To Tempt the Devil Pt. 01

“Yes, thank you,” Faith said gratefully. “I suppose there’s not really any need for me to stay in here any longer, is there? There’s not really much chance of anyone but Sylvester or you bursting in here unannounced. And I can just hop right back in if anyone does come up.”

“I still think this whole business is mighty odd,” Harriet grumbled, when Faith sent her off. “Its not right, ladies hiding in closets. What is the world coming to these days?”

“I don’t know, Harriet,” Faith said sadly. “I really don’t know.”

* * *

Someone knocked on the door and hurriedly abandoning the book of poetry she had been reading, Faith jumped into the wardrobe and banged the door shut, mentally wincing at the careless noise she had made.

“Its just me, miss,” came Harriet’s voice.

“Oh,” said Faith, feeling very foolish. “Come in, Harriet.”

The maid came in, balancing a tray piled with food and bearing a jug of ratafia. Faith, seeing the sweet drink, immediately groaned. “Oh Harriet,” she pouted. “Why couldn’t you get me some of that 82 burgandy? Or brandy? Wasn’t there any brandy?”

“I couldn’t find any,” Harriet informed her tartly. “Be glad it isn’t burnt champagne. That was about the only other thing I could find in the kitching.”

Faith cringed. “I’m sorry,” she said meekly. “I know it must have been hard for you to sneak all this up here for me.”

“It was,” her maid said bluntly.

“And for that I shall be eternally grateful,” said Faith, bestowing upon her a beaming smile. Harriet, despite herself, could not help grinning, then turned and left, muttering about hoydenish ladies who demanded brandy with their dinner. Faith smiled to herself, and turned enthusiastically to her dinner. In doing so, her arm inadvertantly knocked over the jug of ratafia, causing it to smash quite loudly as it landed on the floor, sending the sticky liquid flying everywhere. With a muted groan, Faith jumped back into the closet.

* * *

Vardon raised his brows at the resounding crash that sounded from abovestairs, his eyes fixed upon the maid who was serving the fourth course and, whom he had observed a short while ago, had been busy smuggling a tray of food up stairs. “I believe something broke,” he said placidly.

The maid did not meet his eyes. “It must have been the cat,” she said nonchalantly.

His Grace looked surprised. “I didn’t know we had a cat,” he remarked. “How odd.”

“Her ladyship only got him today,” the maid explained quickly.

“Ah,” said Sylvester, looking greatly amused. “That explains it. Her ladyship appears to have been mighty busy today.”

“Your sister is still not back,” Vardon commented. “It is past night, now. Perhaps you should send someone out to search for her?”

He was not surprised when the duke merely waved a hand, saying casually, “She’ll come in soon. She’s always wandering about.”

“And you allow it?” Vardon queried.

“I cannot stop it,” Sylvester said with a grin. “Say, will you join me for a game of cards after supper, Silverstone? You’ve waited this long already - why not wait until my sister, er, decides to come home?”

Vardon met his hosts laughing, humourous eyes and could not stop the quirk that came to his lips. “By all means,” he said easily. “It would be my pleasure to...er...await Lady de Courte’s ah, homecoming.”

* * *

“They’re going to play cards,” Harriet announced, sailing into her ladyship’s bedchamber. “His Grace has convinced His Lordship to stay until you come back.”

“Hmm,” Faith said with a frown. “He might be here until morning, then. I did hope to see Sylvester before he retired...oh dear, what if they decide to send out a search party for me?”

“They won’t,” said Harriet reassuringly. “His Grace told the Marquess that it was normal for you to go wandering about at all hours. He’s not worried.”

“I wonder if that’ll still be the case at three in the morning,” Faith muttered. She guessed, by now, that her brother knew exactly where she was - the crash and thumps from upstairs had hardly been subtle. Ah well - at least Silverstone would not see her. And that was the important thing.

Chapter Five: In Which Faith Engages in a Drinking Contest

It was well after midnight before Vardon left the de Courte townhouse, much to the amusement of his host and the chagrin of his intended. It was, of course, some time after his guest had left that Sylvester deigned to inform Faith of the fact.

“In her room, did you say, Harriet?” he called loudly, stomping up the stairs. “Did you hear that, Silverstone? M’sister’s in her room? She’s been fooling us all along! Come - let us investigate.” And he stomped some more before throwing open Faith’s door and poking his head in. “Oh, sis,” he called. “Where are you, sis? I’ve a visitor for you...”

And Faith, having already dived into the closet with some alacrity was forced to remain there for a good deal of time while the two men apparently conversed in hushed tones, saying things that she could not hear. She was straining so much to hear them that it came as quite a surprise when the closet door slid open and Sylvester’s voice said, quite drily, “Its all right, Faith. You can come out now. He left about an hour ago.”

Faith, sagging against the wall in shock and relief, merely exhaled and climbed out of the closet.

“That was a deuced unsporting thing to do, Sylvester,” she grumbled as soon as she had regained her equilebrium. “Scared me to death.”

“I can imagine,” her brother said unsmilingly. “I’d have thought better of you, Faith, than to have played a childish trick like that. What if I’d sent out a search party for you?”

“You wouldn’t have,” she replied with aplomb. “You know I’m always marching in at odd hours.”

“What? You do not -” he began angrily, then stopped. “Oh. I see. You heard, did you?”

“Harriet told me,” she explained.

“I must fire that girl. She’s far too involved.”

“Oh be quiet Sylvester,” Faith scowled. “What did Silverstone want?”

“Well dear sister,” he drawled, “He did come to call on you - I understand he had heard that you were in town and was coming to ask if you would come for a drive in the park. When he heard that you were - er, ill, that is to say, you went out, he chose to wait for your return. In the meantime we discussed your marriage contracts.

“When it became rather apparent you would not return for some time I thought it only polite to invite him for dinner.” At her look of outrage he shrugged. “The man had been sitting here for hours, Faith. It was the least I could do. I could not help that...er...we shared many things in common...including a taste for the 82 burgandy...it rather kept us occupied, you see.”

She made an unhappy noise and Sylvester patted her shoulder confidingly. “Don’t worry dear. There’s half a bottle left, I think...oh, no. I believe Silverstone spilled that on his way out. Half foxed, I’d say he was. You can’t blame him, I suppose. That burgandy was excellent.”

She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl, mentally adding inebrietion and theft to her list of Silverstone’s vices.

“Cheer up Fayfee,” Sylvester said, slinging a comradely arm around her. “You’ve got that wager business tomorrow - I expect you’ll be allowed to imbibe as much as you want to. We’re going to Whites, you know. And Silverstone’s going to come back on Saturday.”

The first part of that intrigued her so much that she let the second part go. “Whites?” she said, delighted. “How shall I go?”

“We’ll dress you up as a boy,” Sylvester said with a grin. “Although I expect we’ll have to find you some extremely baggy clothes - “

“I’ve a better idea,” Faith interrupted. “Why don’t you move the site to Vadistes?”

“Vadistes?” Sylvester asked, surprised. “Why?”

“I have my reasons,” she said cryptically.

“Don’t tell me you simply want a night filled with all dissipation, my dear,” laughed Sylvester. “You want to imbibe and gamble? Shall we throw in some women - er, men, as well?”

Faith frowned. “You should not speak of such things to me, Sylvester.”

“No, you’re right. My sincerest apologies.” He did not look sincere in the least. She rolled her eyes. “Well? Will you?”

He shrugged. “I suppose it won’t be a problem. I don’t understand though, Faith. I always thought you wanted to go to Whites?”

“I do - its just that on this occasion, Vadistes better suits my purposes.”

“Ah,” said Sylvester. “I see. I assume that this pertains to the Grand Plan, then?”

“What plan?” she asked, with feigned innocence. “I have no plans.”

“No, of course not,” her brother agreed, and stood. “I hope you will tell me soon what you are planning my dear, or I fear that our mutual goals may be affected. I will bid you good night - do remember not to fall suddenly ill on Saturday. I daresay Silverstone might countenance your games once but I doubt he will do it twice.”

Faith glowered at his back until the door closed behind him.

The following night, Faith was to be found once again, in Vadistes. Sylvester had introduced her as a lady of his acquaintance - as yet, she did not think anyone knew of their relationship - she did not wish that to change. Questions were asked as to where her brother was - she stated that he had taken ill and had not escorted her this night - Sylvester had taken his place. Speculation was immediately rife as to the relationship which she and the young duke shared. She found it all perfectly amusing, of course. She knew scandal would, in the end, come out of it, but she did not particularly care, and as Sylvester thrived on scandal, she could not see the harm in any of this masquerading.

Vadistes, that night, was filled with various members of the beau monde and demi monde alike. Gentlemen of the ton - primarily, the roues and rakes of London, as well as the more dangerous members of the demimonde, those accepted in the ton as well as those who weren’t.

Arriving later than he usually did, Vardon entered the sacred hallowed halls of his favorite gaming hell to find it unusually crowded, a mass of raucous, cheering humanity clustered around one of the central gaming tables. Other gamesters had stopped their play to watch - what? His height allowed him to see over the heads of majority of onlookers, and he peered, curiously, over the crowd. Dear god. Surely not - but it was.

Faith stood in the middle of a circle of people - the men mostly rakes, the women mostly demi reps, drinking - quite avidly, it appeared - a great deal of alcohol. The glasses were already piling up on her side of the table. He espied Sylvester standing to one side of her, watching with a great deal of satisfaction and smugness. Ah - so it was the famed de Courte wager - the duke had apparently professed to know of a lady who could rival even the most experienced of drinkers in exquisite wine palate and her ability to consume great amounts of alcohol. Presumably, Faith was the lady in question.

On the other side, Harry, Lord Paulet, was drinking, it appeared, an equally large amount of alcohol. Vardon cursed. The fool - had he reverted his old ways, then? Presumably so, for he appeared to be imbibing as much as he used to, before the war. Damn Edenvale for having made that outrageous wager - there was no way Harry was going to get through this bout unharmed.

As Vardon watched, transfixed, a sensation of helplessness and fury washing over him, a lackey ran over, fought his way through the crowd and leaned up on tiptoe to whisper something in Edenvale’s ear. The duke stilled, an expression of chagrin and disgruntlement on his face, listening for a moment before dismissing the boy. He cursed once - at least Vardon assumed that it was - and turned to his lady. He whispered something in Faith’s ear - she looked concerned, said something to him. He replied, and she nodded, satisfied. With a last, intimate smile, he kissed her affectionately on the cheek, then turned and left.

Vardon pressed his lips together. Well the chit moved fast, he had to admit. She had entered Vadistes for but a few days and already had found herself a protector. The thought stirred a clenching, furious, rage in him. To think he had believed, even a moment, that she was an innocent, a true lady! No lady, this, but a scheming, conniving demi rep who also happened to possess remarkable acting skills. Grimly, without pausing for thought, he made his way towards the table.

* * *

Seek Silverstone’s help indeed! Faith thought furiously, downing yet another glass of the fine French brandy being handed to her. She had hardly been able to believe it when her brother had been called away - one of his warehouses had been burnt, it appeared - but for him to have the temerity to insist that she call on Silverstone should she need any assistance was too much. He knew she would not become drunk - there was no way that even a certified alcoholic like Paulet would be able to best her in this field. Why should she need assistance? Besides, it was not as if she had ever seen Silverstone or knew which one he was. Sylvester had merely mentioned that he was present. To do as he had advised would have meant blowing her cover - she was not about to do that.

Some five glasses later, Harry Paulet had toppled over, dead asleep, and she had been declared the winner. The results were recorded - witnesses were accorded, and the crowd begun to disperse, several gentlemen staying behind on the pretence of congratulating her on her drinking prowess, but more likely, Faith reflected ruefully, hoping to take advantage of her inebriated state. Well they would be disappointed, she decided, straightening purposefully. She intended to go straight home - she hiccupped, swaying slightly. Oh dear - perhaps she was not as sober as she wished to be. Harry Paulet had been a worthy opponent, she thought magnanimously. Truely a match for her. But not enough - she had still won. A pleased smile lit her face as she nodded absently to the latest rake paying his courtesies. Sylvester would be ever so pleased...

“I’m sure he would be,” came the amused tones from beside her. Had she spoken aloud? She must have, for he could not have read her mind. She peered blearily up at him. Eyes - such blue eyes, but so hard. Why was he staring at her so stonily? She’d done nothing wrong... “You have such blue eyes,” she crooned. “So dark...like the midnight sky...and million glittering stars...Oh!” She gasped as she was quite suddenly scooped into Lord Vardon’s arms. How odd. How had she gotten here? Surely she had not climbed. She looked down - it was such a distance up. A chair - yes, she’d used a chair. There was no other way she could have climbed into his arms like this...

In his arms?

“Put me down!” Faith demanded, her mind suddenly a great deal clearer than it had been a moment ago. Someone chuckled. “It appears your lady friend has a mind to be the dominant partner,” she heard Lord Erwick say. “First the poetry...I have an inkling she believes its you who ought to be carried, not the other way around.”

“Shut up James,” Vardon muttered, and pushed his way through, walking until he came to one of the more quiet gaming rooms. He deposited his package unceremoniously on a lounge chair, stood back, and crossed his arms, glowering at her.

She glowered right back.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded finally.

“Drinking,” she replied beatifically. “Can I have another brandy?”

“No,” he said emphatically. “You may not have another brandy. Now why have you come back? Did I not tell you to stay away from Vadistes?”

“Yesh...” she said thoughtfully. “I believe you did. Unlessh - unless I dreamt it...no, you definitely said it.” She smiled happily at him. “I remembered!”

“But you did not choose to obey.”

“Pah,” she said, waving a hand at him. “I doan have to obey you. You - you’re nothing.” She clicked her fingers for emphasis. “Nothing!”

“You - “ he sputtered, finally coming down to kneel in front of her, his hands clutching the armrests on either side of her chair. She recoiled, flinching in instinctive fear at the expression on his face. Before she could do so much as blink, he had clamped one hand on the back of her neck, dragged her face towards him, and was kissing her.

His other hand delved into her hair, scattering pins and undoing her neat chignon, his fingers running through the heavy mass and tugging, insistently. The tinkle of pins as they hit the carpet was the only sound in the gameroom, but for the harsh sounds of his breathing. She did not think she was breathing at all. She felt his hand, clenching a handful of hair as he held her to him, holding his mouth clamped to hers almost as if in a vice. He crushed her lips against hers brutally, almost violently, and involuntarily, she let out a small sound of distress which he ignored, intent only on the sensation of her lips, soft and pliant against his, a sensation far more pleasant than he had ever imagined it to be. She felt his tongue glide against her lips - tracing a pattern against her upperlip, to slide down and tease at her lower. She smothered a gasp as he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, then plunged his tongue into hers. The invasion of his tongue seemed to fill her with a hot, melting sensation, even while she knew it was meant to punish, to degrade. He explored her mouth explicitely, thoroughly, then taunted and teased, luring, compelling her tongue into his mouth, where he captured and sucked on it.

It was at this point that Faith regained her wits enough to open her eyes, stare straight into his, and raise her previously useless hands to push him away. It was a futile effort. He merely grabbed her wrists, closed his eyes, and resumed kissing her. It was some time before he finally released her, gasping for air. He did not let her rise, held her pinned down to the seat with a look, then leant back on his knees and regarded her with a heavy lidded, self satisfied look. He was still breathing hard.

“You liked that,” he stated simply, smugly.

“Yes - I - No - I did not!” Faith exclaimed, a hot blush rising to her already flushed cheeks. “I didn’t.”

“Oh?” Vardon remarked, smirking. “And yet... I could have sworn that it was what you had been seeking all along... Traipsing around gaming hells and god knows where else at the early hours of the morning...making an exhibition of yourself in the vulgar consumption of excess amounts of alcohol...” He gazed at her innocently. “Isn’t that what you were asking for?”

“No!” Faith snarled. “It isn’t! You have no rights to make such - such assumptions, about me!”

“And yet,” Vardon said softly, “You liked that. You liked me kissing you, liked feeling my hands on you, feeling my tongue in your mouth...”

“No! Stop it! I didn’t!”

“The proof is there for all to see, my dear,” he murmured, his gaze on her breasts. She looked down, already knowing what she would see. Her breasts felt taut and heavy, the nipples peaked. “It means nothing,” she gasped.

“You would like me to prove it?” Vardon asked, mockingly. “If you would let me put my hand...there...” he was gazing at her thighs, “I can guarantee that you would be wet...dripping...and there would be the proof which you so desperately crave...”

Oh, god, it was true. She raised her hand to slap him, feeling tears of outrage and helplessness spring to her eyes, but he caught her wrist in an almost painful vise, and leant in close, until their lips were almost touching once again. “Listen well, my dear. If I ever catch you setting foot here ever again, I will take that as an invitation - and I will not listen to your protests of repugnance. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Faith said, bitterly. “If I come here again, you will take it as an invitation to rape.”

“Rape?” he murmured, releasing her wrist and smiling. “I assure my dear...it will not come to that. I never have to force my women - if I so choose to have you in my bed, make no mistake, you will come willingly.”