Led Astray by a Rake (The Husband Hunters Club 1)

“I’m going to be a father?”

Estelle nodded, wiping her cheeks, watching him anxiously.

“Then we need to marry.”

Her eyes met his, filling with tears once more, and that was when he saw the problem. Married or not, they would remain separated, unless…

“We need Nic to marry Olivia,” Estelle spoke his thoughts aloud. “And as soon as possible. That is the only way we can be together, Abbot.”

“Estelle, you know I can only do so much to bring this about. I will not force Miss Monteith into matrimony with Lord Lacey, not if they end in misery.”

“So we end in misery instead,” she said dully.

Abbot didn’t know what to say to her. His position, his loyalty to his master, were integral to him as a person. How could he put his own needs first? And yet he wanted to. Right now, he wanted to carry Estelle away from here and keep her safe. But that was a fantasy and this was real life. Estelle needed him to be strong, but she also needed him to be honest.

“No, my love, that will not happen,” he said firmly. “Everything will be all right. Even if I have to leave you for a time, be assured you will be safe and well looked after. I will not abandon you. I would never do that.”

Estelle’s eyes grew sad, but she quickly buried her face in his shoulder. He held her, telling himself she would just have to accept that perfect happiness might not be for them. He knew of many other couples in their situation, and they managed with what they had. He was old enough not to expect miracles, but Estelle was young and idealistic. He hoped she would be content, but he had a niggling feeling that she wouldn’t, and she was already making her own plans.

Chapter 9

Nic, elegant in his black and white evening wear, stood with a glass of champagne in his hand and observed the ebb and flow of the crowded ballroom. Guests were arriving and greeting one another, their voices rising above the soft music of the orchestra on the dais at the far end of the enormous room. Above, a chandelier the size of a small moon shone down on glossy hair and glittering jewelry and the finest clothing money could buy.

A casual visitor might have imagined these were lords and ladies, th

e aristocracy come out to play, but if he looked harder, he’d notice that the evening gowns were far more risqué than any true society hostess would dare wear, and the manner in which the men and women were gazing at each other, the experience and come-hither in their eyes, was a world away from innocent flirtation.

The truth was, these women were not respectable matrons and debutantes; they were whores and dancers and actresses, and they were seeking a meal ticket in exchange for their professional expertise. A few of the men had brought along their mistresses, but the rest of the women were on the lookout for a lover for the night, or even a billet for a month or more, if the conditions were right.

That suited Nic perfectly.

Apart from satisfying his physical needs, Nic wanted a companion who was intelligent enough to hold her own in conversation with him—when he felt like conversing—and who was familiar enough with his privileged world, even if she did not originate from it, not to embarrass him with too many faux pas. More importantly, he wanted someone who wasn’t foolish enough to believe their liaison was anything more than a business transaction.

There was a surprisingly large number of women out there who were happy to agree to his terms. They had a living to make, and they did not want anything permanent, and that was the way Nic liked it.

He sipped his champagne and enjoyed the view. For the past six years he’d been to every demimonde ball, and this was the part he looked forward to the most—watching the arrivals, catching the sly glances and the suggestive pouts. Then came the difficult task of making his choice, circling his prey, and consummating the bargain.

He’d never been refused. He was wealthy and reasonably good-looking. It was true that his temper was sometimes uncertain and he was lame, but he was known as a generous protector. When he was done with them, his mistresses were always left well rewarded.

Nic’s gaze lingered on a brunette with a wide mouth, her bosom bursting from her emerald green bodice, and moved on to a redhead with wild springing curls and a trilling laugh. There was a yellow-haired creature in red, and a Gypsy-like dancer with flashing eyes and a temper he’d like to tame. He’d been standing there for an hour, and he didn’t have any complaints, he was spoiled for choice, this was his favorite part of the demimonde ball, and yet…

And yet he didn’t feel the same as he usually did.

There was something wrong, and for some reason he couldn’t explain, the usual excitement and anticipation just weren’t there. Instead he felt irritable and restless and…yes, bored. What the devil was wrong with him? All these stunning women perambulating around the room and he couldn’t see a single one he was inclined to make the effort to pursue!

Disgusted with himself, Nic reached for another glass of champagne from a passing servant. He had a trip to Paris planned, and he was damned if he was going alone. Perhaps if he invited both the brunette and the redhead into a private room, and gave himself up to the hot sensual pleasures of the flesh, he’d feel more like his old self? Nic smiled as he imagined a ménage à trois, each woman vying with the other for his attention.

But the next moment he was cursing under his breath as he realized that he’d been picturing the two women with the same face. A face he knew all too well and was trying hard to forget.

Olivia Monteith’s face.

As soon as Olivia stepped through the door, she entered another world. A darker, far more sensual world than any she was familiar with. Beautiful women in revealing gowns circled the room, as elegant as gazelles, and gentlemen prowled among them, like sleek jungle lions, hunting.

A shiver ran over her flesh.

In all the preparation and fuss of getting there, she had not allowed herself to consider that what she was doing was dangerous, but she knew that if she had…well, she would have ignored the warning. After all, she was hunting, too—husband hunting. She was on the scent of Wicked Nic Lacey, and when she found him she’d lure him into her trap and close the door.

Estelle had been very helpful, seeing to her travel plans and her stay, incognito, in an inn at a nearby town—information, she said, she’d learned from Abbot. Olivia soon discovered she wasn’t the only single lady staying there, and what was normally a situation for censure and comment provoked no questions at all, not even a curious sideways glance. Understanding followed. The demimonde ball, held in a grand manor house outside London, was a lucrative yearly event, and the innkeeper had no intention of making things awkward for his customers.