Wicked Deeds on a Winter Night

Hampshire, England

Belgrave Manor

The small, dark brown leather book appeared quite innocuous until one dared to fold back the worn cover and skim the first few pages. Oliver Simon Carlyle, the ninth Marquess of Ambrose, had been reading the same entry for the past several minutes, unable to credit the words written in such elegant, flowing script. Absolutely nothing at all indicated the lascivious and shockingly arousing content of what had revealed itself to be a diary of the most scandalous sort.

Dearest Diary,

My husband, God rest his soul, said my desires are abhorrent and unladylike and had admonished me

most severely. I tried so hard to be proper, but it seems I am destined to be damned. Last evening, I stood in the eastern secret passage in Belgrave manor and watched as Lord R parted his lover’s legs and licked her glistening slit. Lady W screamed, grabbed his head, and rocked onto his face. She appeared so wild and so wonderfully free.

To my utter shame and pleasure, I got wet, so achingly wet. I ran as quietly as possible through the hidden passage to my chamber and flung myself under the covers. God help me, I touched myself. I was not ladylike...I thrust two fingers deep into my slippery channel and—

Oliver closed the slim black leather volume softly, a harsh breath hissing through his lips

. He had been reading the diary for the last hour, unable to stop, though he was consciously aware these were the private thoughts of someone who would never have shared such private and wanton feelings with him. Or anyone else, for that matter.

These were the deepest secrets of a lady attending his mother’s week-long house party. The party had, in truth, been at his request, so that he could view a potential bride in an intimate setting instead of the more public marriage marts of the season. If Oliver recalled accurately, there were only fifty guests in attendance, and at least thirty were of the fairer sex. Now he was consumed with one question: who was the author?

The idea that a lady of the ton, even if she was a widow, had written such thoughts was positively indecent, and—

since he was being honest—vastly intriguing and titillating to his jaded tastes.

With a rough scoff, he dropped the diary onto the stone bench on which he reposed. He would leave it where he’d found it, and possibly the owner would retrace her steps and recover it soon. Clearly, it had not been left to the elements and discovery for long. A light rain had fallen earlier in the morning, and the pages of the diary were dry...and arousing...and sinful.

Cursing himself virulently for his weakness, Oliver grabbed it and randomly picked a page.

Dearest Diary,

Sir Elliot offered for me today. I confess to being surprised, for though he paid calls upon me a few times, the baronet never expressed a romantic attachment of any sort. There is a distinct appeal to remarrying a man who already has his heir. I would once again be the mistress of my own home, and I would have the amiable companionship of Sir Elliot, without the expectation to produce issue, since he has his heir, a spare, and the most delightful little girl. If only he were not twice my age and more of a father figure to me. It is quite distressing to imagine running my tongue over his chest and down to his manhood as I had attempted with dear Robert. Perhaps Sir Elliot would be similarly disgusted with my wantonness and—

Oliver snapped the book closed and tilted his head to the sky. Bloody hell. She was young if she considered the baronet,

who couldn’t be a day over fifty years, old enough to be her father...and her dead husband had been called Robert. That should narrow down Oliver’s search.

What the hell am I saying? He had no interest in discovering the identity of the author. To what purpose? He couldn’t return her diary with any explanation that would not cause her great distress. Even if he lied and said he hadn’t read the pages, her mortification would be great, indeed.

Nor could he leave it where he found it on the grass under the cypress tree by the gazebo for another unsuspecting soul to stumble upon her lusty and scandalous musings.

Perhaps he should simply burn it.

He glanced toward where he’d found the damning journal, his gaze assessing each young lady who strolled by. None looked anxious, and a few gave him inviting smiles, no doubt hearing wedding bells, since it had been made known he was on the hunt for a wife. He was two and thirty and was quite bored. The usual debauchery that privileged gentlemen of his ilk enjoyed no longer seemed exciting. The pleasure gardens, the reckless racing, scandalous pursuits, and even the rousing debates in Parliament hardly moved him anymore.

There was an emptiness in his soul he couldn’t understand, and nothing of late seemed to fill the void. He had bid his last mistress adieu over eight months past and been without a lover since. Oliver had seen no point in searching for another when his last three had left him so uninspired and frustrated. His mother had even clucked and urged him to take the waters in Bath to cure his ennui.

It was as if the world were painted in shades of gray, and he was waiting for a ray of something...anything to burst through the bleak dreariness and inspire him to simply feel. One of his closest friends, the Duke of Basil, had taken the plunge into matrimony several months past, and the man seemed at peace and happy with his new duchess. The arrow of envy that had pierced his heart whenever he spied them together had stunned Oliver. He had never begrudged a man more in his life. The duke had found love with Elizabeth Armstrong, an American heiress, and had shocked society. His Grace also seemed content and not likely to procure himself a mistress, which meant the duke’s American satisfied his darker cravings. And Oliver had some notion of what they were; after all, they had both shared Lady Wimbledon for a night or two...at the same time.

Oliver wanted a similar happiness. In fact, he quite hungered for a wife...and eventually, children. That need was tempered by his keen desire to find a lady who would appreciate all his desires—even the ones a few of his mistresses had labeled as depraved and shocking. That had been his main reason for not rushing recklessly into matrimony.

His father had taught him at the age of sixteen that a wife must never be subjected to his base and darker urges. Mistresses were designed for rough and carnal tupping, and it was to be expected that he should have two women to sate all his needs.

Except...Oliver did not want that. He’d seen how it had torn up his mother and put a strain on his parents’ marriage. But this was a notion that would have sent his father to an early grave, had he not already passed a few years ago.

Oliver stood, the book gripped lightly in his hand, and strolled down to the lakeside. The waters were blessedly empty, as most of the guests were playing croquet or already indulging in a light luncheon on the freshly mowed lawns. A few boats had been prepared for rowing, and he untied the ropes tethering one and climbed aboard. After securing the diary on the inside of his superfine jacket, he grabbed the oars and propelled himself farther out onto the lake. Once he was a safe distance from the shoreline, he stopped rowing and allowed the boat to drift at its own speed atop the placid waters.

Though he had decided to destroy the diary, he would first consume its pages. Interest had taken hold of his mind, and he wanted to read as much as possible, perhaps everything, before he chucked it away. He opened the slim volume once more and started to read. After a few minutes, a few truths made themselves evident.

The author was familiar with the inner workings of Belgrave Manor and its secret passages. Perhaps she had visited before and not just for this weekend’s house party. A friend of his mother?