Fascinated Read online

  Fascinated

  Heat titles by Marissa Day

  THE SEDUCTION OF MIRANDA PROSPER

  THE SURRENDER OF LADY JANE

  FASCINATED

  eSpecials

  TAMARA’S CONQUEST

  Fascinated

  MARISSA DAY

  HEAT | NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over

  and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2012 by Sarah Zettel.

  Excerpt from The Surrender of Lady Jane by Marissa Day copyright © 2011 by Sarah Zettel.

  Cover photograph © Allan Jenkins / Arcangel Images.

  Cover design by Annette Fiore DeFex.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or

  electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of

  copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  HEAT and the HEAT design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Heat trade paperback edition / June 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Day, Marissa.

  Fascinated / Marissa Day.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-56894-1

  1. Magicians—Fiction. 2. London (England)—18th century—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3576.E77F37 2012

  813’.54—dc23

  2011046415

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  This book is dedicated

  to my husband, Tim,

  as are all my happily ever afters.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  The Surrender of Lady Jane

  Prologue

  “Well, speak of the devil and he appears.”

  Edward Randall, Baron Carstairs, entered the Club’s common room and was greeted by a series of upraised glasses and upturned faces. The men occupying the dark-paneled and comfortably furnished chamber were an unusual cross section of London’s population. Not only were gentlemen and the nobility represented, but with them sat tradesmen, clerks and even a pair of brothers in the stout boots and corduroy trousers of the laboring class.

  This remarkably egalitarian gathering was known only as “the Club.” Like many another gentlemen’s association, it provided bedchambers for members in need of temporary quarters, a common room, a library and space reserved for private meetings. It even had its own betting book for members with the urge for a little sport. But the Club had no brass plaque on the door; neither did those gathered there carry cards with its address engraved on them. Members needed no name for the organization, and those who were not members did not need hints or mysteries they might be tempted to puzzle out.

  Each and every man in that room, whatever his rank or class, was a servant of the Crown. Each and every one was also a magic worker. Together they represented a thin line of defense for the Isle of Britain against the otherworldly Fae, a powerful and deadly enemy determined to conquer and rule the land. This house was one of the few places the secret defenders of the realm could let their guard down and relax for a few hours among trusted compatriots.

  “Hullo, Rathe.” Carstairs settled himself into an unoccupied chair by the window and sent the waiter off for a whiskey. “Which devil are we speaking of this time?”

  “You, of course.” Corwin Rathe was a tall, black-haired man with excellent taste in clothing and a deceptively amiable manner. One might easily take him for a bit of a fool, but he was among the most dangerous men in this battle-hardened company.

  “Rathe was surprised you agreed to a party to celebrate your engagement,” said Marcus Addington from his post at the sideboard. He wore a simple black coat that could have marked him as anything from a vicar to a bank clerk. Addington was a powerful Sorcerer, but his acid-edged tongue had more than once gotten him into trouble.

  “Her family insisted on a rout.” Carstairs shrugged. “Said it was expected. Myself, I did not see the need.”

  “No need?” Rathe’s eyebrows went up. “No need to celebrate your impending marriage?” Like Addington, Rathe was a Sorcerer; one who could take the aetheric energies commonly known as “magic” and, via force of will, shape them into active enchantment. But to accomplish this, a Sorcerer needed a source of power. That was the role of those like Carstairs. Carstairs was a Catalyst. He was possessed of the ability to draw up the magic of the natural world and channel it to a Sorcerer. Most of the Club’s men were either Sorcerers or Catalysts. There were women with both gifts, of course, but society at large would frown on a social club, however anonymous, that admitted both men and women. So, a second, equally comfortable and discreet house, was kept a few streets away.

  “All proprieties attendant the marriage will be observed,” said Edward as he sipped the smoky Scotch whiskey. “The contracts are being drawn up by serious and sober solicitors as we speak. In three weeks, the church will pray over them, a very large dinner will be consumed, I will see my wife comfortably installed in the house and we will both get on with the business of living.”

  “That’s awfully callous, even for you,” rumbled Darius Marlowe. The large, leonine man leaned against the mantel, watching the whole room with his hard blue eyes. Even in this place, where every soul was a comrade in arms, Darius seemed incapable of relaxation.

  “What, Marlowe?” Carstairs arched his brows. “You don’t imagine I’ll be cruel to her? Have I ever given a woman anything to complain o
f?” There were knowing chuckles all around the room. “Well, I shan’t start with my wife. She will have plenty of pin money and I’ve no need to fuss about the bills. There will be heirs to keep the estate and title intact, and we can call that a successful marriage.”

  “What of love?” asked Rathe.

  So that was it. Rathe was hoping to draw him out on the subject. Carstairs shrugged again. “Not all of us are as fortunate as you,” You, and Marlowe, and your Miranda, he amended, but only silently. Carstairs had attended the very private ceremony where both men had pledged themselves to Miranda as her husbands, never mind what it said on the official marriage license. Still, even among friends this was not something to be spoken of lightly. “Marriage may have been instituted by God in the time of man’s infancy, but since then man has had his way with it,” Carstairs went on. “He’s made of it a way to determine who should get the money and the property and who shouldn’t. For most of us, anything beyond that is a matter of luck, and goodwill.” And love; love was a most dangerous thing for any man, but most especially for their kind. Their enemies worked upon love and the fascination of sex. He wondered if Rathe knew just how lucky he was to have found himself and Darius a woman who had already been tested against the enemy.

  “And is your wife-to-be of your opinion?” inquired Addington, sipping his port judiciously.

  “My soon-to-be-wife is practical,” Carstairs replied casually. “It’s the first thing I looked for.”

  “Yes, but Alicia Hartwell?” cut in Roman Peale, a hatchet-faced man with the elaborately tied neck cloth and starched shirt points of a member of the dandy set. “If you must choose a wife for reasons other than the modern romantic sentiments, why not something the likes of Luella Sanderson? Fresh on the market and quite the stunner. You could have had her with a wink and a nod.”

  “And what good does a seventeen-year-old beauty do me? I need someone to run the house credibly, raise the children and keep herself well.” And from whom a man’s mind can keep its distance. Edward considered the amber dregs of his glass. “Parents have no business thrusting such young things into marriage. They don’t know who they are yet, let alone what they want from life.”

  “You were the one who just said marriage is nothing but a set of legal obligations,” Rathe reminded him.

  “So it is, and before you enter into it, you should understand what those obligations are and how to carry them out. How the hell is anyone supposed to know that at seventeen?”

  “So it’s the Honorable Miss Alicia Hartwell at twenty-five.” Peale folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Solid, practical and not inclined to raise a fuss at anything you do because she knows damn good and well you’ve rescued her from spinsterhood?”

  “And so cold she’ll probably freeze your prick off,” muttered Addington.

  Carstairs set his whiskey glass down with a click that was suddenly the loudest sound in the room. “Marcus, I don’t think I heard that properly. Would you care to repeat it?”

  “Oh, it was nothing, old man,” Addington said quickly as he took in the expression on Carstairs’s face. He took a much larger swallow of port this time. “Nothing at all.”

  “Good,” replied Carstairs. “Because despite the fact that I refuse to be a second Byron over the thought of marriage, the lady in question is my fiancée, and under my protection. I would very much hate to discover anyone had abused her name or character in any setting. Do I make myself clear?”

  Some of the color left Addington’s cheeks. “Perfectly.”

  “Good.” Carstairs got to his feet. “Well, I am off. Rathe, Marlowe, we’ll be seeing you tonight?”

  Both men agreed they would be looking forward to it and Carstairs left the room amid a ragged chorus of good nights and good wishes. He collected his stick and hat from the footman and stepped out into the clear June evening.

  Whatever Rathe and Marlowe might feel about it, Carstairs himself was not particularly looking forward to the party. Society gatherings had never been much to his taste. The Hartwell family was fastidious about appearances, but not possessed of naturally festive natures. Indeed, they were a universally dull and staid lot. As a result, the party would be beautiful, but hardly stimulating. Still, they were right in that it was expected. Perhaps he could take this as an opportunity to steal a few minutes alone with his fiancée. As practical as she appeared, it would not hurt to give her a private assurance or two that he meant to treat her kindly and see her comfortable.

  Thinking laudable, domestic and thoroughly unromantic thoughts, Carstairs strolled down the Mayfair Street toward his soon-to-be bride’s house.

  One

  “Alicia, you cannot sneak away from your own engagement party.”

  Alicia Hartwell looked closely at her cousin. Verity’s brow was wrinkled and she held her mouth in a decided frown, without the crinkling around her eyes that indicated she was holding in a laugh. Her disappointment was genuine, then.

  “I’m not sneaking away,” Alicia replied levelly. “I need to go to the retiring room. Look.” She displayed the gold ribbon dangling from the end of her bronze satin sleeve.

  “You’ve been tugging on the thread for at least an hour to get that to come off. I saw you.” Verity spoke conversationally with a wave of her fan, and a slow glance around the ballroom. Alicia frowned again, running through the possible reasons for the difference between Verity’s stern tone and her casual gesture. Probably Verity did not want to attract notice, which was difficult as she was talking with one of the grand celebration’s two centers of attention.

  The other, Lord Carstairs, was currently deep in conversation with Mr. Corwin Rathe, a man said to be very high up in government circles. Her fiancé’s preoccupation was why Alicia had chosen this moment to make her escape. Judging by the intensity of the discussion, it would be a while before Lord Carstairs noticed her absence.

  “Verity, please.” Alicia’s fingers strayed to the cinnabar brooch she wore on the white velvet ribbon at her throat. It was a nervous gesture she’d never been able to break herself of. “I just need a breath of air. I’m exhausted from everyone staring.”

  The ballroom overflowed with a glittering crowd that included most of fashionable London. It seemed that every one of them kept glancing Alicia’s way to measure and judge. Worst of all was her family: her guardian uncles and the entire flotilla of Hartwell cousins, but especially her three oldest aunts. Aunt Eugenia patrolled the edges of the ballroom like a palace guard, ready to pounce in with a covering remark in case Alicia said something untoward or did not remember to smile at reasonable intervals. Even foolish, amiable Aunt Mary had bustled up several times to remind Alicia to keep circulating among her guests. Aunt Hester, of course, just sat on her chair in the corner and watched.

  “They’ll think you’re going to meet someone,” Verity remarked.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “No, of course not.” Verity’s face crinkled. In fact, they both knew Alicia having any sort of lover—secret or otherwise—was as far out of the realm of possibility as her drinking the Thames dry. “But you know how people are…” Verity let her words trail off, and fanned herself furiously. Few members of Alicia’s family had ever taken action to try to make things easier for her. Part of that was a consequence of being just one among a huge cohort. Part of it came because no one quite knew what to do with an orphaned relative who was also utterly devoid of comprehension when it came to the feelings of others. Only Verity had ever tried to understand her.

  “Don’t be too long,” said Verity at last. “If we have to invent a sick headache for you, the aunts will never let either of us hear the end of it.”

  “Thank you.” Alicia started toward the retiring room again at what she hoped was a casual pace.

  Had she been any other woman, tonight would have been Alicia’s moment of triumph. Uncle Gavin and Uncle Morris—her guardians since she was a child—had spared no expense. Verity’s older sisters had exerc
ised every fiber of their cool minds and well-developed tastes to make sure each detail of the celebration was perfect. The ballroom had become a wonderland of light and color. Pink and gold silks hung on the walls, creating a shimmering backdrop for the profusion of scarlet roses and white orchids that filled every porcelain vase. Alicia herself had been dressed to coordinate with the decorations. Her gown of bronze, figured satin and gold ribbons had a train appliquéd with white orchids. Her hair, which was a tarnished gold color, was piled high on her head and dressed with creamy roses among the pearls and citrines. Even Aunt Hester, the oldest and sternest of her aunts, seemed satisfied. Girls who had tittered at Alicia behind their fans at their coming-out balls, and had swept past her on the arms of new husbands, watched her with faces pinched by jealousy. And they whispered, even as Alicia walked right past them.

  “…look surprisingly well together, I thought, but still…”

  “…when he could have any woman in London…”

  “…imagine such a man with Alicia Heartless!”

  Alicia kept her eyes straight ahead, as if she did not hear a thing. The name, at least, was an old gibe, one which could do her no more hurt. Especially not now that she was formally engaged to Lord Carstairs.

  “Alicia. What are you about?”

  The iron-cold voice brought Alicia up sharply. She turned to see Aunt Hester standing poker stiff beside her.

  Aunt Hester’s eyes were the pale, Hartwell brown and her hair was snow-white. She had never worn any colors but black and gray in Alicia’s memory, and had never shown pleasure in anything for that same length of time. Alicia sometimes wondered whether Aunt Hester was as devoid of sympathy as she herself was, and if it was her destiny to become this hard. It was an idea that nagged at her like no other.

  “Well?” inquired Aunt Hester coolly. “It is nowhere near time for you to be leaving.”

  “I’m going to the retiring room, Aunt,” she answered. “To have this ribbon pinned.”

  Alicia’s nerve quailed as it always did when she faced Aunt Hester. She’s going to insist on accompanying me. It’s no good. It never was. It was true what she’d told Verity. She was tired. She was not used to so much attention. She needed to get away, to let her accustomed calm settle back over her again. She had planned her retreat with great care during dinner, while she worried at the loose thread on her ribbon. But if Aunt Hester did not agree, her plan was ended. No one in the Hartwell family—not Uncle Gavin, who was its head, not even Verity, who was its boldest member—defied Aunt Hester on any matter, great or small.