One Night of Sin Read Free

box?”
    “No! I’ve got to warm it up so I can win back what I lost on the Molineux match. I’m going to take your money tonight, my friend. And yours.”
    “You’re not content with having stolen my mistress? How is she, by the way?”
    “Fine, except you spoiled her utterly. Damned expensive wench. Do let me know if you want her back.”
    “No thanks.”
    Sardonic laughter abounded; the four archrogues were heedless of the weather.
    Highborn libertines connected to the best families of England, they took their pleasures where they willed and were each entirely accustomed to the pampered life of the aristocracy, every whim catered to by armies of servants from the day they were born. They had met at Eton as lads and had been fast friends ever since. Despite the edge of danger they presented, having fought a total of some fifty duels among them—the collective number of females they had seduced ranged into the thousands—the high world courted them.
    Their presence at a party made it fashionable; their snub spelled doom.
    Tonight they had favored the hostess Lady Everley with their late arrival at her ballroom. The Everley ball was one of the last of the Season before the high world removed to Brighton for the rest of the summer in its restless search for pleasure.
    Having graced the ball just long enough to set tongues wagging and to half scare, half titillate a few doe-eyed debutantes into nearly swooning with their subtly insolent attentions, they had finished their drinks and made their bows with their practiced air of bored superiority, which was, of course, largely for show.
    In roguish manly company again, haughty pretensions cast aside, they were bound for Lord Draxinger’s town mansion in Hanover Square for a late night of cards and gambling.
    Another carriage-load of their acquaintances would be coming along behind them, but the earl wanted to get home first to make sure his staff was up and awake, and prepared to entertain his friends with his usual lavish hospitality.
    Later in the night, no doubt, they would send for the harlots.
    Lord Alec Knight knew the routine because it was always the same.
    Staring out the carriage window at the rainwashed streets, all dark and empty, the golden-haired leader of their set barely listened to his friends’ rowdy exchange.
    Alec did not know what was wrong with him tonight.
    He would have gone home if he thought he would have felt any better there, but he knew the malaise would only follow him.
    “Are you dicing tonight with us or are you still sworn off hazard?” A pause. “Hullo? Knight?” An elbow nudged him in the ribs. It jarred him from his brooding.
    Alec turned to Fort with an air of distraction. “Hm?”
    “What is the matter with you tonight?” Drax exclaimed at his absent manner. “I say, you’ve been acting strange for days!”
    “Aye,” Rush agreed, the raven-haired heir to a marquisate. “I thought you were going to skewer Blakewell, training with the épée at Angelo’s today.”
    “If he doesn’t work on his parries, next time I will,” Alec said coolly.
    “What about Harrington? You nearly killed him, too.”
    Alec scoffed. “His footwork’s atrocious.”
    “You must give him credit for trying. You’re too fast for him.”
    “Then he’s got no business stepping into the piste with me.” Alec shrugged and looked away.
    “Jesus!” Rush laughed. “It’s only practice, Knight.”
    “Leave him alone, Rush. He’s in a mood again,” Fort said.
    “No, I’m not.”
    “He’s always in a mood these days.”
    “I’m not in any damned mood!”
    “What is it, then? A toothache?”
    “How the hell should I know?” he muttered.
A rut,
he thought.
    “If you ask me,” Fort told the others, clapping Alec on the back, “all the dear lad needs is a willing lady—no, pardon—a lascivious, rampant wench to dance the goat’s jig on his lap for an hour or two. Help him to forget a certain Miss Carlisle. I’m in earnest!” he