Dangerous Read online

  His love could be the death of her.

  When Constance Athelson, Viscountess Westbury, hides her face to attend the Black Widows Ball, she never expected to find erotic passion in a masked stranger’s arms. The torrent of lust isn’t enough to drown out her dubious “gift” for seeing visions and talking to the dead.

  Terrified of being found out, she secures a position cataloguing archaeological artifacts for the Earl of Wyndham—where she encounters a ghost begging her to break a curse plaguing his family.

  Before his mysterious lover disappeared, Lucien Blakemore was tempted to throw caution aside. Yet he knows one taste of love will unleash the curse that drove his father and brother to murder their wives.

  When he returns home empty handed and empty hearted, he’s shocked to discover his new assistant is the goddess who fled into the night. But could her presence be part of a murderous plot to unearth the location of a secret Egyptian tomb? The answer—or his doom—lies behind the desire shining in his seductress’s eyes.

  This book has been previously published by Samhain Publishing, and contains an epilogue never before included with this publication.

  Warning, this title contains the following: explicit sex with a hero whose torment equals that of Jane Eyre’s Mr. Rochester.

  Dangerous

  Monica Burns

  Dedication

  For my grandmother, Isabel W. Castellano, my first and greatest teacher. Each year, you returned my annual Christmas letter red-lined with edits until I finally achieved my A++ your last Christmas. Thank you for all you taught me, not just the English lessons, but life’s lessons as well. True ladies such as you were come along only once in a person’s lifetime.

  Chapter One

  London, 1897

  “This was a mistake.”

  Constance Athelson, Viscountess Westbury, swallowed the knot lodged in her throat as she surveyed the crowded ballroom uneasily.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Davinia Armstrong scoffed. “You look stunning, and no one is going to recognize you with the mask you’re wearing. No queen of the Nile could look as mysterious and alluring as you do right now.”

  With a skeptical look at her friend from behind the gold-feathered mask she wore, Constance shivered. The filmy silk layers of her costume were designed for hotter climates than the Black Widows Ball. Hosted by a secret and select group of the Marlborough Set, the event’s sole purpose was to celebrate one’s freedom from mourning and the restrictive social customs that accompanied that state.

  It was the first time she’d ever attended the annual ball, even though she’d been officially out of mourning for more than three years. With one more glance around the ballroom, she winced. She must have been out of her mind when she’d agreed to Davinia’s suggestion. Even if she met the Earl of Lyndham tonight, she was hardly dressed for a professional interview.

  No matter how well versed she was in ancient Egyptian antiquities, her costume did nothing to recommend her as a serious academician. In fact, it did just the opposite, given the way she was being ogled by several gentlemen. She must look like an odalisque ready to submit herself to Pharaoh’s whim. Why on earth had she listened to Davinia when it came to her costume? Because her friend could be quite indomitable when she set her mind to it. She tightened her grip on the handle of her fan. A footman walked by with a tray of champagne glasses, and she took one of the flutes off the silver platter.

  The moment her friend heard the earl was going to make an appearance at the ball, Davinia had pressed her to attend. Her friend knew how much she coveted the cataloger of antiquities position the earl had available. Although she’d tried to resist, in the end it had simply been easier to give in to her friend’s tenacious wheedling.

  No, that wasn’t true. Davinia was the real reason she had agreed to come here tonight. Drinking deeply from the champagne glass she held, she swallowed the bubbly liquid in a quick gulp as Graham’s face flitted into her head. She frowned and stirred the air in front of her with the large peacock feather she held. Her late husband would have heartily disapproved of her presence here. Not because of the venue’s decadence, although she had no doubt he’d have been less than happy with her attending the ball under any condition. What he would have condemned was her using her gift to protect a friend. She frowned.

  “There he is, Constance. Do you see him?” Davinia’s fingers bit into the skin of her bare arm.

  With a glance in the direction of Davinia’s discreet nod, Constance spied the man with whom her friend had become enamored. From what she could see of the man’s face beneath the slim black mask he wore, it was understandable why Davinia was so enthralled. Oliver Rawlings, Baronet, was a handsome man, but she was certain the man’s heart was as black as they came. Just looking at him made her stomach roil.

  “Davinia, I know this isn’t the time or place, but there’s something you need to know about Sir Oliver.”

  Curiosity darkened her friend’s lovely green eyes as she tilted her head in a display of puzzlement. “Something I need to know?”

  Uncertain exactly how to proceed, Constance frowned. If Graham were here, he’d be dragging her from the room. But he wasn’t here, and she had to help her friend. Inhaling a deep breath, she took the plunge.

  “Sir Oliver isn’t what he seems.”

  “What on earth are you babbling about, Constance?” A derisive puff of air parted Davinia’s lips.

  “The man’s drowning in debt, and he’s looking for a wife with a substantial dowry.” There, she’d managed to explain the problem without revealing every horrible detail. Surely, Davinia wouldn’t waste her time on a ne’er do well.

  “Really, Constance. I’m far from an ingénue. I know all that, but I also know he’s in love with me.”

  Her heart sinking, Constance’s fingers tightened on the handle of the peacock feather. Now what? Should she reveal the rest of what she’d seen? Her visions were far from exact depictions of the future. In fact, they were more often like a large puzzle with several pieces missing. Could it be she was wrong this time?

  Davinia was one of only a handful of people outside her family who knew about her special talent. More importantly, she’d never actually seen something involving any of her closest friends. Seeing the excitement and hope on Davinia’s sweet features made her hesitate. If she interfered now and was wrong…no, she couldn’t say anything until she had something more noteworthy to offer up as evidence.

  If she tried to explain how she’d seen her friend battered and bruised, Davinia would think her mad. And wasn’t she? How could she be so sure it was Sir Oliver who had inflicted the damage? The man she’d seen in her vision had been faceless.

  She forced a smile to her lips as she squeezed her friend’s hand. “I only want you to be happy, Davinia.”

  “I am. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and it’s because of Oliver.”

  “Then go to him,” Constance said quietly as she suppressed her misgivings. Her friend had already made up her mind. There was nothing else she could say to convince Davinia that Sir Oliver was in all likelihood a bad seed.

  “Come with me. I want him to meet you.” Davinia tugged at her arm with determination.

  “Later perhaps. Since I’m here, I should at least make the attempt to discreetly learn if the earl is present and what he looks like.”

  Her stomach flipped as the words flew from her mouth. She had absolutely no intention of looking for the earl. It had been a grave mistake coming here, and she refused to compound the error by introducing herself to the earl tonight.

  “Dear heaven, I can’t believe I forgot about the earl.” Davinia shook her head with regret
.

  The apologetic note in her voice made Constance smile. It was impossible to find fault with her friend given the happiness sparkling in Davinia’s eyes. Perhaps she was wrong about Sir Oliver. She’d been wrong before—rarely. Quieting the small voice in the back of her head, she prayed this would be one of those rare instances.

  “Obviously you’re preoccupied,” she said with a smile. “Go on. Off with you.”

  Not hesitating, Davinia squeezed her hand and crossed the room toward Sir Oliver. Left alone on the edge of the throng, Constance grimaced at the thought of Lord Lyndham. Ever since Percy had first mentioned the earl’s need for a cataloger, she’d been obsessed with the idea of securing the position. Her brother had mentioned the opportunity simply to tease her, never realizing she’d summon up the courage to apply for the position. She’d even surprised herself with her daring. Although why she should be surprised was a mystery to her. The Rockwoods, by their very nature, were impetuous creatures.

  At least she’d had the forethought to apply for the position under the pseudonym she used at the British Museum. Using her first initial and her mother’s maiden name, C. Stewart sounded every bit the skilled academician she really was. Her skills he couldn’t question, but her sex in all probability would preclude her from receiving the position. She knew in all likelihood the earl would find it difficult to accept a female as possessing the ability to catalog his antiquities. And meeting the man here—tonight—would most assuredly destroy any credibility she might have on her resume.

  She heaved a sigh. Her desire to protect her friend had placed her in a precarious situation. She’d allowed Davinia to coerce her into attending the Black Widows Ball based on her premonitions about Sir Oliver. If not for that reason, she wouldn’t be standing on the fringes of the Clarendon’s ballroom floor dressed in a costume that was more revealing than most of her nightgowns. Her gaze flitted about the room, and heat suffused her body as she saw she was the subject of an increasing number of male stares.

  Good Lord, if she didn’t find a dark niche to hide in, she was apt to be accosted on several fronts. She’d been a fool to think coming here would keep Davinia safe. With a soft noise of disgust, she moved toward the doors that opened onto a large glass gallery. The long corridor was cooler than the ballroom, and another sound of irritation parted her lips. She might have been compelled to attend the Black Widows Ball, but giving in to Davinia’s demands that she play the role of an ancient Egyptian queen for the night was her own lack of foresight.

  The irony of the thought wasn’t lost on her. Shivering with cold, she saw what appeared to be a salon at one end of the hallway. Shadows flickering on the partially opened doorway convinced her the room contained a fire burning in an open hearth. Warmth and sanctuary in one place. Not hesitating, she hurried forward, her gold sandals clicking against the marble floor.

  Just outside the entrance to the room, a masked couple stood in the shadows, indulging in a passionate embrace. She tugged in a sharp breath as she saw the man suckling the woman’s breast. The wickedness of the scene reinforced the decadence of the ball, and it sent a shiver through her. What would it be like to give herself over to a man for just this one night?

  Appalled by her thoughts, she swallowed hard. Dear Lord, she should have gone straight home. She slipped quietly past the couple and entered the salon. Closing the door behind her, she locked herself in the room with a quick flip of the key. She’d heard more accounts of debauchery outside the well-lit ballroom during the Black Widows Ball than she cared to admit. The last thing she wanted was to find herself witness to a hedonistic act or worse yet, suffering the unwelcome attentions of a drunken boor. She’d wait here for an hour or two before attempting to leave the ball. By then most of the attendees would either have found suitable accommodations for their trysts or would be too drunk to notice her departure.

  The quiet ticking of the mantle clock was soothing to her nerves, and she willed herself to relax as she moved to stand in front of the cheery fire. Hands outstretched to the flames, she closed her eyes for a brief moment as she enjoyed the warmth coating her skin.

  Except for the fire, there was little light in the room, and the boisterous sound of the ball was a soft buzz beyond the salon’s locked door. The fire crackled as the burning wood popped in response to the heat. From where he sat in the far corner of the room, Lucien Blakemore, Earl of Lyndham, watched the woman as she warmed herself in front of the hearth.

  The fire threw her curvaceous figure into stark relief. The soft light passed through the thin silk of her costume to reveal lusty thighs and long legs. Legs that would easily wrap around a man in the midst of lovemaking. His body reacted to the vivid image in seconds. She would never be called a professional beauty, but there was an exotic quality about her that intrigued him. Exotic and original. Just the type of woman he enjoyed.

  His musings made him grimace. Damnation, the old woman was up to her tricks again. Somehow, his grandmother had arranged the interception of Lady Billingsly this evening and sent this woman instead. No doubt another attempt to entice him into that damnable state of marriage. She harped on the subject in every single letter she sent him from the country. His grandmother’s determination to succeed in marrying him off had placed him in some rather awkward situations in the months since he’d returned home from Egypt. In the past three weeks alone, the dowager countess had managed to thrust at least four potential candidates for the post of Lady Lyndham in front of him. All from her self-imposed exile at Lyndham Keep.

  Unable to help himself, he grinned. She was amazing. Not even a military general could have managed a better-orchestrated campaign than his grandmother. But no matter how much her actions amused him, it didn’t change anything. He wasn’t about to satisfy his grandmother by playing her games. Marriage was far too deadly a proposition for him.

  Clearing his throat, he watched the woman stiffen and whirl around to face him. When she turned, his groin tightened further. Good God, the woman was Isis in her most potent form. The gold silk of her enticing costume caressed every luscious curve of her body, revealing nothing, yet filling his head with all manner of arousing images.

  Other than the silk knots holding her dress in place, her shoulders were bare. The soft silk of her bodice plunged downward in a vee accentuating the tops of her soft breasts, and he liked the way the gown flared out over her hips and fluttered around her long legs. Hers was a body for the most erotic of pleasures.

  Voluptuous and tempting, her full breasts looked as though they’d fit into his palm quite nicely. What color were her nipples? The notion of parting her bodice to discover the answer sent blood surging through his veins until he was rock hard. Harder than he’d been in months. He wanted to see his hand caressing her breasts—watch her face as she responded to his touch. If he were to dip his fingers into her sweet core, would it be warm and sticky like the honey that flowed so sweetly for the pharaohs centuries ago? It was a tempting thought that tugged at him with relentless persistence. He wanted to plunge into her, feel her spasms as she climaxed over his cock.

  Across from him, she stood immobile, assessing him with a wary look. Tension drifted through the air between them, the clock the only sound in the room.

  What held her motionless, she wasn’t certain. Any other time she would have quietly excused herself from a situation that could easily get out of hand. Especially with this man. Everything about him whispered danger, and her nerve endings sent a wicked frisson dancing across her skin.

  Cool, cerulean eyes studied her quietly through a simple black strip of material. It was the mask of a highwayman. The thin, white scar curving its way across his cheek down to his jaw only enhanced the rakish air the mask gave him. The regal line of his nose emphasized the sharp, angular plane of his strong jaw, and there was just the hint of a smile tilting his sensual mouth.

  She wasn’t certain what historic highwayman he was supposed to
be, but he played the role well as he sat there—watching her with a devil-may-care attitude. One boot-clad foot rested on the edge of his chair, his forearm balanced on top of his knee. His other leg was stretched out in front of him in a lazy display of masculine strength. There was a pure, raw sensuality about him that sent every one of her senses into flux. The aura of nonchalance he wore might have fooled others less observant, but she knew it was a deceptive picture. He was a tiger waiting for that exact moment when his unsuspecting prey came within striking distance.

  “Isis herself could not have been more exquisite.” The low cadence of his voice sent a disturbing shiver of excitement gliding across her skin.

  Heat suffused her cheeks as she watched his gaze roam leisurely over her entire body. A flash of arousal flared in his startling blue eyes, and she struggled to swallow the knot swelling her throat. Not even Graham had ever eyed her with such unmitigated desire. In a fluid movement, he rose to his feet and she drew in a breath of surprise. He was as tall, if not taller, than all three of her brothers.

  “So, my Egyptian beauty, how shall we pleasure each other this evening?” Again, the silky smoothness of his voice teased her senses.

  She tensed. Beneath that seductive tone of his, there was a sardonic note. Dear Lord, did the man think she’d deliberately sought him out? She didn’t even know who he was. The thought didn’t stop her from imagining her mouth melding with his firm lips, which were now curled in a beguiling smile. With a slight shake of her head, she dismissed the notion.

  The last thing she needed was to indulge in an affair. Besides, the man wouldn’t last ten minutes when faced with the male members of the Rockwood clan. No, that wasn’t true. There was something about him that said he’d be more than a match for her brothers. Butterflies stirred in her stomach as he slowly crossed the room toward her. He had almost reached her when she took a quick step back and raised her hand to keep him at arm’s length. Her silent protest didn’t stop his forward progression until her palm pressed into his chest.