“God.” Darius ran a hand through his hair. “It would have to be him.”

“He’s titled, and he has some blunt, Dare.” Leah was tapping her foot, though not in time to the music. “And he’s desperate, which are the requisite qualities for any match Papa finds for me.”

“But Hellerington.” Darius spat the name. “It isn’t to be borne, Leah.”

“He and Papa will dicker,” Leah said, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself. “Something might develop while they do.”

“We live in that hope, feeble though it is. I do not like leaving you here to be preyed upon.” He scowled down at her to emphasize his point.

“I am largely ignored, Darius.” She put a touch of frost in her tone, enough for him to realize she’d like privacy to collect herself rather than more of his badgering presence. “And if you don’t ask that Windham girl to dance, the Season will be half over, and you’ll be wishing you had.”

He curbed the temptation to lecture and rant, bowed over her hand, and departed. He wasn’t about to dance twice with any woman he wasn’t closely related to—the notably single Lady Jenny Windham, for example—but he took himself off anyway, mostly to cool his temper.

The ball was well attended because the Season was officially under way, and among the crowd, Darius saw that indeed, Lord Valentine Windham’s friend, Nicholas Haddonfield, Viscount Reston, had deigned to join the fray. The man was noteworthy for his great height and the physique of a Viking blacksmith, and for his enthusiasm regarding women of a certain ilk.

Easy women, naughty women, even decent women seemed to enjoy Reston’s attentions. Now why couldn’t a fellow like that take Leah on as his wife? There was an earldom in the offing for Reston, the rumor being he’d promised his ailing father he’d marry this Season.

And when Darius handed his sister into the coach, he was quietly surprised that it was about Reston she inquired. Well, she could do worse. And if Hellerington’s coin spoke loudly enough, she would do worse. Darius dropped Leah off then walked the few blocks to his destination, hoping the crisp night air might help him marshal his wits for the coming ordeal.

It did no good. Lucy was a snake, and she could strike from any angle, and Darius, God help him, was her prey of choice these days.

“Don’t tell me.” He seized the offensive as he strolled into her bedroom. “I’m late. My apologies, but Leah is bound to attend her entertainments until at least after supper, and I am bound to escort her.”

“Let your brother Amherst do it,” Lucy spat. “He’s the damned heir.”

She was in sufficiently rare form that he decided he’d placate her first—one last time—and take permanent leave of her thereafter.

“Trenton is only recently out of mourning, Lucy. He does his share. Then too, the matchmakers will swarm him should he show his face among decent ladies.”

Lucy’s expression moderated. “While you, they leave to the likes of me. Clothes off, Darius. You’ll pay for your divided loyalties, and dawdling won’t help.”

Darius shrugged out of his coat, wondering if Lucy realized his loyalty was to her coin. “As tired as I am, any excuse to get into any bed sounds appealing. How is your husband?”

She slapped him for that, which woke him up nicely.

“Been ignoring you, has he?” He saw the next blow coming and seized her wrist in a grasp not quite intended to hurt. “Hold, Lucy. Your puppy has run off, and in his place is a man unwilling to pleasure you for coin. I’m done with your beatings, whippings, and spankings. Take your ire out on Blanche or the footmen or the damned stable boys, but attack me again, and you’ll regret it.”

“I’ll regret it?” She wrenched free and came at him, nails and teeth, fists and feet, until Darius had her pinned beneath him on the bed.

“Enough, damn you.” He bounced her wrists hard against the mattress for good measure. “Be still.”

“Fuck me,” Lucy ordered, arching up against him. “If I can’t have the fun I want, the least you can do is swive me.”

“You know the rules, Lucy.” He did not make the mistake of letting her go. “No one runs the risk of pregnancy, and I don’t have to worry about a glove across my face.”

“As if Templeton would bother.” She tried to wrest free again, but Darius was too big, too strong, and too damned sick of her nonsense. The singed scent of her crimped hair alone was threatening his digestive control.

“I can hold you here all night,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I could offer you the gratification you pay me for. Rather than do either, I will, for once, do exactly as I please and walk out of here, not to return.”

And, God in heaven, the words felt wonderful.

“Damn you!” She made another futile attempt to regain her freedom, and Darius waited it out as patiently as he could. He perceived a new difficulty all too easily: though she tried to hide it, Lucy enjoyed being overpowered, probably even more than she enjoyed hurting him with her silly games.

“Do I have to bind you, Lucy?” He gritted out the question with a sinking feeling in his gut. He’d thought there was nothing worse than being her plaything, hers to tie up, beat, humiliate, and toy with, but pretending she was his plaything had to rank far beneath that.

“Yes,” she panted. “Bind me hand and foot, and then, by God, you’d better exert yourself, Lindsey, or I’ll ruin that sister of yours, see if I don’t.”

“Ruin her?” Darius whipped off his cravat and used it to secure her right wrist. “And how will you manage that, without being ruined yourself?”

“Oh, no.” Lucy shook her head, and her smile was a thing of evil. “You won’t tell a soul, Darius, not about these little trysts of ours. Do that, and your whole family suffers. Blanche is well informed regarding your sister’s little contretemps five years ago, and we can remind all and sundry of the details.”

Temper and seething frustration turned the edges of his vision red. Leah had been through enough, and yet Lucy would derive savage glee in destroying the remains of Leah’s marital prospects.

He used the sash of Lucy’s night robe to tie her other wrist, and made it a point not to tie her tightly or to yank her wrists uncomfortably as he did. It was petty revenge against a renewed sentence of misery at Lucy’s hands, but all he could manage.

“As if anyone in this town ever forgets a scandal.” He sat back and eyed her, realizing his clothes were on, and his complete lack of sexual interest in this woman was at least his to privately savor.

“Get busy, Darius.”

“No.” He moved off the bed and considered pleasuring himself while she was bound and helpless to do anything but watch. She’d hate that.

He’d hate it more. He tugged off his boots, rolled up his sleeves, and poured himself a drink of fine old brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, knowing Lucy was watching his every move.

Another swallow, while he rolled the alcohol around on his tongue and eyed her on the bed. God above, he needed to be drunk for this.

“I want it to hurt,” Lucy said. “Blood would be good. On the sheets.”

“You’re sick.” Darius set his glass down and approached the bed. “I should pity you.”

“You should fuck me.”

“No.” Never had a single word held so much pleasure for him.

“Shut up.” Lucy closed her eyes and lifted her hips. “Just shut up and get your mouth on me.”

He reversed direction and brought his glass of brandy to the night table.

“You want it to hurt, Lucy?”

She glared at him. “I want it to start.”

“I can make it burn,” he said, taking another swallow of brandy and climbing onto the bed.

She spread her legs and became docile as Darius did, indeed, make her burn, while his own torment involved flames of conscience rather than desire.

How had his life come to this?