Wicked Deeds on a Winter Night

Oliver’s closest friend, Thomas Pennington, the Earl of Radbourne, had been in residence for a few weeks, and the little minx had sojourned in the secret passages of the east wing, which led to the guest chambers Thomas stayed in. Oliver was positive he was the Lord R referred to in her diary entry. Apparently, his friend had a mole on his left backside and a manhood that could have been more impressive. Sweet Christ.

A rough chuckle escaped Oliver. What would Thomas say if he knew one of Oliver’s lady guests traversed the hidden

hallways and spied on him while he had his pleasures? No doubt the earl would be amused and seek to uncover her identity so he could seduce her, too. Thomas was a notorious rake and libertine who enjoyed the challenge of a conquest far too much.

A swift denial roared through Oliver at the very idea. If anyone were to seduce his mysterious author, it would be him.

He paused as that awareness settled inside him. He was vaguely startled to feel the prickling of heat rushing through his veins, since there had been a distinct lack of interest on his part for any female companionship of late. Oliver delved into the pages, engrossed in her musings. He vacillated from anger to amusement.

Her husband had slapped her because of her unladylike desires, and the shame she expressed for having them made Oliver wish the man were alive so he could call him out and put a bullet through his priggish soul. What a blathering fool, to have been blessed with a woman of unrestrained passion, only to reprimand her harshly for what appeared to be her natural sensuality. Her husband had been a man like Oliver’s father, who believed wives should display no cravings of the flesh—those were reserved for mistresses.

As he read further, a pattern in her artful words emerged. Each time his mother had hosted an event, the mysterious

author had made use of the secret passages of his estate. The widow was, indeed, someone intimately familiar with his mother, for her to have been invited to the last two balls and the garden party last month.

His heart slammed hard inside when his name leaped from the pages.

Dearest Diary,

The Marchioness of Ambrose introduced me to her son a few months past at her garden party, and I do not believe he even glanced at my face. I, however, was inexplicably aware of him, in a manner I have never felt with another man. He hardly notices me, nor do I recall the marquess ever favoring me with his charming sensuality. But I notice him—the width of his shoulders and the power in his body. I’ve found no flaw in those wide shoulders, lean waist, and long limbs. Ambrose intrigues me. There is something lonely about his eyes, and those unsmiling lips have been haunting my dreams of late. What would it be like to be held, kissed, and taken by such a man? This inappropriate need I can feel stirring inside must stop. However, I am at a loss how to do so. No doubt the marchioness would be appalled if she had an inkling of the cravings her son has been inspiring inside me.

Oliver chuckled. Sweet Mercy. With one entry, his interest multiplied infinitely. What he would do if he discovered her—or what he would say—eluded him, but now it seemed as if his entire existence hinged on meeting her. His mouth went dry, and anticipation scythed through his heart, the eager feeling making him falter.

He was not a reckless man, nor was he the sort to be controlled by his desires. If that had been the situation, he would have been haunting the darkest and most decadent brothels in London to purchase women to sate his rougher

cravings. His friends had never understood the desire he had for a lover...someone with whom he had more of a connection than simply riding them to fulfillment and never seeing them again.

He’d tried it once, had traveled to Soho Square and visited London’s premier brothel and pleasure palace—Aphrodite. After several hours of debauchery, he had been wrung dry and his cock had hung limply, but inside there had been the echo of emptiness and unfulfillment that had lingered for months. He hadn’t repeated the experience, to his friends’ dismay.

Find her...

The temptation whispered in his mind and arrowed down to his cock. Oliver scrubbed a hand over his face, unable to accept that he wanted to act with such recklessness. For it was certainly foolhardy to be so consumed with trying to find the author. Where in God’s name would he even begin? The secret passages spanned both wings of Belgrave Manor, but from what he could tell, she only seemed familiar with the eastern one. What could he do? Haunt the corridors of his house simply to uncover her identity? And then what... seduce her?

If his mistresses had been unable to accommodate his needs, he doubted a genteel, respectable lady would be willing to indulge them without hysterics.

What if she is the one?

He tumbled the idea through his thoughts. Without a doubt, she was a lady of society, young and seemingly willing to remarry. She wasn’t a virginal debutante who would be prone to hysterics the first time he pushed his cock between her lips and farther down to massage the back of

her throat. A groan escaped as the image blared through his mind. Frustration surged as the shadowy figure bent on her knees sucking his cock drifted away like smoke in the wind. He wanted her face, her hair...it was this unknown woman he wanted to picture.

He glanced down at the diary clutched in his hands. He would probably regret the impulse, but he would find her. She was here in his home, perhaps traversing the secret hallways. Oliver had to start acting now. The house party would be over in seven days, and then she would vanish. He tucked the book inside his jacket, grabbed the oars, and pushed himself to the shore.

A few moments later Oliver strolled across the lawns toward the side entrance. A few short minutes later, he entered his manor.

“My lord,” Branson, the manor’s at times pompous butler, intoned.

Oliver handed him his jacket and top hat. “Where is the marchioness?”

“Her ladyship is in the Rose room, my lord.”

Oliver ambled down the hallway, bypassing the library for a smaller and more intimate drawing room his mother favored. After a perfunctory knock, he pushed open the door and entered. His mother was seated by the windows, knitting, and the only other occupant was her lady’s companion, Mrs. Layton.

His mother glanced up and, warmth lit in her hazel eyes. “Oliver, what a marvelous surprise. I thought you would have been in Town until Friday. I know you deplore house parties, and I believed you’d only be coming down for the ball. I’m quite pleased to see you are dedicated to the

pursuit of a wife.” “Mother,” he greeted her, bending low to press a brief

kiss on her cheek. “I thought it prudent to be here as early as possible.”