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  Swept Away by a Wild Lord

  Tanya Wilde

  Chapter 1

  Sebastian Rupert Ainsley, sixth Duke of Blackcress, stared at the growing crowd in disgust. How had he managed to be dragged to this travesty of an event? He never did anything he did not wish to do. That is unless it brought him the pleasure of a woman or some pounds in his pocket. And this did neither.

  Yet here he stood—at the marriage mart. Sebastian shuddered at the very thought of mammas towing their anxious daughters around, hoping to find them a good match.

  Pitiful creatures.

  Soon they, too, would learn the harsh reality of their lives, how filled with meaningless boredom their existence would become to the men they would marry. Well, perhaps not entirely insignificant. A woman did serve some purpose, he supposed. In bed.

  But it did not matter much to Sebastian, really, as the one thing he would never do was take a wife.

  His icy glare landed on two misses tittering behind their fans, giggling and batting their lashes in his direction. It did not take much for them to scatter, only the curl of his lip evolving into a growl.

  He felt like a bloody imposter.

  A wolf in sheepskin, always on the prowl. A wolf also constantly hunted, traps laid everywhere by those marriage-minded mammas and their chits. It was why Sebastian stuck to the already married ones.

  Roland Black, his longtime friend and the Duke of Ashford, or, as Sebastian liked to call him, the Duke of Asshole, was wench hunting tonight. He, at least, had a particular wedded lady in his sights who would surely and readily welcome him. The man’s silver tongue was also the reason Sebastian now found himself contemplating the merits of strangling his friend. Why Ashford required a babysitter on his excursions was downright mind-boggling, but knowing the man, it was just to annoy Sebastian. And with annoyance, he meant keeping the husband of his friend’s ladylove busy while Ashford tupped her against the wall somewhere in the house.

  Indeed, he harbored no doubt this night would end in trouble.

  “Royal bastard,” Sebastian muttered under his breath.

  He was going to cut Ashford loose if the husband of his latest fascination did not get to him first. Not that his or Ashford’s presence here fooled anyone. They had both publically declared they would never marry. All the mammas knew there was no reason he would subject himself to these torturous events if he were not wench hunting, which he had no intention of doing, at least not tonight. It amused him, however, that all the mothers he passed cast him sidelong glances and eyed him warily. As if he planned on snatching one of their babes right then and there.

  Truth be told, Sebastian was tired. Nothing held pleasure anymore. Not fine whiskey, not sport, not scaring young maidens into faints . . . Not even his usual busty blond widow. Nothing sated his once ever-present appetite. It had just vanished. And with it, he had stopped bothering to look for women. It was a damn travesty. Not even the fact that he owned more money than one man could spend in two lifetimes held any comfort.

  He had whored and imbibed all his life, and it seemed his sins had finally caught up with him. His apathy would strip him of ever being complete again. Not that he could claim he ever had been, but Sebastian liked to believe that sometime in his youth there had existed such a time when he had been whole—wholesome even. Before he had been corrupted by his vices and ultimately ruined himself.

  His own father had called him a disappointment of a son on his deathbed. In fact, those were his father’s last words. Who the hell was the old dodger to say that anyway when he himself had been an utter failure as a father? The man had never shown him any love as a child, not that Sebastian would recognize the emotion, having never loved another human being in his life. The closest he had come was Ashford, and that was mostly tolerance. Nevertheless, Sebastian had glimpsed the sentiment associated with love and knew that was not the emotion that had driven his father.

  He glanced to the exit with longing when a flash of gold caught his eye.

  And then he saw her.

  She stood across from him, on the other side of the ballroom, dressed in a gown of glittering gold silk. Her skin was creamy pale, begging to be kissed, and her hair, bloody hell, it was strawberries dipped in the light of the sun and was pinned loosely to the back of her head, shimmering in the candlelight. Confidence trickled from a relaxed posture and leveled chin, her gaze steady as she captured the gaze of every man in the room. Even his tired, jaded eyes could not glance away.

  She was, in one word, exquisite.

  Every nerve in his spine tingled as the predator in him rippled to life, every instinct sharpening as the hunter in him rose up to the challenge.

  Sebastian blinked. Was he feeling?

  From across the room, his hawkish eyes tracked her movements as she worked her way through the crowd with small unhurried steps, disappearing from his view twice before he caught her inhaling a deep breath in a secluded spot no more than a few feet away from him.

  She was average in stature. Not at all like the tall, buxom blondes he usually preferred. Something sparked to life inside his chest at that. He followed her gaze, which was riveted on some gentleman laughing with another chit. Dismissing the man at once as an irrelevant dandy, Sebastian’s eyes returned to settle on her face again, noting the determined set of her jaw.

  Interesting.

  His gaze traveled over her features, which were delicate, as was her frame, much too delicate for the likes of him.

  As if sensing she was being observed, or more accurately, ogled, she turned her head, sparing the slightest of glances his way.

  Sebastian leaned back against the French doors, crossing his leg over the other and settled in, waiting for his prey to approach before he pounced. Years of reading people left him certain she would chance his way for a breath of fresh air.

  Thoughts of Ashford and babysitting scattered as his lips curled into a wicked curve. The lady would be sprawled naked in his bed before dawn signaled a new day.

  Now that he would do.

  Chapter 2

  Lady Anastacia Danvers made her way through the crowd with steady and sure steps, heading for an empty spot where she could breathe and assess the gentleman who would soon become her husband in peace. She did not care for the attention she was receiving from all the other gentlemen, though it could not be helped. In order to attract the one she wanted, she first had to establish desirability.

  She studied her soon-to-be fiancé in quiet speculation.

  Lord Averly John Benson, second son of the Earl of Benson, was the perfect specimen. She had taken great care in her choice from her list of potential husbands, and she had not made the decision lightly. This lord would suit her needs perfectly, and he was also quite easy on the eyes. Not that appearance mattered, mind you. All that truly mattered was that she wed the right kind of gentleman and was quick about it.

  A fortnight.

  At most.

  The rough estimate of time was based on a shocking mixture of guesswork, calculation, and eavesdropping. Fourteen days. That was about all the time Anastacia had to marry. Maybe even less. Her very survival depended upon securing a husband. But no matter how desperate she was, she’d set firm, practical perimeters on what she required. She needed a husband with enough of a backbone for her purposes, but also one who was neither cruel nor controlling, neither greedy nor domineering. She’d not trade her current cage for a similar one. Which was another reason she had chosen Lord Averly. Being the friendly sort, he would never dominate her—or her inheritance—and being a gentleman; he would also play the hero and protect her from harm.

  So, on the whole, her task was to win him over, and not only make him fall madly in love with her b
ut also fall in love with her enough that she could persuade him to elope, as well, and all in the span of a prickly amount of time. Because—and she felt nauseous every time she thought of it—her uncle would soon return home to their estate in Herefordshire and find her gone.

  Anastacia planned to be married by then.

  For all that, the elopement part of her plan depended on her soon-to-be fiancé, and so needed to be handled with the utmost sensitivity. Luckily, Anastacia was confident she possessed the will and means to convince him.

  Her hand lifted to knead the curve of her neck as she inhaled deeply, the heat in the room causing moisture to form on her forehead. Not very flattering.

  With a glance to the French doors, she hesitated only for a bare moment before heading in that direction. The city, she discovered, proved quite daunting, and Anastacia had to admit that having lived in the country her entire life, she found it rather unsavory. But, well, that was just the air. Beyond that, the experience was rather thrilling.

  Outside, the crisp, fresh air cooled her skin, and she let out an audible breath of pleasure. The chilly air also served as a balm to all her worries, concerns she wished she could break free from.

  All in good time.

  That was if her plan worked.

  Glancing about the balcony, she noticed no one else, which pleased her. If her uncle ever learned she had traveled to London without his knowledge, it would not bode well for her. And Anastacia could not bear to live under that tyrant for a moment more than was necessary.

  “A dark balcony is no place for a tempting morsel such as yourself.” The sudden low drawl of a male voice filled the night.

  So unexpected was the interruption to her peace, Anastacia whirled around with a gasp and was met by the wicked stretch of lips on the most attractive man she had ever come across. Though handsome was too a fine word to describe him.

  Striking. Aye, that was a more apt illumination of the man grinning down at her.

  Sharp angles lined his face, made complete by an undisciplined dark mane—as if he had just come from a windy horseback ride. Long, envy-inducing lashes fringed his obsidian eyes, but perhaps his most noteworthy feature was his mouth. Devilish and teasing, its full power was directed solely at her.

  Alarm bells signaled in her head.

  He ogled her like she was a delicious pastry and he had every intention of devouring her. She did not need this, whatever this was.

  Anastacia was about to flee when the low ringing of his laughter sent chills down her spine, presumably because of her alarm, or perhaps her dumbstruck reaction before he bowed and introduced himself as, “The Duke of Blackcress at your service, my lady.”

  That snapped her right out of her stupor. A duke? Here, on the balcony with her? Alone and introducing himself? Were they not supposed to be introduced by their host? Having spent most of her life in the country, she would not be surprised if things had become more forward since her last visit to London. But if they hadn’t, did that make him a rakish duke then? It certainly made him a bold one.

  Her face burning, Anastacia executed the perfect curtsy, her cheeks reddening even more when he raised one brow. Still, good manners dictated she say, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, your grace.”

  The to-be-decided rakish duke tilted his head to the side, amusement entering his gaze. “Did your parents not see fit to gift you with a name?”

  Anastacia blinked. Should she? Dare she? She was just about to let her name slip from her lips when the sudden gleam in his eyes gave her pause. His countenance resembled that of a wolf. A disreputable wolf. Of course, she may yet be wrong, but since time was of the essence, she could not afford to spend it fighting off the dubious attentions of a rake.

  “Why yes, your grace,” Anastacia murmured, their gazes locking, “but not one I feel the need to share.”

  If he was taken aback by her boldness, he did not show it.

  “You refuse to tell me your name?”

  Anastacia shrugged, which caused his smile to broaden. Belatedly, she wondered if it was wise to refuse a simple request from a duke. It appeared as though she had unwittingly issued a challenge of sorts. However, there was nothing wrong with her intuition. It may have been years since she last graced the streets of London, but instinct still warned that this duke’s intentions were unsavory.

  This man, duke or not, was a rake.

  Artfully, he stepped away from the entrance and onto the balcony, moving into the shadows but leaving her in full view of the ballroom. Her gaze followed his movements, although now his face was obscured by darkness.

  So, he would not leave until she gave him what he wanted. No matter, she would leave. Her focus ought to be on Lord Averly, anyway. “If you will excuse me, your grace—”

  “No, I do not excuse you, not before you tell me your name.”

  Anastacia stilled, her senses going on high alert. Her mind racked for the appropriate way to handle her predicament. Years of living with a tyrant had taught her one thing: to spot a domineering male. And this one’s determination surprised even her.

  “Why do you wish to know?” Anastacia asked, curious.

  “You are an exquisite creature; why would I not desire to know your name?”

  More bells chimed in her ears, this time the kind that warned a lady of imminent danger. She dared not give him her actual name and neither did she dare incur his wrath. The only course of action to protect her identity, and thus protect her reputation, was to give him a false name.

  With confidence she did not quite feel, Anastacia haughtily lifted her chin and replied, “Fine, if you insist. My name is Fidelia June Williams, but my friends call me Fid.”

  “Bloody hell,” he cursed. The horror in his eyes was priceless.

  “What kind of parents saddles their child with such a name?”

  Anastacia almost doubled over in laughter when she saw his lips pull up in what looked to be a snarl of disgust. She pretended mock outrage instead. “I will not have you disparage my parents. I happen to like my name. Now, if that is all, please excuse me. I have a dance partner who must be in search of me.”

  She started to back away from him.

  “Fidelia.” He tested her name on his tongue, but his lips remained curled upward. “Unfortunate, but it can be overlooked.”

  Overlooked? Whatever for?

  As though sensing her inner question, his next words chilled her to the bone. “I find myself quite fascinated by you. And in light of this, I propose a proposition.”

  Her pulse leaped in dread. A proposition? Wait—did he mean marriage? In light of her current predicament, would she say yes if he did? And yet, dukes did not ordinarily propose marriage to complete strangers on impulse. Her instincts warned her of danger, and she steeled herself accordingly.

  “What sort of proposition?” Because it needed to be asked even though she may not like the answer.

  “One that may be beneficial to us both.”

  “I fail to see how any proposal would be beneficial to me,” Anastacia muttered, almost on a snort. Even if his proposal included marriage, such a union to a tyrant would never be advantageous to any woman, even if it came with a lofty title.

  He stepped out from the shadows, black eyes fixed on hers, and this time Anastacia held her own, squaring her shoulders, her feet rooted firmly to the ground. He stopped inches away from her, forcing her to crane her neck as his gaze held her imprisoned with its intensity.

  “One night of wild passion in my bed.”

  The words, spoken in a low, gruff tone, clearly intended to seduce, hit her like a thunderbolt. She blinked, attempting to comprehend what the duke was asking of her. “I beg your pardon?” Anastacia croaked.

  “No need to beg, just say yes.”

  To one night of wild passion in his bed?

  Only one?

  Lud, no wonder many a woman had fallen prey to the attention of a rake. Staring up at him now, his eyes filled with the promise of untold pleasure an
d his voice sounding like the stuff poets waxed poetry about, Anastacia wanted to believe one night of passion with him would be beneficial to her.

  But one wild night would not fix her situation, so she crossed her arms over her chest. “I fail to see how your sordid proposition would benefit me. My reputation would be ruined and my prospects reduced to particles of dust.”

  If it were at all possible, his smile turned more rakish before he drawled in that low, seductive voice, “But you will have known true passion, sweet.”

  That was it? That was his final line? That was the Grand Benefit? Anastacia scoffed. She, for one, would happily go without knowing true passion if it meant escaping the cruel clutches of her uncle.

  Anastacia stared at the madly inappropriate man before her, uncertain where to go from here. How did one decline a sinful proposition from a duke politely? What’s more, did he honestly believe “you will have known true passion” was reason enough that she would gift him with her virtue?

  Perhaps he did. Privileged and pampered all his life, this man probably never spared a thought to what other people may be going through, how they may claw and fight for every scrap they possess.

  Anastacia took a step away from him, noting how his hawkish eyes filled with fire when he took note of the action.

  “You disagree with my assessment.” Sweet charm dripped with sarcasm.

  Anastacia took another step back. Forget politeness. “Allow me to make myself clear, your grace. I will not, not even in the unlikely event the world perished and you and I were the last survivors, spend one night with you.”

  Well, maybe then. The duke seemed unperturbed, however, if not a bit amused. “Never is a long time.”

  “Perhaps, but I have come to London to secure a husband, not cater to the fancies of a man such as yourself. Unless you happen to be in the market for a wife?”

  The duke visibly flinched, and Anastacia gave a curt nod. Earlier speculation aside, it was as her instincts had warned: there were no good intentions in this one. Not that she’d have ever considered him for a husband in normal conditions—the man was far too self-absorbed.