One Wicked Night by Shelley Bradley Read Free Book Online

leaning on the carved walking stick in his grip with every other step. What had happened that he needed a cane?
    “Is your knee well?” she asked him hesitantly.
    “As well as this weather allows,” he responded without facing her.
    “Can I help?”
    He turned slowly to face her, his expression stiff. “Does my limp bother you?”
    Serena swallowed, certain she had touched upon a sensitive subject. “No, I was merely concerned.”
    He raised a dark brow. “Thank you, but my injury was a departing gift from the war. There is nothing you can do.”
    “You served?”
    He paused. “Three years in Portugal.”
    Her gaze roamed his tense profile, taking in his strength. He hadn’t shirked his duty to his country or paid another to take his place. He’d been brave and responsible, even though his service had cost him dearly. A new respect dawned within her.
    He turned away and began mounting the stairs again. Down a long hall, past a French Rococo pier glass and table, he escorted her to the library. The silence within the small room was complete, seeming to echo off the mahogany bookcases lining the walls on her left and right.
    Without a word, he led her to a plush ivory-colored sofa beside the fireplace. On a waist-high marble table rested several decanters. Lucien chose one, poured two glasses of the liquid, and crossed the room to her.
    He sat beside her on the sofa, hip to hip, and handed her one of the glasses.
    Trembling, Serena raised it to her nose and sniffed alcohol.
    “You need a good drink. Go on,” he said.
    Serena hesitated, watching as Lucien brought his glass to his mouth. He drank, his lips caressing the glass as he drained the liquid in long gulps. When he finished, Lucien set his glass on the table beside him.
    His unnerving gaze landed on her. Serena transferred her glass from one hand to the other before lifting it to her lips. Anything to avoid his stare.
    She recognized the drink as a light, dry wine; it was the kind of thing Aunt Constance had approved of upon certain occasions. Perhaps this circumstance qualified.
    Lucien rose to pour himself another. To calm her reawakening anxiety, Serena took another sip.
    She cast her eyes around the library, studying the globe in the floor stand, the ceramic busts within the bookshelves, and the Oriental rug of rust, ivory, and various green hues. All shouted wealth and power, the kind which she had been born and married to. Might this stranger know Cyrus? If so, and she conceived, would Lucien confront Cyrus or, God forbid, the ton , about the Warrington “heir’s” true sire?
    With that alarming thought, she set her glass on the table beside the sofa and rose. “It’s getting rather late. Would it be possible for you to see me home now?”
    Surprise registered with the lift of his brows. “If that’s your wish.”
    Lucien crossed the floor to stand beside her, leaning on his walking stick with every other step. “I don’t mind telling you I’m disappointed. The way you returned my kiss, I thought . . .” He sighed. “You seemed to want me, too. Was I wrong?”
    He certainly believed in direct speech. Serena withdrew her handkerchief and pressed it to her trembling mouth. “W-want you? To do what?”
    She could tell by his expression he was suppressing a smile. “To make love to you. What else?” He reached for her hand. “I wanted you the instant you turned those blue eyes on me, sweetheart.”
    “Oh,” she said, clutching the little linen square. What was she supposed to say?
    Lucien took a long swallow from his glass before setting it on a cherry secretary. “Your eyes said, ‘Touch me—now.’ When I did, you ignited.”
    Serena felt color suffusing her cheeks. “I never intended that. I—it just . . . happened.”
    He shook his head. “It happened because we need each other. I think you’re as lonely as am I.” He wrapped hard, desperate fingers around her shoulders. “Together we can forget, celebrate life.”
    He wanted