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Romantic Times Top Pick!

In Bed With the Devil

Avon Books June 24, 2008

978-0-06-112970-4

“I’ve always been of the opinion that a woman would be far more satisfied lying in bed with the devil than with a saint.” —Lady Catherine Mabry

They call him the Devil Earl—a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Lucian Langdon, but Lady Catherine Mabry believes she has no choice. To protect those she loves, she would do anything—even strike a bargain with the devil himself.

Lucian desires respectability and a wife above all else, but the woman of his choosing lacks the social graces to be accepted by the aristocracy. Catherine can help Lucian gain everything he wants. But what she asks for in exchange will put their very lives in jeopardy. When danger closes in, Catherine discovers a man of immense passion and he discovers a woman of immeasurable courage. As secrets from his dark past are revealed, Lucian begins to question everything he knows to be true, including the yearnings of his own heart.

Read Excerpt

Lorraine Heath’s books are always magic, but she’s at the top of her writing game with In Bed With the Devil. You won’t be able to put it down! —Cathy Maxwell

"In Bed With the Devil is a furiously paced story of intrigue, betrayal and ultimate redemption. Lorraine Heath's deftly skilled story-telling entrances and enthralls from the first page to the last. Once you begin this book, you won't be able to put it down until you've read the final, satisfying page. This book kept me up all night — it was THAT incredible!" —Karen Hawkins

Excerpt

From the Journal of Lucian Langdon

They say my parents were murdered in the London streets by a gang of ruffians. I have no memory of it, yet it has always seemed to me that I should.

After all, I was supposedly there, but only if I truly am who the world recognizes me to be.

The Earl of Claybourne.

It is not a pleasant thing to always doubt one's identity. I often study the portrait of my father hanging above the massive fireplace in the grand library of my London residence and catalogue the similarities in our appearance.

The hair—black as the soot that lined the inside of a chimney.

The eyes—the shade of pewter that brought a fair price from fences.

The nose—a slender knife-like shape, a fine-honed blade, aristocratic. Although that similarity might be merely wishful thinking on my part. It's difficult to tell if our noses are truly the same as mine was severely broken at an early age, the result of an encounter that left me nearly dead. I have always attributed my escape from death's clutches to Jack Dodger, who offered himself up as a target for the abuse being delivered to me. Things went much worse for him. Not that we ever speak of it.

When you grow up on the streets of London you learn about a great many things of which people never speak.

It's my eyes that convinced the old gent who called himself my grandfather that I was indeed his grandson.

"You've got the Claybourne eyes," he'd said with conviction.

And I readily admit that looking into his was very much like looking into a mirror at my own, but still it seemed a rather trite thing upon which to base so grand a decision.

I was fourteen at the time. Awaiting trial for committing murder. I must confess it was a rather fortuitous moment to be declared a future lord of the realm, as the judicial system was not opposed to hanging young lads who were considered troublesome. I'd developed quite a reputation in that regard. Considering the circumstances of my arrest, I have no doubt I was traveling a swift path straight to Newgate and then the gallows. Having a fondness for breathing, I was determined to do whatever was necessary to escape the hangman's noose.

Because I was brought up under the tutelage of Feagan, the kidsman who managed our rather notorious den of child thieves, I was adept at deceiving people, at pretending to remember things of which I truly had no memory. During a rather intensive inquisition, observed by inspectors of Scotland Yard, I was quite the showman, and the old gent not only declared me to be his grandson, but insisted I be tried by my peers in the House of Lords, as was my right as his heir.

It never came to that, however. The old gent appealed to the Crown to take the unfortunate circumstances of my life into consideration and to show extreme leniency. After all, I'd witnessed my parents' murder, been stolen and sold into near slavery. Certainly it was understandable that I'd engage in a bit of misbehavior. If returned to his keeping, he vowed to set me back on the righteous path to being a proper gentleman. His request was granted.

And I found myself traveling a far different—and more difficult—road than I'd expected, always looking for the familiar, the evidence that I truly belonged where I now resided. By the time I grew to manhood, by all appearances, I was an aristocrat.

But beneath the surface . . . I remained a scoundrel at heart.

Chapter 1

London

1851

It was common knowledge that one never spoke of the devil for fear that in so doing one would attract his ardent attention. So it was that few among the aristocracy spoke of Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne.

Yet, as Lady Catherine Mabry stood in the midnight shadows near his residence, she couldn’t deny that she’d been fascinated with the Devil Earl ever since he’d dared to appear at a ball uninvited.

He’d danced with no one. He’d spoken with no one. But he had prowled through the ballroom as though taking measure of each and every person within its confines and finding them all sadly lacking.

She’d found it particularly distressing when his gaze had settled on her and lingered a second or two longer than was proper. She’d neither flinched nor looked away—although she’d dearly wanted to do both—but she’d held his gaze with all the innocent audacity that a young lady of seventeen could muster.

She’d taken some satisfaction in his being the first to look away, but not before his strangely silver eyes had begun to darken, to appear as though they were heated by the fiery depths of the very hell from which he was supposedly spawned.

Few believed him to be the rightful heir, but none dared question his status. After all, it was well known that he was quite capable of committing murder. He’d never denied that he’d killed the previous earl’s remaining son and heir.

That night at the ball, it had been as if the entire throng of guests had taken a solitary breath and held it, waiting to see where he might strike, upon whom he might vent his displeasure, because it had been quite obvious he was not one to exhibit gaiety. And it could only be assumed that he’d arrived with some nefarious purpose in mind, for surely he was aware that no lady in attendance would dare risk her reputation by dancing with him nor would any gentleman have his respectability questioned by openly and willingly conversing with Claybourne in so-public a venue.

Then he’d sauntered out, as though he’d been searching for someone, and failing to find him—or her—had decided the rest of them weren’t worth the bother.

That irritated Catherine most of all.

To her immense shame, she’d desperately wanted to dance with him, to be held within the circle of his arms, and to gaze once more into those smoldering silver eyes, that even now, five years later, continued to haunt her dreams.

Bringing up the hood of her pelisse, covering her head in an attempt to warm herself as the damp fog thickened, she studied the earl’s residence more closely, searching for some clue to indicate that he was home. She wasn’t certain that her fascination with him was entirely healthy. As a matter of fact, she was fairly certain it wasn’t.

She couldn’t say exactly what it was about him that drew her; she knew only that she was irrevocably drawn. Clandestinely, unknown to her family, she’d even dared to have invitations to her balls and dinners hand-delivered to him by a faithful servant. Not that he’d ever bothered to acknowledge her overtures or attend her social functions.

As far as she knew, save for that one night, he’d never made an appearance at any other soiree. He was not openly welcomed in the best of homes, and she was quite insulted that he’d rebuffed her attempts to include him in her life. Although she had to admit that her reasons for wanting him there were quite selfish and not entirely respectable.

She no longer had the luxury of trying to entice him nearer with gilded invitations. She was quite determined to have a word with him, and if not within the safety of a crowded ballroom, then she would do it within the privacy of his own residence.

An icy shudder skittered down her spine, and she tried to attribute it to the chill of the fog, rather than her own cowardice. She’d been standing in the shadows for quite some time and the dampness had seeped into her bones. If she didn’t approach soon, she’d be a shivering mess and that would hardly suit her purpose. She had to appear as though she had no qualms whatsoever about approaching him, otherwise, she’d no doubt garner his disdain and that wouldn’t do at all.

Cautiously she glanced around. It was so very late, and the night was so very quiet. Ominously so.

No one was about to witness her approaching his door, no one would be aware of her scandalous midnight visit. Her reputation would remain unscathed. Still she hesitated. Once she set foot on this path, there would be no turning back, but she didn’t see that she had any other choice.

With renewed resolve, she stepped into the street and began marching forward, fearing that, before this night was done, her reputation would remain the only thing untouched by the Devil Earl.

***[new scene begins here]

None would ever dare claim that Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne, was a coward. Yet as he sat at the gaming table, he knew the truth of it. He was there only because he hadn’t the courage to press his suit with the lovely Frannie Darling. He’d come to Dodger’s Drawing Room with the specific intent of finally asking Frannie for her hand in marriage, and just before he’d reached the door to the office where she kept track of Jack Dodger’s accounts, he’d decided to take a quick detour by the gaming tables. Just to give his hands an opportunity to stop quaking and his mind the chance to rehearse once again the words he’d been practicing.

That had been six hours ago.

He could blame his delay on the fact that he was winning. But then he always won.

The next set of cards was dealt. He gave his a passing glance. It wasn’t the cards he was dealt that assured his victory, but rather his ability to accurately determine what the other gents were holding.

The Earl of Chesney’s eyes bugged slightly when he received a nicely matched set of cards, as though he were taken by surprise by his good fortune. This round, his eyes remained noticeably un-bugged. Viscount Milner kept re-arranging the order of his cards, never finding satisfaction there. The Earl of Canton always took a sip of his brandy when he was pleased. His glass remained untouched. The Duke of Avendale sat forward as though ready to pounce upon the winnings when he thought they would be his. He lounged back when the outcome was doubtful. Presently, he looked as though he were in danger of sliding out of his chair onto the floor. A monstrously bad hand that he no doubt thought he could bluff his way through.

The game continued, with each man betting or passing. When this particular round of Brag was completed, with all the other lords groaning and moaning, Claybourne took his winnings and added them to the stack of wooden chips already resting in front of him.

“I believe, gentlemen, that I shall call it a night,” he said, coming to his feet.

A young lad, dressed in the purple livery for which Dodger’s was so well known, rushed over with a copper bowl. He held it at the edge of the table while Claybourne slid his abundant winnings into it.

“See here, Claybourne,” Avendale said, “you’re hardly being sporting about this. You should at least give us an opportunity to win it back.”

Removing a crown from his pocket, Claybourne took the bowl from the lad, flipping him the coin as he did so. The boy, who was probably no more than eight, touched his fingers to his brow and dashed off.

“I’ve given you most of the night, gentlemen. Trust me when I assure you that you’ll come out ahead if I leave now.”

The gentlemen did a bit more grumbling, but Claybourne knew they weren’t sorry to see him go. He made them uncomfortable. No more so than they made him. But that was his secret. Unlike them, he never allowed his emotions, thoughts, or feelings to rise to the surface. Not even when it came to Frannie. He doubted that she had any idea how deeply his affection for her ran.

As he strode through the gaming establishment, he realized that she’d no doubt already retired for the evening, in which case, he’d have to wait until tomorrow to proclaim his feelings. But as he neared the back, he saw the door to her office was open. Most likely he’d find Jack inside. The man gave fewer hours to sleep than Claybourne did. But what if it wasn’t Jack? Claybourne could get this bothersome matter over with. So he walked down the hallway, peered around the doorframe . . .

And there was Frannie. Lovely Frannie. Her red hair pulled back and tucked neatly into a tight bun, the dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks barely visible beneath the glow from the lamp on the desk behind which she sat, diligently marking numbers in a column. Her dress had a high collar, every button, all the way up to her chin, securely in place. The long sleeves left only her hands visible. Her delicate brow was pleated. When she became his wife, she’d have no worries.

She glanced up, released a tiny squeak, jerked back, and pressed a hand to her chest. “Dear God, Luke! You gave me quite a start. How long have you been standing there spying on me?”

“Not nearly long enough,” he said laconically, striding into the room with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. He set the bowl on the desk. “For you and your children’s home.”

The home was a small place she was in the process of establishing with hopes of making life easier for orphans. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Are these ill-gotten gains?”

“Of course.”

Snatching up the bowl, she smiled at him. The impish upward curve of her lips hit him as it always did, like a powerful punch to the gut. “Then I shall take them gladly and do good works with them to absolve you of your sins.”

Her voice held a bit of teasing, but a sadness marred her eyes.

“No one can absolve me of my sins, Frannie, you know that.” With a wave of his hand to stop her from even attempting to argue with him on the matter, he sat in the thickly padded chair in front of her desk. “You’re up rather late.”

“The amount of work necessary to keep track of Jack’s finances is unbelievable. His profits are astounding.”

“He’s always said if you wish to die rich, invest in vice.”

“Well, he shall no doubt die rich, and in a way that’s rather sad. He should spend the money on something that brings him pleasure.”

“I think he finds his pleasure in taking money from rich blokes.” His accent dipped at the end to reveal his street origins. It was always so easy to slip around Frannie, because they shared the same origins.

“But is he happy?” she asked.

“Are any of us?”

Tears welled in her eyes—

“Dammit, Frannie—”

She held up her hand. “It’s all right. I’m in one of my moods is all, and while I can’t claim to be happy, I do believe I’m content.”

Now, now was the perfect opportunity to promise her unending happiness. But her office suddenly seemed like such a ghastly unromantic place. Whatever had he been thinking to consider asking her here? The setting for the proposal should be as memorable as the proposal itself.

Tomorrow. He would ask her tomorrow. Clearing his throat, he came to his feet. “Well, it’s rather late. I’d best be off.”

She gave him another impish smile. “It was kind of you to stop by and visit.” She touched the copper bowl. “I thank you for your contribution.”

“I’d give you more—legitimate funds—if you’d take them.”

“You’ve done more than enough for me, Luke.”

Again, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to tell her that he’d not done nearly as much as he planned to do for her. But the words lodged in his throat. Why was he always so tongue-tied around her when it came to speaking from his heart? Was it because as he feared, he truly had no heart, just a black hole that reflected the darkness of his soul?

Telling her anything at all should come easily. After all, they knew the worst of each others’ lives. Why was that so much easier to share than what should be the best?

He took a step back. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know then exactly how I plan to use this money you’ve given me.”

“Use it however it pleases you, Frannie. It comes with no attachments. You owe me no explanations.”

“You’ve never been comfortable around orphans, have you?”

“Whatever are you about? All my best friends are orphans.”

“Feagan’s merry little band of ne’er-do-wells. We’re an odd assortment, aren’t we?”

“Only because we overcame the circumstances of our youths and are all quite successful.”

“We have your grandfather to thank for our change in fortunes. He lifted us all up when he lifted you.”

“If he was my grandfather.”

“How can you still doubt it?”

He almost told her the truth, but he didn’t think she’d approve of the lie he was certain he was living. He gave her what he hoped was one of his more charming smiles. “Goodnight, Frannie. Sweet dreams.”

Luke strode out of the building into the fog-shrouded night. His bones immediately began to ache, a reminder from too many nights sleeping in the cold. Now he kept the rooms of his residences unbearably warm simply because he could. Having spent his youth without many comforts, he indulged in all of them now. He’d developed a reputation for being eccentric and extravagant, for spending foolishly. But he could well afford to spend however he pleased. Being in partnership with Jack ensured it.

Yes, investing in the vices paid handsomely.

Before he reached his coach, his liveried footman opened the door with a slight bow.

“Home straightaway,” Luke said, as he climbed inside.

“Aye, m’lord.”

The door closed, and Luke sat back against the plush seat. The well-sprung coach lurched forward. Gazing out the window, Luke could see little save the gray swirling mist. He didn’t care for it much as it had a permanent place in his dreams.

Not that he dreamed often. In order to dream, one needed to sleep, and Luke seldom slept for any great length of time. He wasn’t certain any of them did. Feagan’s children. They were bound together by the things they’d done. Things the nobility could never comprehend being desperate enough to do.

It was one of the many reasons that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with his place in the world. Shortly after the old gent’s demise, Luke had attended a ball to publicly take his place as the new Earl of Claybourne, and a hush had descended over the crowd as soon as he’d been announced at the top of the stairs. He’d sauntered through the room, daring anyone to question his presence. No one had been able to meet his gaze.

An image flittered at the edge of his memory. One young lady had not only dared to hold his gaze, but had fairly challenged him. He wasn’t certain why, but he thought of her on occasion. She was nothing like Frannie. Standing there in her elegant evening gown, with every strand of her blond hair tucked perfectly into place, she appeared spoiled and pampered. It was one of the reasons he abhorred the idea that he was now part of the aristocracy. They knew nothing of suffering. They knew nothing of the humiliation of scrounging for morsels of food. They weren’t familiar with the sharp bite of the cane when begging didn’t bring in enough coins or slipping hands into pockets didn’t acquire enough handkerchiefs. They didn’t know the fear of being caught. Even children were sent to prison, sometimes transported on great hulking ships to Australia or New Zealand, and on rare occasions, hanged.

The coach came to a halt, the door opened, and Luke alighted. He always felt a tad guilty upon first arriving at his London residence. Two dozen families could live there comfortably. Instead it was only him and two dozen servants.

The massive front door opened. He was surprised to find his butler still awake. Luke kept all hours, came and went as he pleased, when he pleased. He didn’t expect his servants to live their lives according to his late-night habits.

Fitzsimmons had seen after the residence long before Luke ever came to live there with the old gent. The butler had been fiercely loyal to the previous earl, and not once—as far as Luke knew—had Fitzsimmons ever questioned the old gent’s contention that Luke was his grandson.

Once the door was closed, Luke removed his hat and handed it to the butler. “I’ve told you before that you need not stay up until I return home.”

“Yes, my lord, but, I thought it best to do so this evening.”

“And why is that?” Luke asked, tugging off his gloves.

“A lady arrived earlier.”

Luke stilled. “Who?”

“She wouldn’t say. She knocked at the servants’ entrance, said it was of paramount importance—a matter of life and death were her precise words—that she speak with you. She’s been waiting in the library ever since.”

Luke glanced toward the hallway. “And you have no idea who she is?”

“No, my lord, although I would venture to guess she is a lady of the utmost quality. She has that air about her.”

Over the years a few ladies of quality had sought out Luke’s bed. He lived a life of abundance that many had wanted to embrace, but he always made it clear that he offered nothing permanent. Some had simply wanted to play with the devil for a time. But none had ever claimed visiting him was a matter of life and death. How dramatic. The remainder of his evening promised to be entertaining.

He handed his gloves to Fitzsimmons. “See that we’re not disturbed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

His curiosity piqued, Luke strode down the hallway. No footman waited outside the door. He had no reason to believe his services would be required at this ungodly hour. Luke entered the library, slamming the door behind him, a grand entrance to disarm his visitor.

The woman standing at the window, gazing onto a garden hidden by darkness and fog, jerked around. The hood of her pelisse lay against her shoulders, its clasp interfering with what would have been a lovely show of skin from throat to bosom. Beneath the cloak, she’d dressed to seduce and for reasons he couldn’t fathom, he was suddenly very much in the mood for seduction.

“Lady Catherine Mabry, as I recall,” he said, sauntering nearer until he could smell the expensive perfume that wafted over her skin like the fragrance of a delicate rose.

Her blue eyes widened slightly. “I’d not realized you knew who I was.”

“I make it my business to know who everyone is.”

“You consider me your business?”

“Ah, yes, Lady Catherine. Isn’t that what you wanted when you challenged me that night at the ball?”

“Not particularly, no,” she muttered.

Mesmerized, he watched as her delicate throat moved ever so slightly as she swallowed—the only indication she gave that she was having second thoughts about being there. She was lovelier than he remembered—or perhaps it was simply that maturity agreed with her—and she still possessed the courage to hold his gaze. Or perhaps not. It wavered for a heartbeat as she glanced away while licking her lips. An invitation for something more intimate.

He trailed his finger along the soft flesh beneath her chin and her gaze jumped back to his. Beneath his touch, he could feel her pulse quickening, fluttering like a tiny moth that had dared to approach the flame and now realized it was left with no means of escape. It was obvious she was a novice when it came to the art of seduction, but no matter. He had enough experience to see them through.

“I know why you’re here,” he said, his voice low, provocative, a prelude to their lying beneath the silken sheets that adorned his bed.

She furrowed her delicate brow. Her features were exquisite perfection, carved by nature with obvious care and never altered by the harshness of life.

“How—” she began.

“Do not think you’re the first to try to trap me into marriage. I’m not easily caught.” He slid his finger along her flesh, down to the clasp at her throat. “I have little doubt your guardian stands just beyond the window, watching, waiting until the perfect moment to make his presence known.” With nimble fingers, he loosened the clasp and carefully slid the cloak off her shoulders until it pooled on the floor.

His body tightened with his unobstructed view of all she had to offer. He’d gone too long without a woman beneath him. Even if he were snared by her trap he would escape it easily enough. Cradling her face, he leaned nearer until his breath mingled with hers. “But even if he witnesses my removing your clothing, even if he sees you welcoming me with open arms and crying out in ecstasy, I will not marry you,” he whispered.

He heard her breath catch.

“I will not restore your reputation once tarnished.” He brushed his lips over hers. “If you get with child, I will not give you respectability. The price you pay for waltzing with the devil is residing in hell.”

He settled his mouth firmly over hers, not at all surprised that she acquiesced so easily. Even if she’d not come here to trap him, he knew what he was to her. A curiosity, nothing more. A bit of misbehavior before she settled into a respectable marriage with a lord whose lineage was never questioned behind his back.

She didn’t resist when he urged her lips to part. She moaned when he swept his tongue through her mouth, leaving nothing unexplored. Her hands gripped the lapels of his jacket, and he thought for a moment that she swayed. He reacted with a need so strong that it almost brought him to his knees.

Even as he cursed her and his own weakness, he recognized that he had no will to resist temptation. He would have her. She’d brought this moment upon herself by arriving at his doorstep. He was a man who always took advantage of opportunities presented, and she was presenting him with an opportunity for passion. It had been too long since he’d unleashed his desires. She would benefit from all that he had to offer this night, but no more than that. In the morning, she’d take nothing from him except the memories.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he bracketed her face between his hands and held her gaze. “Be sure this is what you want, my lady, for there will be no undoing once this is done.”

Her breaths coming in short gasps, she shook her head. “You misunderstand my purpose in coming here.”

“Do I?” he asked mockingly.

She nodded. “I want someone dispensed with. And I hear you’re just the man to do it.”

********

Copyrighted © 2008