Samantha James - The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

Samantha James

Contents

London

T he terms were set.

Rutgers Field at dawn.

The young cub chose pistols.

The viscount chose seven paces.

There would be one exchange of fire.

The weather was abysmal. Fog snaked in and out between the trees that surrounded the field, shifting as if it were a living, breathing thing. A driving rain pelted the viscounts cheek as he removed his coat and handed it to his second, the Duke of Braddock.

The duke swore. By God, man, you were in your cups last night and youre in your cups now. Do you think I dont smell the brandy on your breath? This is the last time Ill take my place as your second, do you hear?

As you wish then, Your Grace. The viscount gave a mocking bow.

The dukes expression was grim. Good as you are, I think you should knowthe boys a crack shot.

All the better.

The viscount shrugged. I did not provoke this duel. It was he who challenged me. If you hadnt beenhow shall I say thislustily engaged upstairs with your ladybird, youd have heard him. He accused me of cheating at cards. When I accused him of cheating, he demanded satisfaction. There was no changing the whelps mind. He made no bones about telling me he preferred a gentlemans way of settling a dispute.

The duke scowled. The barkeep last night told me that only a fortnight ago he nearly took the arm off a seaman from the docks.

The viscount gave a thin smile. Well, he cant be much of a crack shot then, can he, if the seaman still lives. Perhaps he should try his hand at boxing instead.

Do not jest. He has the devils own tempermuch like you, I might add.

The viscount wasnt surprised. The cub was no more than five-and-twenty. Hotheaded, hell-born, and reckless. He, too, he supposed, was hotheaded, hell-born, and reckless. But the cub certainly didnt deserve to die.

The viscount lived each day as if it were his last... as if he prayed each day was his last.

Nothing gave him pleasure. Not anymore. He cared for nothing, save his mother. He thought of Brightwood, his family estate. Two years had passed since he left for London. His jaw tightened. Hed vowed to himself that the only way he would ever return was in his coffin.

Perhaps, he decided cynically, it wouldnt be so long now after all.

The viscount handed his hat to the duke. A downpour began.

Gentleman, take your places. A man named Cavendish cleared his throat. Beside him stood a physician. Begin the count.

The viscount was already drenched. Rain dripped from the dark hair on his forehead.

One.

The viscount recalled his friends words. This is the last time Ill take my place as your second. With luck, there would be no further need.

Two.

The cub could hardly miss at seven paces.

Three.

Oh, to be free.

Four.

No more guilt. No more pain.

Five.

Please, God. Please.

Six

A sharp report filled the air. The viscount felt the bullet pierce cloth and flesh.

The impact sent him to his knees.

He gritted his teeth and managed to half turn, still gripping the pistol. Fire scalded his right shoulder. He could barely keep hold of the weapon. One shot, he reminded himself. For himself, he cared nothing about the so-called field of honor. He didnt care that the cub had fired early. But if the cub shot and he didnt... All he needed was to get off one round. Why he was concerned with salvaging the cubs honor, he had no idea. But if he didnt, the cub would lose all respect from his peers. He would be shunned.

The viscount gritted his teeth. Blast! He struggled to see through the mist. The fog was so strange, still winding and twisting. At least there was no need to aim.

His hand shaking, he pulled the trigger, firing away from the assemblage that had gathered.

The pistol fell from his hand. He felt himself slipping forward, depleted of all strength.

Footsteps shook the ground. Someone shouted. The viscount couldnt be sure. The buzz in his ears grew steadily louder.

Rain seeped through his clothing. The grass against his cheek was cold. Fire scalded his shoulder.

He knew the wound wasnt mortal.

He wanted to scream in outrage. In blind, tormented fury.

He had prayed this day would see him sent straight to the devil.

Instead he must spend yet more of his days in hell.

I t was time to let the night play out.

To one who might look on, Claire Ashcroft was the very essence of aplomb. Of composure. Indeed, one never would have guessed the churning need for vengeance that seared her soul. Knowing her nemesis was near tied her stomach in knots.

He stood near the edge of the ballroom, a figure clad in blacka fitting color for the man. His jacket was stretched taut over wide, muscled shoulders; nary a wrinkle was visible. He stood tall and powerful, like a pillar from ancient Greece. His height was such that he seemed to stretch clear to the ceiling. He embodied power. Confidence.

Her eyes slid over his profile. She couldnt deny he was arrestingly handsome to the eye. His hair was black as coal, cropped short. High cheekbones slanted above a square jawline. He was clean-shaven, but his jaw was faintly shadowed. It spun through her mind that he must doubtless shave twice each day.

His was a pose most formidable, yet his pose was indolently careless. His expression was impenetrable.

Claire sucked in a breath. The sight of him made her shiver.

His gaze roamed the room, an almost lazy perusal. She sensed boredom. She sensed cynicism. A distance that was almost icy set him apart. And then he turned

Their eyes locked, for one long, nerve-shattering moment.

So this was Viscount Grayson Sutherland.

The blackguard who had killed her brother. The man who had changed her life forever.

A strange sensation slid up her spine. His examination of her had turned no less than fierce. A hundred feelings went through her in that instant. It was as if everything else in the world stood still.

The sheer physicality of the man was... Claire struggled for the proper word. Formidable. Almost frightening. She wasnt prepared for it. It was as if his eyeswere they a pale blue or a silvery gray?sliced into her. A tremor shook her, a shiver that was almost violent.

A hand touched her elbow. Claire?

It was Penelope. Dear, sweet Penelope who had paved the way for her reception into Society. Her dearest friend in all the world, Penelope Groveher name had changed from Robertson when she wed Theodore Grove.

The two of them had attended finishing school together. Penelope was a year older. They were an odd-looking pair, the two of them. Penelope was as delicate as fine china, her demeanor tiny, her features angelic. Claire was half a head taller than Penelope, her limbs long and spare. To Claire, her proportions always seemed out of kilter.

She and Penelope had become acquainted in a rather unusual way. Claire had always felt odd duck out. She was taller than most girls and, indeed, many boys. Little wonder that shed start finishing school feeling the outsider. She was aware she was the brunt of amusement for several older girls. She had been a bit awkward, the subject of many a joke. She pretended it didnt hurt, but it did. Outside one day in the schoolyard, she saw an older girl named Ramona deliberately push Penelope into a puddle. The front of Penelopes gown and face was spattered with mud. Claire saw tears in her eyesand saw red. She helped Penelope to her feet and turned to Ramona.

A moment later Ramona was seated on her bum in the middle of the puddle. She burst into tears.

Oh, what satisfaction there had been!