wasn’t a crone after all. Her skin was clear and unlined, with a soft flush of color like the pink of dawn. He found himself wondering about the eyes behind those unbecoming spectacles.

  Good God, what was wrong with him?

  The haggish chaperone demonstrated signs of desirability. Who the hell cared? He had other fish to fry. Young, unsuspecting fish trapped in a net of vengeance.

  Lady Wreston performed introductions. “Lord Ranelaw, may I present Miss Cassandra Demarest, the daughter of Mr. Godfrey Demarest, of Bascombe Hailey in Somerset? This lady is her companion, Miss Smith.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ranelaw watched the chaperone straighten as if scenting danger. She was more awake than her charge, who blushed and dipped into a charming curtsy.

  “Delighted, Miss Demarest,” he murmured, bending over her gloved hand with a deference he knew the girl—and her dour companion—would note.

  “My lord.” Cassandra Demarest had long, childish eyelashes tipped with a gold darker than the luxuriant curls framing her piquant face. She inspected Ranelaw from under their shadow.

  A natural coquette.

  He wasn’t surprised. Nor was he surprised to discover a beauty. She was as bright as a daffodil.

  His skin prickled under the chaperone’s glare. Curse the crowlike Miss Smith. He needed to concentrate on his goal, not some disapproving and insignificant old maid. Although with every second, he revised his estimate of the chaperone’s age downward.

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” A waltz struck up.

  “I’d love—”

  Miss Smith interrupted. “I’m sorry, Lord Ranelaw, but Miss Demarest’s father strictly forbids the waltz. She has a country dance free after supper.”

  The dragon didn’t sound sorry. Her husky voice was surprisingly resolute, considering she rebuked a man so far above her in rank.

  “Toni, surely Papa wouldn’t mind under these circumstances,” Miss Demarest said in a winning tone.

  Toni—an intriguingly pretty name for such a starched board—arched a blond eyebrow. “You know your father’s rules.”

  Miss Demarest was clearly used to wheedling her own way. Ranelaw prepared for a childish outburst, but the girl took denial in good spirit. Apparently he was mistaken in both women. Miss Demarest wasn’t altogether a brainless flibbertigibbet. The black beetle showed unexpected promise.

  How interesting. . .

  More white-clad butterflies joined the group. Introductions were performed. The chaperone hovered protectively.

  Wise chaperone.

  Lady Wreston wandered away while Thorpe questioned Miss Demarest about mutual acquaintances in Somerset. Thorpe was related to half the nation and anyone he wasn’t related to was apparently his dear acquaintance. The quizzing could continue into tomorrow. Taking advantage of the diverted attention, Ranelaw shifted nearer to the companion. She was even taller than he’d thought. In bed, she’d fit him perfectly.

  What particular Gehenna spawned that thought?

  “The chit won’t take if you terrify all the eligible gentlemen, Miss Smith.” Music and conversation restricted his taunting remark to her ears.

  She started but didn’t retreat. He found himself respecting her courage if not her sense of self-preservation. She kept her gaze fixed on Miss Demarest, who giggled at one of Thorpe’s quips in a way Ranelaw found remarkably irritating. Would she giggle when he fucked her? He feared it likely.

  “My lord, I hope you will permit me to be frank,” Miss Smith said sternly.

  He could imagine what the dragon wanted to say. She’d displayed only dismay when Lady Wreston introduced him to Miss Demarest. His reputation had preceded him. He counted on it as a weapon in his arsenal of seduction. Young girls found his wildness deplorably romantic.

  Silly poppets.

  “And if I said no?” he asked lazily.

  “I’d still find myself compelled to speak.”

  “So I imagined,” he said with a boredom that was completely feigned. Most people disapproved of him. Few had the backbone to tell him so to his face.

  “Pray suffer no insult when I tell you I consider you neither eligible nor a gentleman, my lord. Miss Demarest can do considerably better than the Marquess of Ranelaw, even if your intentions are honorable, which I take leave to doubt.”

  He burst into laughter. His first unguarded response since entering this stuffy ballroom.

  The woman had nerve. Damn him if she didn’t. His interest, reluctantly aroused, became intent. He’d have the girl. No question. And before he was done, he’d have the chaperone as well.

  He’d strip away that ugly gown. He’d unpin that wrenched-back hair—whatever color it was under that horrible cap—until it tumbled around her shoulders. He’d kiss those untouched breasts. He’d teach her to relish a man’s caresses.

  He reminded himself that the duenna was a side benefit of the main game. But his instincts didn’t accept that. Right now, his instincts were pitched to hunting sharpness because of a desiccated maiden of uncertain age.

  “You don’t mince words, Miss Smith.”

  “No, I don’t,” she said calmly. Still, blast her, without moving away. Didn’t she know he was dangerous?

  He waved off a footman bearing a tray of orgeat. He despised that sickly sweet swill. Bugger it, he wanted a real drink. And he wanted to get his head screwed on right. For God’s sake, he was accounted a connoisseur of the frail sex. He refused to let a prune-faced virgin divert him from his quest.

  A prune-faced virgin who stood so close, he caught teasing hints of her scent. Something wholesome and clean. Something indicating innocence.

  Of course it did.

  “I make a difficult enemy,” he said in a low voice.

  She shrugged, still without looking at him. “Set your sights on another heiress, Lord Ranelaw.”

  “And that’s a commandment from my lady disdain?”

  At last she stared directly at him. The tinted glasses obscured her eyes, but he couldn’t mistake her jaw’s stubborn line. “You can’t possibly consider this a challenge. A country miss and a harridan of a chaperone?”

  He felt an unaccustomed urge to laugh again. He had the oddest conviction that she knew him better than anyone else here. “Why not?”

  The primming of her mouth only drew his attention to its pink fullness. A spinster companion had no right to such kissable lips.

  Now he’d actually met her, the prospect of bedding Cassandra Demarest flooded him with ennui. Whereas the idea of shutting Miss Smith’s delectable but scolding mouth with passionate kisses, then thrusting hard between her spindly thighs made him vibrate with anticipation. Vinegar became his beverage of choice. He must have a maggot in his brain. He rarely found troublesome women appealing. Miss Smith had troublesome written all over her scrawny form.

  Years of practice helped him conceal these unsettling reactions. Instead he tilted a knowing eyebrow and spoke in an indolent drawl that would irritate her to her undoubtedly thick and scratchy undergarments. “You know, for a woman little above a servant, you have a damned impudent manner.”

  Again she didn’t back down. Her drawl almost matched his for self-confidence. Who was this woman? “Only impudent? How disappointing. When I strove for insolent, my lord.”

  This time a huff of laughter did escape. No female crossed swords with him, no matter how high born.
br />   Miss Smith provided a refreshing change.

  Perhaps that was why he found her so compelling. He couldn’t possibly have developed a taste for hatchet-faced maypoles with sharp tongues and no dress sense.

  “Miss Smith,” he murmured in a silky voice, “if you seek to discourage, you’re failing miserably. The prospect of besting you becomes irresistible.”

  Still she didn’t take warning. Her chin tipped at a defiant angle. “Prove yourself a better man than the world believes and resist temptation, Lord Ranelaw.”

  A smile curled his lips. She was delicious. Tart like lemon curd. A sharp, fresh taste that wouldn’t pall. Oh, he’d have her in his bed. She’d be his reward for ruining the poppet.

  “Temptation is impossible to resist. That’s what makes it temptation.”

  “You would know.”

  “Miss Smith, you’d be amazed at what I know,” he said with as much salacious emphasis as he could manage. And a man with his experience could manage a great deal.

  Through her spectacles, he felt her withering glance. Brava, Miss Smith. Seducing this woman would be like training a leopard to eat from his hand. She hissed and snarled now, but under a master’s tutelage, she’d learn to purr.

  “Lord Ranelaw . . .” she began, an edge to her voice.

  The promise of a tongue-lashing was devilish exciting. What a pity he couldn’t whisk her away and teach her to use that tongue for other purposes altogether.

  The wench would have an apoplexy if she could read his mind.

  Although something told him little disconcerted the stalwart Miss Smith. No wonder she was accounted the dragon of chaperones. Ranelaw rather liked casting himself as St. George. And this St. George would steal away both maiden and monster. Lucky fellow.