Weddings From Hell

  Violet shivered under the force of that gaze and the intensity behind it. Whatever his reasons for being there—they were not to wish her happy, of that she had no doubt.

  Eliza and Henry intercepted him when he was mere feet from her. And Rupert, realizing something strange was afoot, came to stand by her side. The ballroom was silent, save for the whispers circulating. Who was he? What was he doing there?

  “Carr,” Henry greeted warmly, if not a little cautiously. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I’m not here on a social call, Henry,” came the low, rasp of the vampire’s reply. And he looked like a vampire tonight—a predator from the darkest shadows. And God help her, Violet would let him ravish her right there in front of everyone if he asked.

  “We’re celebrating, Payen,” Eliza said softly. “Perhaps you didn’t know that Violet is to be married tomorrow.”

  He spared her a glance, brief but so electrically charged Violet felt it in her toes. “I know. I’ve come to stop it.”

  Chapter 2

  Payen’s announcement caused a bit of a commotion. This was, of course, in comparison to the Crusades, the measure for all his confrontations.

  “Damnit, Payen!” That was Henry. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Eliza joined in. “Stop the wedding?”

  The whole room was in an uproar, and the groom—the little tosser who Payen had no choice but to call handsome indeed—was saying something to Violet, practically yelling in her ear.

  Violet wasn’t talking. Like him, she was the only silent person in the room. In fact, Violet didn’t seem to be listening to her fiancé either. She was staring rather intently at Payen, who was staring rather intently right back. She looked…hopeful.

  She also looked damned beautiful, even more so than the girl he remembered. More than that colorless girl in the photograph.

  So tall. With those shoes and that mass of sable hair she was almost as tall as he. She had lost weight, but that only called more attention to the magnificent bounty of her breasts, framed delectably by the square neckline of a gown the color of her name. She was a Junoesque woman—a true Amazon. Her face, just a tad too round to be a perfect oval, was the most fascinating composition of features—large, hazel eyes, high cheekbones that appled when she smiled, a little slender nose, slightly tilted, and sweet, berry lips that seemed designed to curve naturally into a smile.

  She wasn’t smiling right then.

  “Why would you want to stop my wedding, Mr. Carr?” Her voice, soft as it was, was enough to make him want to drop to one knee and promise her the moon.

  Several hundred reasons came to mind, but only one mattered at that moment. He raised a finger and pointed at Villiers. “He is the spawn of Satan.” Not exactly accurate, but he didn’t have time to get too detailed.

  A collective gasp filled the room. Violet’s jaw dropped and Henry colored up like a gin blossom on a drunk’s nose. “You forget yourself, sir!”

  Henry only called him “sir” when he was royally pissed. Payen turned an expressionless gaze toward him. “I assure you, my dear Lord Wolfram, I forget nothing.”

  His friend frowned, obviously realizing then, that he was deadly serious.

  “I don’t know who you are,” Villiers informed him, stepping in front of Violet as though to shield her. “But you are fortunate, sir, that duels are illegal.”

  Payen raked the little miscreant with a bored gaze. “Indeed. I hate spilling blood.”

  The deeper meaning of his words was not lost on Violet, whose eyes widened as she peered around Villiers at him. Villiers, meanwhile, flushed a rich scarlet. “You do not know me, yet you insult me.”

  “Yes, that is badly done of me.” Payen sketched a bow. “Payen Carr, Mr. Villiers.” He reached out and snatched the other man’s hand, lifting it to the light even as he tried to pull free. “And this is an insult to me.” He was careful not to touch the silver that would burn his flesh like open flame.

  Villiers scowled at the signet on his finger. “My ring insults you?”

  “I am disgusted by what it stands for, and those who support it.”

  Henry, perhaps the only one who remembered they had an audience, came between them, forcibly breaking the grip Payen had on Villiers. “Gentlemen, perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private.”

  A disbelieving bark of laughter broke from Villiers’ throat. “My lord, surely you don’t believe this madman?”

  Henry, God love him, sent the boy a grim look. “My study. Now.”

  Payen, Eliza, Violet, and Villiers fell into step behind him. Payen would rather not turn his back on the Silver Palm disciple but he trusted that the bastard would not risk exposing himself by attempting to cause Payen bodily harm.

  He walked beside Eliza, ignoring the curious stares and whispers as they cut through the crowd. He glanced around the ballroom instead, noting the salmon color on the walls and the cream trim. “You’ve redecorated,” he commented absently.

  “Yes,” Eliza replied. “Two years ago.”

  “I like it. Much easier on the eyes than that awful blue it was last time I was here.”

  “You have a lot of nerve returning this way, my friend,” she murmured for his ears alone.

  “She can’t marry him, Eliza.” He could tell from the startled light in her eyes that she knew he meant it—and that he would do everything in his power to keep the wedding from taking place.

  “Oh dear.”

  Behind them, Payen could hear Violet and the miscreant talking. Their voices were low, but not so low that he couldn’t listen in—selective hearing was one of the perks of vampirism. Most of the time he could keep the world out, but when he wanted, he could hear mice scurrying in the attic above.

  “Who is this idiot?” Villiers demanded.

  “He’s a friend of Henry’s,” Violet replied. Payen might have smiled at her defensive tone, were it not for the fact that she hadn’t argued the “idiot” remark.

  “What is he to you?” Ahh, now this was interesting. Villiers was jealous—not as dumb as he looked, obviously. But Payen knew that looking dumb didn’t exclude a man from being dangerous.

  Violet sighed. “Right now, I’m not certain.”

  Fair enough. After all he shagged her and then walked out of her life five years ago and never once tried to get in touch, but that didn’t stop his chest from pinching at her bewildered reply. Some part of him expected her to know that he was motivated by nothing more than a desire to protect her. He would rather walk out into the middle of Hyde Park on a Sunday afternoon and fry like an egg than see her influenced by the Order of the Silver Palm, a group who would think nothing of destroying a sweet thing like her.

  Henry led them downstairs, to a back corner of the house where he kept his study. Years ago, when Henry and Eliza had barely made this house their own, Payen had christened that room Henry’s sanctuary. It was far away from the dining room and the drawing room his wife liked to use for entertaining, and it was large enough to contain a billiards table, a sofa and several chairs, a card table, and a massive oak desk. This room, he was pleased to note, had not been redecorated.

  And then, of course, he wondered inappropriately if Violet had changed anything about her bedroom, and if she still had that demure nightgown she’d worn that sweet, hot night.

  This close to her, with the scent of her engulfing him like a face full of lilacs, it was so hard to keep the memory of that night at bay. Images of the two of them entwined, desperate and damp, tender and trembling, flooded his mind. His gums itched with fangs ready to extend, the urge to feed almost as strong as the urge to mate. He had done both with Violet, and that only whetted both appetites all the more.

  Once they were all inside the study, each of them drifting away from Payen until he stood in the center of their haphazard circle, the questions began.

  “What the devil do you mean, coming into my house and causing such a scene?” Henry demanded. “Deuce take it, Payen! I
would expect better of you.”

  Payen gave him a quick nod. “You’re right to have such expectations. I wouldn’t have come at all were it not important.” Was it his imagination, or did he see Violet wince out of the corner of his eye?

  “Perhaps you should explain,” Eliza suggested, when no one else seemed inclined to speak. They all just stood there, staring at him with varying degrees of curiosity and antagonism.

  Payen focused on Henry, who he had known since he was a babe. Payen had been friends with his father, and his grandfather before that. A long time ago, a Rexley—Henry’s family name—had been a Templar the same as Payen, and they had been friends. That relationship had led to a connection with the family that had followed almost every generation since. The Rexleys were the only people he ever revealed himself to, except for a handful of others over the countless decades.

  Stephen Rexley had been killed by a man wearing a ring just like the one on Villiers’ hand.

  Remembering that made it easy for Payen to look Henry in the eye as he jerked his head in Villiers’ direction. “He belongs to the Order of the Silver Palm.”

  Understanding drained the heightened color from Henry’s dusky cheeks. “Are you certain?”

  “His ring proves it.”

  “What the devil are you about?” Villiers demanded, breaking the circle by taking several angry steps forward. “How do you know about the Order? And what business is it of yours if I belong?”

  Payen turned his head, stopping the young man dead in his tracks with a simple look. “I know more about the Silver Palm than I wager you do. It was your people who helped fuel King Philip’s distrust of the Templars. The Order has been involved in every sinister plot known to man since Judas betrayed Christ.”

  Villiers stared at him, blue eyes wide with fear—and complete bafflement. How could he seem so innocent and wear that ring?

  “You think Violet shouldn’t marry me because of something that happened more than five centuries ago?”

  De Molay had burned.

  “Six,” Payen corrected. “October thirteenth in the year of our Lord thirteen-hundred and seven.” He remembered as though it was but a handful of years ago. “And no. I won’t allow you to marry Violet because you are part of a vile organization that should have been slaughtered out of existence a long time ago.”

  If Villiers hadn’t thought him mad before, he certainly did now. Payen could smell his fear, his disgust. There was anger there as well—defiance.

  “You go too far, sir. Whom Violet marries is not your decision, and there is nothing vile about the Order. I would explain that to you were I not sworn to secrecy by our ancient laws. Every male in my family for generations has been a member, and none of them have ever broken any laws or betrayed any confidences.”

  Payen smiled—coldly. “Not to other members at any rate. But your family wealth is tainted by the blood of good men, Mr. Villiers. Men who were murdered so that your precious Order might thrive.”

  Villiers turned his attention from Payen to Henry and Eliza, then Violet. “The three of you cannot believe this?”

  “Not of you, Rupert,” Eliza said softly.

  “But of my family?” He shoved his hands through his hair, laughing almost hysterically. “I can’t believe this! Vi, you don’t believe him, do you?”

  She stared at him. “I don’t want to, Rupert, but I know that Mr. Carr has reason to feel as he does, and if you belong to such a despicable group…”

  “Despicable? Good God, listen to yourself! You would judge as such an order you know nothing of? An order to which I, the man you are supposed to love, belongs?” His hands came down on her shoulders. “I would never harm anyone. You know that.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  Payen watched the confusion and indecision play across her features. He hated doing this to her. Any satisfaction that came from preventing her marriage to this bastard dissolved in the wake of her pain. He knew then that Villiers was going to press her, and that she would give in out of guilt. Then what would he have to do—steal her away? Because he would, if that’s what it took.

  Time for more underhanded measures.

  “Did Violet ever tell you about me?” he asked, his tone conversational—convivial even.

  Villiers shot him a scowl. “No.”

  “Hmm. That surprises me.” Violet shook her head at him, face pale as she realized exactly where he was going. He hoped she could see the regret in his gaze.

  “Why would that surprise you?” The younger man couldn’t keep the sneer from his voice or his face. “I don’t see how you are of any significance.”

  Arsehole. “But I am,” Payen informed him, squaring his shoulders. “You see, five years ago, Violet gave me a wonderful gift.”

  Violet pressed a hand to her lips. “Payen, no.”

  Villiers took another step toward him, still scowling. “Why should I care?”

  Payen smiled grimly. “Because the gift she gave me, Mr. Villiers, was her heart. You see, Violet cannot marry you because she’s in love with me.”

  She could kill him. Would that someone give her a sword so she could take his smug head right off his divinely broad shoulders.

  Instead, Violet was forced to stand there, impotent and humiliated as her fiancé and her guardians stared at her. And Payen, she noted, didn’t look all that smug after all. In fact, he looked rather ashamed. He should, the bastard. Of course, it might have been worse. He could have mentioned that matter concerning her virginity.

  Why of all reasons did it have to be the Order of the Silver Palm? She’d heard enough to know why he hated them and agree that he had every right, but why did that have to be the basis for his objection to her marriage? Why couldn’t he have professed undying love for her instead of reminding her of how she had declared her feelings for him that night? Did he know that he was the only man she had ever loved enough to give herself to? Was he so stupid he couldn’t see that she loved him still?

  “Is it true?” Rupert demanded, his voice hoarse, his face white.

  She stared at him helplessly before turning the same gaze to Eliza and Henry. Henry looked as though he could cheerfully murder Payen himself. Too bad the vampire could take on all four of them and not even break a sweat.

  “Come,” Eliza said sharply, directing a glance at both Payen and her husband. “We are going to leave Violet and Rupert alone to speak.”

  “I’m not leaving her with him,” Payen growled. “No goddamn way.”

  The little blond woman glared at him. Softly, so that only he and Violet heard, she murmured, “You do as I say, Payen Carr, or I’ll make sure the drapes in your room get opened just before noon.”

  Payen’s jaw tightened, and those perfect lips thinned, but he didn’t argue. He shot one last contemptuous glance at Rupert before following Henry and Eliza to the door. Violet didn’t feel one ounce of sorrow toward him for the confrontation he was about to have with her adopted parents.

  She was, however, feeling a great deal sorry for herself.

  The door clicked shut, leaving her alone with her fiancé, a wonderful man she never meant to hurt. A man whose attention she had felt lucky to have, if she were truthful, having come to believe that no one but Payen could ever find her attractive.

  Rupert lifted his gaze from his shoes, which he appeared to have been contemplating. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were bright with disappointment and hurt. Before she had thought him handsome, now he simply looked like a boy to her. Handsome meant nothing after Payen’s overwhelming beauty.

  “I don’t deserve you,” she said softly, not just because it was true, but because it was all she could think to say.

  “Is it true?” He demanded, brow knitting. “Do you love him?”

  She hesitated, and knew from his expression that she shouldn’t have. He knew there was more now. “I did.” Do.

  “Did you…make love with him?”

  That phrase made her want to giggle. Make love?
She had thought so at the time, but what she had done with Payen…it had been crude and sweet at the same time, so wrong and yet so right. It was nothing so banal as making love—love had already been made long before she let him into her bed.

  She could lie, tell him what he wanted to hear, but that wasn’t fair to him. She had been looking for an out and she had been handed one. It was time to be an adult and face her mistake—face the man she had wronged. “Yes.”

  Rupert closed his eyes, but not before she saw the anguish in them. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it was any of your business.” Perhaps that was a little too honest.

  “None of my business?” Anger replaced hurt, easing the guilt that pierced her chest. “How was it none of my business that my fiancée had spread her legs for another man?”

  This was a side of him she had never seen before. It made it easier for her, and she took advantage of that, as shameful as it was. “Have I asked you if you’ve been with other women?”

  He looked affronted. “That’s different.”

  “Because you’re a man?”

  “Of course. Men are expected to be experienced, just as a wife is supposed to be a virgin to ensure the legitimacy of the first born.”

  Violet laughed. She couldn’t help it—this really was so ridiculous. “It was five years ago, Rupert. I think you could safely claim any children as your own.”

  His face was a mask of disgust. “With no guarantee that you had not lain with someone else before or after our vows.”

  He had every right to be angry, Violet knew and accepted that, but that she would not be spoken to in such a manner. She would not have what she had shared with Payen turned to a defect of her character.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps you should make sure I haven’t shagged the priest—or better yet, your groomsmen.”