A Season of Seduction Page 10

  Josie helped her to dress in a pale pink muslin morning gown, and by the time she descended to breakfast, the midday hour was fast approaching. Cecelia’s breakfast room boasted tall, narrow windows looking over a small garden. The curtains were open this morning, and sunlight streamed into the room in bright golden shafts. Gleaming white wainscoting offset the yellow silk damask that covered the walls. An oak sideboard stood along the far wall, and a complementing round table dominated the center of the room.

  Cecelia rose to greet her, saying she’d only just come downstairs as well, and offered her a light breakfast of warm chocolate and a poached egg, some bacon, and toast.

  Becky seated herself at the table opposite Cecelia, and as a servant set her meal in front of her, Cecelia reported that in the last few days, rumors had run rampant through Town. Not only had Becky’s true wicked nature been revealed, the gossips said, but after the world had caught her red-handed in debauchery, she’d spat in Jack Fulton’s face and turned him down. Jack was portrayed as the hero of this most unfortunate event—he had proven his true gentlemanly nature by attempting to salvage her reputation by offering for her.

  After Cecelia gave her the news, Becky sighed. “It seems to me that ladies always bear the brunt of such scandals while men are easily forgiven. Yet I am no guiltier than he is.”

  Cecelia’s lip curled. “Absolutely true. It’s just another example of the unfair burdens society places on woman.”

  Becky leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her thick, sweet chocolate. “Well, I am happy the brunt of the blame has gone to me rather than anyone in my family.”

  Cecelia raised a sleek black brow in question, and Becky lowered her cup. “I like to consider myself immune to scandal. If they disparaged Garrett and Kate, Tristan and Sophie, or any of the children, they would truly harm me. But they can call me selfish and wicked till the world comes to an end, and I will bear it.”

  It was true—at least part of it. She was wicked—her dreams last night proved it. She’d dreamed of Jack Fulton’s lips caressing her body. Dreamed of his hands, how they’d touched her, stroked her to the heights of passion. She’d awakened more than once to find her own fingers moving over the places his fingers had gone, as if to replicate his touch, but it seemed impossible to evoke the sensations in her body that Jack had.

  She already missed him. She missed the dark look in his eyes when he’d gazed at her at the bottom of the stairs. That compelling mix of tenderness and need.

  Yet she knew she had made the right decision. True, marriages had been built on far less than what had already developed between her and Jack. Even in recent times, it wasn’t uncommon for a wife to have little more than a formal introduction to her husband before she pledged herself to him for eternity. But that wasn’t for Becky.

  “Thinking of Mr. Fulton?” Cecelia asked softly.

  She hid her expression behind her cup of chocolate. “Well… yes.”

  “It is not difficult to discern your thoughts, Becky.” Cecelia nibbled at her buttered toast. “How do you feel about what happened last night?”

  Lowering her cup, Becky sighed. “Confused, perhaps? I wonder whether I made the right decision, even though I am certain it’s the best decision I could have made under the circumstances.”

  “I believe you truly shocked that bombastic father of his.”

  Becky frowned at her egg.

  “Do not mistake me, Becky. I’m glad you shocked him. Glad you shocked them all.”

  “Why?”

  “You place yourself in a position of power when you’re unpredictable.”

  Becky frowned. “I suppose…”

  “It’s true. People don’t know what to expect from you, and that makes you formidable.”

  Becky raised her brows. “Me?”

  “Of course. You are a great beauty, and yet you are quiet and bookish. At the tender age of eighteen you ran off to Gretna with a near stranger. You spent the next four years in quiet obscurity, securing your reputation as a shy and bookish widow, but then at two-and-twenty you were caught in bed with an enigmatic scoundrel. Do you think all that hasn’t provided you with an air of mystery?”

  “I rather thought it provided fodder for rumor.”

  “Well, that, too, of course. But I daresay you are quite an intimidating woman to most.”

  “I’m not intimidating to Jack.” She flinched, inwardly chastising herself for bringing him up again.

  “I did take note of that.” Cecelia’s lips curled up. She tapped her fingernails on the lacquered tabletop. “That is something, isn’t it?”

  It was hopeless. Like everyone else, Cecelia seemed to be an admirer of Jack Fulton, and though she didn’t overtly put pressure on Becky, Becky felt the weight of it as much as she had from her family.

  Why was she the only one hesitant to bind herself to this man? How had Jack Fulton so easily charmed the world? Was she the only rational, cautious person left on earth?

  Cecelia took another nibble of her toast, and after she set it down, she sifted through the short pile of mail beside her plate. She glanced up at Becky over a sheet of white stationery with gilded edging. “A friend of mine, Mrs. Pionchet, has invited me to her masquerade ball Friday next.”

  “Really?” Becky asked, instantly intrigued. She’d heard about those wild, licentious parties, which had been so popular in the last century. They had fallen out of favor among the London ton due to their tendency to evoke debauchery and vice. Here was another item of proof that Becky had been far too sheltered—she hadn’t suspected anyone in the world still held masquerades.

  “Would you like to join me? Georgianna would be thrilled to have you in attendance.”

  Becky swallowed hard, then gave a firm shake of her head. “No. It’s too soon. I shouldn’t be seen in public. Not yet.” Not for another year, at least, she thought.

  “It’s a masquerade.” Cecelia lowered the invitation to the table. “That is the whole point. You needn’t be seen at all. Only our hostess and I need to be aware of your identity.”

  If no one recognized her, what would be the harm? Becky gave her friend a tentative smile. “I’ll think about it.”

  Jack left his guestroom at Stratford’s fashionable townhouse after noon, because he knew by now that Stratford never showed his face to the world before midday. He went to the small dining room where a variety of meats and cheeses were laid out on the sideboard, along with a silver pot. He gave the pot an experimental sniff and sighed in appreciation. Coffee. Like him, Stratford preferred his coffee thick and strong enough to scour the gut.

  He poured himself a cupful and went to the table, where a pile of newspapers lay as a centerpiece. Jack compared it to the elaborate floral design of the centerpiece at last night’s disaster of a dinner and decided that a tidy pile of newspapers suited him better.

  After Becky had left him, Jack had dragged himself back to Stratford’s, where he sat in the front drawing room until his friend returned home from a night of carousing. He’d told him the whole sordid tale, and Stratford had listened to it all, a bemused expression on his face. At the end, he’d slapped Jack on the back and said, “Well, it’s obvious now why you’d rather be a guest at my home than return to the soft bosom of your family. You can stay as long as you like, old chap.”

  With that, Stratford had excused himself and retired for the night, leaving Jack brooding in an armchair by the fire until the gray light of dawn nudged through the curtains.

  He sank into one of the padded chairs and took the top newspaper from the pile, nodding in approval when he saw it was today’s Times. He had opened the paper and settled into reading the news and drinking his coffee—one of the purest simple pleasures in life, Jack thought—when Stratford strode in.

  Thanks to his fastidious valet, the earl was shaved, combed, and dressed in the height of fashion, with a stiff, high collar, a patterned waistcoat, and a velvet-lapelled morning coat. He’d once expressed to Jack his pleasure that his
valet had judged his shoulders broad enough and his waist narrow enough to allow him to forgo men’s stays. However, the man had heartily encouraged his master to cease imbibing spirits and eating rich foods, for such habits were certain to fatten him up enough to make a tightly cinched corset a requirement of his wardrobe.

  Jack had only chuckled, knowing he’d never succumb to such measures for the sake of fashion. Stratford probably would one day, but he couldn’t be blamed. Stratford was an earl, and this was one of the disadvantages of being born into a life of aristocratic privilege. Style was a necessity, no matter how ridiculous or emasculating.

  Perhaps Stratford would continue with his preferred sport of boxing until he was well into his dotage, maintain his fit pugilist’s body, and never have to worry about wearing a gentleman’s corset.

  Jack smiled over the top of his paper. “Morning.”

  Stratford poured himself a cup of coffee and took the seat across from Jack. “Good morning.”

  Jack handed him a section of the Times and Stratford shook it open. They read in companionable silence. A footman replenished the pot, and Jack rose to fetch himself more coffee. When he returned to his seat with his steaming cup, Stratford laid his paper on the table.

  “England is dull this time of year, Fulton.”

  Jack looked up from the article he was reading. “Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “As the weeks progress, the holiday becomes the focus. People gather round, cosseting the loved ones they’ve forgotten the year round, blethering about love and joy and all that nonsense. Damn dull, if you ask me.”Shuddering, the earl took a sip of coffee. “And Maria… she’s become a trifle too demanding, on the whole. Wanting more money to buy her fripperies and dresses, and frankly I am tired of bowing to her whims.”

  “Will you break it off?” Jack asked. Maria was Stratford’s current mistress, a much-sought-after courtesan.

  “Certainly.” Stratford grimaced and took a hearty swallow of coffee as if to fortify himself with it. “I have no desire to do it today, however, not when I am feeling so…” After a pause, he said, “I don’t belong in London this time of year.”

  “Where, then? Will you go home to Sussex?”

  “Absolutely not. To return to that ancient pile and subject myself to the incessant naggings of my mother? Christ,Christmas in London will be a far better fate than that.” Heshrugged. “I’ve an invitation from a friend in Northumberland, William Langley, who says the hunting has been fruitful this season.” He paused, his head tilted and his expression turning inward, as if he were searching for the source of his discontent. “I’m bored with hunting.”

  Jack met his friend’s gaze, certain he wasn’t speaking of hunting deer and grouse.

  “And I’m in no mood to travel,” Stratford continued. “Suppose this means I’m destined to suffer through another Christmas in London.” His lips curled. “It would be rather convenient to close my eyes and then open them to a nice, snowy January.”

  “New year, new start,” Jack said quietly.

  Stratford gave a low, sardonic snort. “If only that were possible.”

  Jack understood all too well. Before he met Becky, he’d felt that unsettled, discontented feeling often. He raised his cup in a toast and then drank down his remaining coffee in one draught.

  Seeming to shake himself out of his melancholy, Stratford pushed his paper aside and sat a little taller, tapping his thumbs on his coffee cup. “So now that young Lady Rebecca has proved herself quite the spitfire and left London, what will be your course of action?”

  Jack spoke quietly. “I still intend to marry her.”

  Stratford chuckled. “You said she made it clear she doesn’t want you.”

  “She made it clear that she doesn’t want me immediately. But I will change her mind.”

  “Oh? How?”

  Shrugging, Jack gazed into the dregs in his cup, as if he were a fortune teller and the residual coffee grounds might show his future. “I don’t know, exactly. But it must be done. And as you know, I haven’t much time.”

  “The blackmailer has demanded the funds by the middle of December, correct? So you have a month.”

  “Yes. Just over a month.” Jack had considered asking Tom for more time, but he had a sick feeling that the specified date wasn’t under Tom’s control, as much as the man would like him to think it. Tom wasn’t talking, but Jack had sensed his desperation. There was more to his old friend’s demands than raw greed.

  Jack looked up at the earl. He’d never thought to dig for more information about Becky’s dead husband—he hadn’t wanted anything to do with the man. Now, however, it struck him that it might be a good idea to delve into Fisk’s character a bit more. He needed a better idea of what drove Becky. “What do you know about William Fisk?”

  “Hm.” Stratford took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Well, when you consider Fisk, her hesitation makes perfect sense.”

  Jack leaned forward. “Why?”

  “The lady hadn’t been acquainted with Fisk long before they eloped to Gretna. I don’t know the exact length of time, but I can tell you this: Fisk was a bastard. He’d swindled Calton and his family into befriending him, but it was revealed later that he wanted Lady Rebecca solely for her fortune. You know their family is incredibly private, but the rumors say that Fisk took a mistress shortly after they married, and he became involved in a smuggling scheme. The first shipment didn’t turn out as lucrative as planned, and he was killed by his partners in the venture.”

  “Were the partners ever convicted?”

  “I don’t know.” Stratford shrugged. “I don’t think so. These events took place in Warwickshire, and from there, her family retired to Yorkshire, and they weren’t seen in London for over a year.”

  Jack pushed out a breath through his pursed lips. Despite the similarity of their initial motivation, he was nothing like Fisk. He would not take a mistress. Why would he have need of one when he had a woman like Becky to share his bed? He was prepared to commit himself to her. Once he was committed to something, nothing could turn him away.

  He was different from Fisk. Damn it. He was.

  He tightened his hands over his empty coffee cup.

  “So…” Stratford studied him. “What are you going to do?”

  “Follow her wherever she has gone. Make her love me,” Jack said. “I have a month in which to accomplish the feat. There is no other choice.”

  “Certainly there are other choices. The lady has made up her mind. In such a case, it would seem to me that it would be far easier to find a new bride than to try to chase this one across England and win her over.”

  Jack narrowed his eyes, then tried to soften the scowl that had formed on his lips. Stratford’s point was sound enough, and he should give it due consideration. Yet when he thought of last night, of Becky’s strength, of her cool determination when she turned her back on his father, he knew.

  He wanted her. He wouldn’t let her go.

  Stratford waved his hand. “No one is in London right now, so you must go to the country in any case. I hear Hampshire is particularly rich with heiresses these days. Attend some of those tedious festive country affairs, and you’ll find a new chit to attach yourself to within a week.” He leaned closer. “Look for an old one. A spinster who believes herself on the shelf. With your looks and bloodline, it will be a simple matter to catch an aging spinster with a nice, fat dowry.”

  The thought of chasing another woman—any woman but Rebecca Fisk—made the coffee gurgle in Jack’s stomach. “No.”

  Understanding dawned in Stratford’s face. “You don’t wish to make this easy, do you?”

  “The level of difficulty has nothing to do with it,” Jack said stiffly.

  “I see. It is her you want.”

  Jack was quiet, then he gritted his teeth. “No one else.”

  “Could it be my imagination, Fulton, or am I detecting that you possess some strong feeling for this lady?”

  Jack
kept his expression flat. “My only strong feeling is for my own life. And Lady Rebecca Fisk will be the one to save it.”

  “Mmm…” Steepling his fingers under his chin, Stratford leaned back in his chair. “So how do you intend to woo the chit?”

  “Woo?” The word emerged from Jack’s mouth sounding like something foreign and exotic. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  Stratford raised a blond brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wooed a woman.”

  “I’ve bedded women.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  He tried to think back. Long ago, the concept of courting a woman wouldn’t have seemed so utterly alien to him. Yet he and Anne had been friends, then lovers. He’d never wooed her. After she’d died, he’d fallen into bed with women, but that had been easy: whispered suggestions, coy acceptances. He’d never put forth with any other woman the effort he’d already put into Lady Rebecca.

  He looked up at Stratford. “I suppose I’ve never courted, wooed, or pursued a woman, not for more than one night.”

  Shaking his head, Stratford chuckled. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  Becky was a far more complicated individual than she appeared at first sight, and therefore it followed that winning her would be more complex, too. Jack’s plan to lure her into marriage hadn’t worked on the first attempt, but neither had he botched it completely. It could have been much worse—if she ever discovered he was the one who’d orchestrated the delivery of that letter to her brother, it would be over for him.

  “Well, then. You must tell me what to do.” Jack leaned forward, awaiting his instruction. “But please note, I haven’t the time for a standard courtship. I’ll need to speed things along. Significantly.”

  Stratford tapped the tips of his fingers together under his chin. “Then you must bombard her. Accelerated courting, we’ll call it.”

  “Tell me how.”

  “First, you must pretend to listen to every bit of her prattle.”

  “Lady Rebecca doesn’t prattle.”