A Season of Seduction Page 11

  Giving him a dubious look, Stratford lowered his hands to his coffee cup. “Every lady prattles,” he said patiently. “Unless she is mute, and I know that one is not—I’ve heard her speak.”

  “She speaks,” Jack said. “She converses. She does not prattle.”

  Stratford shrugged. “Very well, if you say so. Whenever she speaks, you must pretend to listen. Wholeheartedly.”

  Jack thought back on their conversations, how he’d lapped up her every word like a voracious wolf, and shrugged. “Easily done.”

  “You must compliment her. Incessantly. Wax poetic about her flaxen hair, her dewy skin, her exquisite form—”

  “Her flaxen hair?”

  “Well, make it believable, of course. Silken ebony locks? I don’t know.” The earl waved a dismissive hand. “And you must tell her how utterly valuable she is to you.” He broke off and winked at him. “Well, that’s the truth, eh? Her forty thousand is valuable to you.”

  Suddenly and vehemently, Jack wished Stratford didn’t know the truth. He stared at his friend without answering.

  Stratford chuckled. “I was correct,” he said under his breath.

  Jack refused to take the bait.

  Sobering quickly, Stratford locked his eyes on Jack’s. “You needn’t worry, Fulton. The truth about you and Lady Rebecca will die with me.”

  “I know.” Jack did trust Stratford. As much as the man teased and tested him, Jack knew he understood.

  Stratford broke the tension by continuing his instruction. “Ask, ‘What is light, if Lady Rebecca be not seen? What is joy if she be not by?’ And you must compare her to a summer’s day.”

  Or a winter’s day, Jack thought. He cast a wry look at his friend. “So I must quote Shakespeare.”

  “Oh, yes. Byron, Shakespeare, Milton—all of them. Even better, write poetry of your own. Send her flowers, jewels, expensive gifts.”

  Jack sighed. “All this sounds rather dull.” Not to mention that she was a duke’s sister and no doubt accustomed to expensive things. He didn’t have the money to buy anything expensive for her.

  “You’re right—it’s utterly tedious.” Stratford grinned. “But I assure you, it is most effective.”

  He stared at Stratford in silence, a plan taking shape in his mind. Effective for most women, perhaps. But Becky was not most women.

  Chapter Eight

  The following afternoon, Jack paced the entry hall at Devore House. He snapped a chrysanthemum and daisy bouquet against his thigh with every stride. What the devil was taking so long?

  He was nervous, he admitted to himself. What if she didn’t like the flowers? What if she didn’t like the small token he’d agonized over tying to the stems?

  He stared at the door leading to the front drawing room and paused for an instant, debating whether to intrude without invitation.

  No. He was here to formally ask Becky if he might be allowed to court her, not to act like a savage heathen. He smiled a little, remembering the natives he’d met in the Sandwich Islands. A friendlier, more open sort he’d never encountered. The British, with all their rules and genteel conventions, could learn a lesson or two from the Hawaiians.

  Finally, he heard the swish of skirts. He reeled to a halt, clenching the flower stems in his fist, and spun around.

  It wasn’t Becky.

  Sighing, he pulled off his hat. “Lady Devore.”

  She inclined her head, her gaze flicking from the bouquet he gripped tightly in one hand to his face. “Mr. Fulton.”

  “I’ve come to see Becky.”

  Her thin, dark brows arched, and she gestured at the doorway behind her. “We should talk, Mr. Fulton. Would you care to join me in my drawing room?”

  He followed her in and sat in the wicker-backed chair she gestured at. She sat in the settee across from him. A servant brought in tea, and she offered him some. He declined, and she waved the servant away.

  When the woman left, she asked, “How did you know she was here?”

  Realizing he was apt to break the delicate flower stems, Jack laid the bouquet across his lap and clenched his fist in his lap. “I visited the duke and duchess earlier. They wouldn’t break Lady Rebecca’s confidence, of course, but they provided enough hints to leave me with no doubt she must be here.” He’d been vastly relieved to discover she hadn’t left London after all.

  Lady Devore chuckled. “It wasn’t meant to be a state secret, but I don’t think the lady will be ecstatic about you so easily discovering her place of escape.”

  Jack didn’t respond. She’d misjudged him if she didn’t think he would find her here.

  “I should get to the point,” Lady Devore said. “She doesn’t wish to see you. She is understandably distraught about what happened last night, but she thinks you will want to move forward now after she gave you and your family such a thorough set-down. She believes you are eager to marry and expects you will soon begin the hunt for another bride.”

  Jack took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and controlled. “Can she believe I am so fickle?”

  Lady Devore sighed. “Truly, I don’t know. She needs time, Mr. Fulton. Apparently more time than you are willing to give.”

  He met the woman’s cool, dark eyes. “I’d like to speak to her.”

  “I’ll tell her that is your wish.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “No. Not today. I shall speak to her about this—perhaps I shall engage in some convincing. You look as if you haven’t slept a wink. Go home, get a good night’s sleep, and return tomorrow.”

  “I could walk right past you,” he said in a quiet voice. “I could force my way to her and demand she speak with me now.”

  “You could do that,” Lady Devore agreed mildly. “But you’re a gentleman, and you won’t.”

  Lady Devore was right—he couldn’t risk pushing Becky farther away. For the moment, he must take small, tentative steps, but he’d see her again. Soon. There was one important thing he’d learned in the past few minutes, and it was somewhat of a surprise: Lady Devore appeared to be firmly on his side.

  Rising, Jack held out the bouquet. “Will you give her these?”

  Lady Devore inclined her head and took the bouquet from him. “Of course.”

  Jack bowed, turned on his heel, and strode out.

  • • •

  A week later, a footman knocked on Becky’s door bearing a small package that had just been delivered for her. Cecelia, who was sitting in the corner embroidering a gown for one of her young nephews, chuckled when the man left.

  “What has Mr. Fulton sent you today?”

  Becky sat on the edge of the bed and slid her finger beneath the seal holding the package closed. She opened the paper wrapping. Lying inside was a folded piece of material. Stroking the coarse fabric, Becky sighed with pleasure. “It is a shawl made from tapa, I believe.”

  “From what?”

  “Tapa.” She ran her fingers over the bold geometric pattern. “It’s a cloth from the bark of breadfruit, made by the natives of the South Pacific islands.”

  Cecelia shook her head. “Another oddity to add to your collection.”

  “Yes.” Becky smiled at her dressing table, her gaze skimming over the items Jack had sent her in the past few days. There was the bouquet he’d sent the day after the dinner, still fresh in a vase. Tied around the bouquet had been a little carved man with a stocky build and wide, round eyes—the paper tucked into the curve of its arm had said it was a very old carved sperm whale ivory pendant from Fiji. She’d set the man up on her dressing table, thinking he looked rather appalled to be resident with her silver dishes and bottles of cosmetics.

  On the opposite side of the dressing table was the bouquet Jack had sent her the following day—a black calabash, a smooth, rounded gourd from the island of Hawaii. Sleek lines and triangles painted in an earthy red dye covered its smooth, black surface. According to Jack’s note, gourds served multiple purposes for the Hawaiians—they used the
m for everything from water basins to drums for their native dances. He added that he’d found the item useful during his sailing days. But now Jack had used it as a vase. A pair of tall amaryllises sprang up from its spout. Dark pink burst from the flowers’ centers and speckled their smooth white pointed petals.

  Becky wondered if he knew pink was her favorite color.

  Probably. He seemed to have read her mind. How else could he know that the Indian arrowhead he’d found on a hunting expedition outside Boston held so much more meaning for her than any gaudy bauble?

  With a wistful sigh, she turned back to the tapa, admiring the design on the fabric as she unfolded it. She frowned when it lay open on her bed, for there was a large slit in its center. She took up the note that Jack had tucked into its folds. As she read it, she sat down hard on the edge of the bed.

  She stared at Jack’s words in rising excitement. “Not a shawl.”

  “What on earth is it then?” Cecelia asked, focused on her embroidery.

  “He says it is a ‘ tiputa,’ a mantle of sorts, from Pitcairn Island.”

  “Ah.”

  “From Pitcairn Island,” Becky repeated emphatically. “You know, where some of Captain Bligh’s men settled after the infamous mutiny. Jack has been to Pitcairn Island!”

  “Is that so?”

  Oh, goodness. Cecelia didn’t understand. Becky flattened her hand over the rough fabric. Jack had written that a young man had given it to him as a gesture of friendship—though he’d been wearing only a loincloth and shell jewelry, the man had spoken English and he’d been of lighter complexion and skin than the Polynesians; clearly he had been a grandson of one of the mutineers.

  “Cecelia,” she said, managing to keep most of the censure from her voice, “have you never read about William Bligh and the Bounty?”

  A groove deepened between Cecelia’s brows as she looked up. “I believe I recall hearing about it.” She gave a dismissive shrug of one thin shoulder. “It all happened before we were born, though.”

  “Yes, but Jack has met the descendants of one of those famous outlaws. Those men will be remembered forever, and Jack has met them! He’s seen them!”

  “I see.” Clearly Cecelia did not comprehend her excitement. Sighing, Becky looked down at the tiputa. How incredible that Jack had seen this, that one of the family members of the famous mutineers had made it.

  She’d treasure this forever, along with all the other fascinating objects he’d given her. A part of her knew she should return them, that she was encouraging him by accepting them. But she couldn’t help it. They were too utterly wonderful to give up.

  She opened Jack’s note again and let her eyes linger on the final line, written in his tight, compact script: When will I see you?

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “I think I’ll write a letter.”

  She’d finally snared Cecelia’s attention. Her friend’s gaze snapped up. “Oh? To Mr. Fulton?”

  “Yes. To thank him for… everything.”

  A sly smile curved Cecelia’s lips. “Seems to me you don’t intend to return them after all.”

  For the past few days, Becky had been torn between sending back the gifts and keeping them. Now, she couldn’t help the soft smile that tipped up her own lips when she looked at them again. “To be truthful, I don’t believe I can.”

  “He has charmed you with oddities.”

  “Yes.” Becky turned to Cecelia. “But I should not be so easily swayed, Cecelia. My husband charmed me, too, at first.”

  Cecelia shook her head. “I do regret encouraging your involvement with Mr. Fulton, Becky, but I cannot help but to think that you and he have the possibility of forging a true affection for each other.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do.” Cecelia hesitated, and when she raised her eyes to Becky’s again, concern shaded them. “But I know you will be cautious.”

  “I will.” Becky’s gaze wandered back to the intriguing gifts Jack had sent her. “I must be.”

  The following morning, Becky awakened early and couldn’t get back to sleep. Jack was coming to call today, and she was more confused than ever about how to approach him. If her heart had warred with her mind before, it did so doubly now. Her nerves jangled with a mixture of eager anticipation and curdling dread.

  She’d struggled all night long with what she should say to him. She’d written a speech in her mind, but didn’t know whether she’d be able to follow it. It depended on his reactions, she supposed.

  By the time the footman entered the drawing room to inform her and Cecelia that Jack had arrived, it was all she could do to contain her nerves.

  Both ladies rose, and Cecelia gave her a quick hug. “He’s just a man. Never forget, men are simple creatures.”

  With that, she slipped out of the drawing room. Becky waited, hands clenched before her, and a few moments later, the door opened, and Jack stepped inside.

  She sucked in a breath, for he was as handsome as always, but today he’d done nothing to rein in his roguish edge. He wore sleek black trousers tucked into black Wellington boots, with matching black waistcoat and tailcoat. In one hand he clasped a heavy, tattered book.

  Becky swallowed as he snapped the door shut and turned to her. His brown eyes flashed with a predatory mix of possessiveness and desire, but he held himself aloof and comported himself like a gentleman.

  His gaze roved over her before coming to rest on her face. “Becky.”

  Pressing a nervous hand to the dark green silk of her bodice, she curtsied. “Mr. Fulton.”

  He raised a brow. “Not Jack?”

  “I… don’t know.”

  He took a step toward her. She felt hot. Hot all over. Burning heat crept up her spine, across her cheeks, down her chest.

  “Thank you for all the gifts,” she said in a near whisper.

  His sudden smile reached his eyes, making them crinkle at their corners. “Did you like them?”

  “Oh, very much. They’re wonderful.”

  His smile melted her. She wanted to know everything about the gifts he’d sent her. She wanted to sit with him and listen all through the day and night as he told her about all the places he had gone.

  “I brought you something.” He held out the book. “It isn’t much, but…”

  She took it from him, weighing the heavy volume in both hands. It was a battered, dog-eared book entitled A Dictionary of Practical Surgery. Grease spots covered the tome and the salty, musty smell of the ocean drifted from its warped pages.

  “It belonged to Smith, the ship’s surgeon on the Gloriana.”

  She gripped the book tightly, staring down at the scratched, gilt-embossed title. She’d never received such a gift. She’d read many books about medicine and surgery, but she’d borrowed those volumes from the libraries at Calton House and the London house and used her own funds to purchase various journals. No one would ever dream of giving such a book to her. No one but Jack.

  “Smith died about a year ago, and he left this book to me in his will.”

  Before she could protest his giving her such a personally valuable gift, Jack’s lips twisted. “It was his last joke on me. The crew thought it very amusing. They all knew I possess no desire to read about hernias, concussions, and amputations. But…” He hesitated. “I thought you might.”

  “Yes, I would,” she breathed. She clasped the book to her breast. “Thank you, Jack.”

  His smile was devastating, carving those deep grooves in his cheeks and sending a bright glitter to his eyes. He motioned toward the chairs, gesturing for her to sit. She complied, lowering herself into the velvet settee across from the pair of matching wicker chairs. The cushions were hard, the seat not nearly as comfortable as her favorite chair in Garrett’s salon. She sat stiffly, her fingers curved around the upholstered armrest.

  Instead of taking one of the chairs across from her, Jack sat on the narrow cushion beside her. These seats weren’t meant for two, Becky thought, unless the two w
ere lovers.

  Not so long ago, she’d thought of Jack as her lover.

  She clenched the armrest harder. She was an intelligent woman. She was a thoughtful person, well educated and well read. Yet she wanted to be a strong, confident woman. Like Cecelia was. Like Sophie and Kate were.

  “I should return all your gifts.” She fixed her gaze on his face, forcing her hip against the armrest so her thigh wouldn’t touch his. She pressed her free hand over the book in her lap.

  His brows crept upward. “Oh?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was somber, but one corner of her mouth quirked up into the beginnings of a smile. “But I cannot. They are special, one-of-a-kind, and I am too selfish.”

  “Good. I want you to keep them.”

  “Why are you here, Mr. Fulton?” She searched his face for a clue. She didn’t understand why he seemed so intent on giving her such special, unusual gifts, on seeing her… on continuing along this mad course.

  “I wished to formally ask if I might court you.”

  “Court me?” she repeated in confusion. Hadn’t they already gone far beyond courtship?

  “I went about it wrong. I never thought…” He paused, took a breath, and continued. “I never thought you wanted anything more than…”

  “I don’t,” she said quickly.

  “And I didn’t either,” he continued, “but now there is more to it. More I’d like to explore.” He looked down at his lap, then up at her. “I know I’m far beneath you, socially and financially—”

  She coughed out a horrified laugh. “Please tell me you don’t believe my refusal has anything to do with that!”

  “No, I don’t. I learned quickly that your family isn’t characteristic of the aristocracy.” He paused. “Becky, the time we spent together… those were some of the finest moments of my life.”

  Mine, too, she wanted to say. And she wanted to be alone with him again in such a way. Talking, naked and in bed, after they’d made passionate love and were sated and comfortable. She wanted to wrap her arms around his bare chest and talk and talk about the world until they were too tired to say any more. She wanted to fall asleep beside him, then wake up, make love, and talk some more.