Too Wicked for Heaven

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“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.

Him. Oh, merciful heavens, why him?

She hadn’t seen him in seven years, ever since she’d gone to live with Uncle Winston, but that made no difference. She had never forgotten those laughing green eyes or the dimple in only one cheek that gave him an utterly charming, lopsided grin.

Nev. Or rather, Neville Blakely, the Marquess of Foxworth, the brother of her best friend from years ago. The Blakely’s town house had been next to her parents’ then. During her childhood, she’d spent a great deal of time there and at Foxworth with Isabella Blakely.

He wore no costume—just the typical attire of a man attending a ball—and his gorgeous walnut-brown hair lay in its usual wild curls about his ears.

How many times had she sighed over those curls? How often had she worshipped Nev’s features, the dark, slashing brows and the lips full enough to be indecently sensuous? How frequently had she lain in bed, wondering what it would be like to caress that handsome face?

Now she was close enough to do so. What’s more, he was staring at her far differently than he had at the foolish girl whom he’d teased and mostly ignored.

Indeed, he seemed amused by her scrutiny. His smile brought forth that fatal dimple once more, making her heart flutter with a troublesome ease.

“Have I met with your approval, my curious beauty?” he asked in a husky voice. “Or must I perform another service to gain your good will? Challenge the rose bush to a duel, perhaps?”

“Only if you plan to lose, sir,” she snapped. “Because I can attest that this particular rose bush is positively dangerous. Now, please go away before someone finds me in this scandalous situation.” Like my uncle.

Thank heavens he hadn’t recognized her. But he wouldn’t have. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been rake-thin and short, with eyes too big for her face.

He tugged on her skirts only to find them still tangled in the thorns of the bushes. “Ah, but you’re not free yet. It would be rude to abandon you in your hour of need.” With one finger, he traced the line of her jaw. “Besides, I won’t go until I at least know your name.”

Oh, what a coil. If Uncle Winston ever found out she’d been alone on a balcony with the Marquess of Foxworth . . .

It didn’t bear thinking on. Uncle had forbidden her to socialize with either Isabella or Neville.

It was probably because of Nev’s reputation. She’d heard a great deal about his exploits, and not only from his sister’s clandestine letters. Even before the years when she and Isabella had trailed after him and his dashing friends, he’d cut quite a figure in London.

Society called him “The Fox.” Like his father before him, he was the kind of notorious blade whom matrons feared and eligible maidens sighed after. Not that it did the maidens any good. The Prince of Wales himself, one of Nev’s intimates, had once described him in rhyme:

The Fox will never take a wife,

He’ll be a rakehell all his life.

Though many a woman grace his bed

The Fox will never lose his head.

It was said that Nev didn’t care who inherited his title. The gossips claimed he preferred bedding the most influential women in London to being leg-shackled, that he didn’t care who inherited his title.

But more telling for Althea’s situation was the rumor that he never touched a woman without stealing her honor. And judging from the arm he slid about her waist, he seemed bent on stealing hers. Or at least tarnishing it.

She tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “I’d thank you to release me, my lord.

” She steeled her voice with a haughty manner foreign to her.

After he’d seen her sprawled on the floor like an unruly child, she must correct his assumption that she was a foolish chit who’d be flattered by his affections.

Even if it was true.

He raised both eyebrows, though he ignored her request. “‘My lord’? Do you know me?”

Her demeanor slipped a notch as she cursed her unthinking tongue. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if it mattered that she knew who he was. Everyone did. “I know of you. Who doesn’t? You’re Lord Foxworth.”