One Wicked Night by Shelley Bradley Page B

Raddington to thank him for his support, then we will depart. All right?”
    “Of course. I’m going to the library to speak with Lady Raddington myself. Fetch me at the library in half an hour?” Serena proposed.
    “Splendid.”
    Serena watched her husband rise and leave the room. With a mixture of curiosity and spine-prickling intuition about her upcoming appointment, she also exited the ballroom.
    Much further down the hall, away from the revelry of the rout, Serena found the library. She paused outside the door, listening for her “surprise.” It was eerily quiet.
    Cautiously, she pushed the door open with her fingertips and cast her eyes about the room. No one awaited her behind the giant cherrywood desk, nor did anyone sit on the massive green brocade sofa at the back of the room. Something in the air, something different, something that disturbed her, lifted the hair at the back of her neck, making her shiver. She paused in the threshold.
    Oh, you silly ninny. Lady Raddington will be along in a few moments . She had probably been waylaid in her hostessing duties.
    With that thought, Serena stepped further into the long, narrow room. Massive bookshelves lined the walls to both the left and right, reminding her of a library she had visited a month ago—the night she had allowed an unforgettable rake to seduce her.
    As she passed through the door, it shut behind her with quiet menace. Startled, she whirled toward the door—and gasped.
    Lucien Clayborne. He stood tall, his broad shoulders square and taut within his stark black coat. Her eyes flew to his in question. It was a mistake. The flaring censure, the blazing damnation in those emerald depths filled her with trepidation.
    “Hello, sweetheart.” The endearment, once spoken like a caress, he now wielded like a knife, sharp and cutting, stabbing her with alarm.
    He stepped toward her. Reflexively, she stepped back.
    “Or should I properly address you as Your Grace?”
    Dear God, he knew. A crash of apprehension roared in her head. Perspiration broke out in fine beads on her palms. She rubbed them together nervously.
    “How did you find out?” she asked, her voice trembling.
    “Does it matter?” Fury raced across his face, resounded in his deep voice. His eyes glittered dangerously with it, holding the look of a man betrayed, the expression that had been permanently etched on her father’s face.
    She swallowed. “I . . . suppose not.”
    Before she could move, he took the final steps toward her. He grabbed her arms and pulled her forward. His sensual mouth, the one that had taught her such ecstasy, then condemned her.
    “What kind of games are you playing?”
    She recoiled from his hard-edged rage. “It wasn’t a game. I allowed it to happen.” She swallowed. “And I should not have.”
    He paused, and Serena held her breath, praying her honesty had diffused some of his rage.
    Instead, her words had the opposite effect.
    He clutched her more tightly, his cheeks and mouth tight with fury, his scowl fierce. “Oh, no. You could have backed out anytime. Hell, all you had to do was say no, or better yet, inform me of your married state. Believe me, I would have taken my hands off you in an instant,” he snarled. “So what was it you wanted? To make your husband jealous? He’s obviously never taken the time to bed you himself.” His mouth turned down in open contempt. “Or was that the problem? Were you bored and hot for a man between your legs? Did it feel good to use me?”
    She flinched. “Tell me you did not intend to use me, Lord Daneridge,” she retorted sharply. “Did you not intend to find a way under my skirt? You intoxicated me with liquor and compliments and kisses, and got what you wanted.”
    “I’m guilty on all those counts, but I had no knowledge of your virginity or marital status.”
    Serena looked away from the brutal contempt in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I had no idea it would matter to you.”
    His voice rose to new levels.