A Season of Seduction Page 15

  Her knees softening, she sank back onto the chair.

  “He was going to kiss me,” she said, trying desperately to keep her voice level. “At first I panicked, but then I just wanted to get away. I was going to knee him in the… in the…” She looked up at him, unable to finish.

  Jack studied her for a long moment, and then his lips tightened. His entire expression transformed to a different sort of anger. Becky knew he believed her.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “He grabbed me very hard—”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed to slits and his hands curled into fists. He turned, obviously searching for the Frenchman, but she grabbed his arm.

  “But no, he didn’t hurt me.” She gave him a shaky smile. “I am all right, truly. Just a little frightened, I suppose. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.”

  Appearing somewhat mollified, Jack glanced around them. The guests grew more intoxicated by the minute, it seemed, and people touched and embraced in full view of everyone in the room. Becky no longer heard the voices of the two ladies beyond the screen—they’d probably gone off to make their own conquests. The hypocrites, she thought bitterly.

  “Why are you here?” Jack asked.

  “Cecelia brought me. I was curious.” At this moment, that seemed like a very weak reason to come. “People haven’t recognized me—I heard them talking about me, about my family. And then that man… Oh, Jack, I want to leave.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “Of course.”

  “I mean… I just want to get away. Not only from this, but from everything.” She should return to Calton House as she’d originally planned… but she couldn’t abandon Kate.

  “I understand,” Jack said.

  Wrapping her arms around her body, she stared up at him. “I wish I could leave London. Leave the judgment of others far behind. Go someplace where none of it exists.”

  Even in Yorkshire, this scandal would exist. The insults would not be as overt as they were in London; instead, they’d be brutal in their subtlety.

  “Come.” Jack reached for her hand. “I’ll take you away.”

  He helped her from the chair and they slipped out of the enormous ballroom. Jack led her to a carriage—Lord Stratford’s, she assumed—and when Jack began to tuck a heavy fur over her, she remembered her friend. “Oh, dear. Cecelia is on the terrace. She won’t know where I have gone.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Stay right here.” Leaving her in the warmth of the carriage, Jack returned to the house. After a few short minutes, he returned. “I informed Lady Devore that you’re with me.”

  She smiled gratefully at him. Jack went to speak with the coachman, and Becky untied her mask and set it aside before settling against the violet velvet squabs, allowing herself to relax for the first time in hours. Finally, Jack sat on the cushion beside her. He tossed his mask to the opposite bench and leaned back. When the carriage lurched into motion, he took her hand. “I’m sorry. I should have come earlier.”

  “I hadn’t expected you to come at all, and I’m so glad you did,” she said with heartfelt sincerity.

  “I wasn’t certain you would be here, but Stratford had mentioned Lady Devore had been invited, and he told me exactly what kind of gathering it was. If you had come with her—well, I decided to make an appearance, just to make sure you were all right.”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “ That was why you came? To be certain I was all right?”

  His eyes didn’t stray from hers. “Yes.”

  For some reason, her throat felt thick, and tears burned at her eyes. Perhaps she was just tired.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twelve

  It took longer than Jack had predicted before she suspected anything. She’d scooted away from him, drawing the curtain shut as if in an attempt to block out the world, and she’d leaned against the carriage door and closed her eyes.

  Eventually, she straightened and turned to him. “Shouldn’t we be in Mayfair by now? Or at least deeper in Town…”

  He chose his words carefully. “I’m not returning you to Lady Devore’s house.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “You said you wanted to go away. So I’m taking you away.”

  “But I can’t leave London! Kate is nearing her—”

  Raising his hand, he pressed two gloved fingers to her lips. “Ssh. I told Lady Devore where we’re going. If anything should happen to your sister-in-law, she’ll make certain we’re informed immediately.”

  Her mouth opened as if in protest, then she snapped it shut. Then she opened it again. “But—if anyone… we’ll be the laughingstock of the ton.”

  “Nonsense.” He took her hand in his own and traced his finger over the soft, delicate flesh of the back of her hand. “No one but Lady Devore—and Stratford, when I send the carriage back to him—will know. We’ll be completely alone.”

  She stared at him. Shock, fear, denial, anticipation—all of it passed over her expression in waves.

  “And if people do find out—well, weren’t you the one who said scandal didn’t touch you?”

  “Yes. But I was wrong. When it affects my whole family’s reputation—” she hesitated, then finished, “—it hurts.”

  He tried not to grimace. He hated that she’d been hurt. He hated that people spoke ill of her. How could they? She was the most beautiful, sweetest, most intelligent, most fascinating woman he’d ever encountered.

  Frustration tugged at his nerves. He wished he could approach all the busybody gossips in London and wring the cruelty from the marrow of their bones. He couldn’t, of course, but he could provide her some peace.

  “We’re going to the house I’ve let near Richmond. We’ll be away from London, yet close enough to return on a moment’s notice.” He curled his fingers around her hand and squeezed. “You need freedom from the city right now. I can give that to you. Let me.”

  “My brother would never approve of this,” she murmured.

  “It is your life, not his.”

  “He will find us. He nearly killed you once already.”

  Jack raised a cynical brow. “What gives you the idea that he nearly killed me?”

  “There was murder in his eyes when he found us at Sheffield’s Hotel.”

  “Murder in his eyes does not equate to my death.”

  “You don’t know my brother. What he…” Her voice dwindled, and she looked away. “When Garrett is determined to follow a certain course, nothing can deter him.”

  “I could.”

  For long moments, she stared out the window in silence. They drove along the river’s edge, a full moon casting a dim glow over the road. In the distance, the black water of the Thames peeped out from between the dry branches of the brush.

  Finally, she turned back to him. “Do you still wish to marry me?”

  “Yes.”

  The muscles across his back tensed as he waited for her to respond, wondering if she’d order him to return her to Lady Devore’s this instant or whether she’d agree to wed him right here, right now.

  “This is an attempt… a ruse intended to coerce me into agreeing to becoming your wife.”

  That staggered him into silence. Not so very long ago it would have been a Machiavellian tactic he’d approve of.

  But since witnessing her vulnerable reaction to that stranger’s amorous embrace, he’d wanted nothing more than to take her far away. To shelter her from the lecherous gazes and the prying eyes and the harsh tongues that surrounded her. To hold her, to protect her from all of it. To keep her safe. And he knew the perfect place to do that—the house he’d planned for them to live in after their marriage.

  He gazed into her eyes and said with complete honesty, “It’s not a ruse. I wasn’t thinking about marrying you when I told Cecelia about it, or when I instructed the coachman where to drive. I was thinking only of your desire to get away.”

  Long minutes of silence passed before she spoke again. “Wha
t if you succeed, Jack? You convince me that you will make me a good husband. You make me believe that we will be happy together. And then I marry you.” Her eyes shone indigo in the murky gloom inside the carriage. “But what if you don’t? What if you rip it all away the moment we are married? What if it is impossible for me to attain happiness? What if it is impossible for me to ever be happy again?”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “How can you know that?”

  Because he’d once thought the same of himself.

  “I just know,” he said.

  He’d been wrong when he’d so flippantly implied to Stratford that she was worth nothing to him beyond her money. No, she was worth far, far more than the money. Then, he knew she could save his skin, but in the days since she’d left him staring after her at that dinner with their families, something had shifted, and understanding had unfurled like a bloom in his chest.

  He’d lied to Stratford about it. He’d been confused and uncertain, and trying to convince himself otherwise, scrabbling to hold on to the youthful vow he’d made to himself twelve years ago—that he’d never love another woman after Anne.

  Becky turned away from him to once again gaze out the window. “You’re a trader, Jack, so you should understand it when I tell you that I am damaged goods.”

  “So am I,” he said. For more reasons that she would ever know.

  “Why wouldn’t you choose someone else, then? Someone easier than me? Someone better?”

  Lady Rebecca Fisk was the only woman he wanted. The only woman for him.

  “No one is better.”

  The cottage was a charming, cozy affair situated on the banks of the Thames. As they drove up. Jack explained that this was the house he’d rented on the morning of his proposal, and that he’d intended for them to live here once they were married. Apparently there were no servants, but Jack told Becky he would arrange to have food delivered to them in the morning.

  Inside, Jack lifted her domino from her shoulders, and he sat her on a sofa in the dim front parlor. She realized she’d forgotten one argument against coming here—she’d brought no clothes with her.

  She gazed up at him, and heat flared, subtly cracking between them. Perhaps there was no need for clothes. A blush warmed her cheeks at the thought.

  “Stay here,” Jack instructed.

  She didn’t move as he lit a lantern and started a fire. As he worked, she studied him surreptitiously while removing her gloves. For such a large man, he was graceful. Each movement was executed with precise dexterity.

  When the fire crackled cheerfully, he took up the lantern with one hand, grasped her fingers with the other, and pulled her up.

  “Come. I’ll show you the house.”

  He led her from the parlor through a small dining area into a kitchen. They mounted the narrow stairs, which led to a landing and three bedrooms upstairs—two of them tiny and one quite large. On the whole, it was a simple but tidy dwelling, clean and comfortable.

  In the largest bedroom, he paused and turned to her, brushing her cheek with a rough finger. She tilted her head toward him, instinctively seeking more of his touch. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes so dark and so compelling her fingertips tingled with the urge to touch him.

  At that moment, her stomach chose to growl.

  He dropped his hand and closed it around hers. “Are you hungry?”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “I suppose the night’s adventures have increased my appetite.”

  “Well, there won’t be anything fresh, but I think I saw some nice-looking apples in the larder when I was here last.”

  He took her through the dim kitchen and into the larder, where there was indeed a basket of apples. He took it, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses, and they returned to the parlor, where the wood fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth. She sat on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. He placed the basket on the cushion beside her, sat on the other side of the basket, and chose two apples, one of which he handed to her.

  “Thank you.”

  Heat from the fire licked over Becky’s cheeks and filtered through the thick, stiff material of her dress. Taking a bite of the apple, she inhaled, its fresh, crisp scent mingling with the wood smoke, and she sighed in contentment.

  She admired his profile as he opened the bottle of wine and poured it into the glasses. Strong chin, high forehead, blade of a nose, and, Lord, those wicked lips…

  He looked up and captured her eyes in his own. “I miss you,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed touching you. I still want you, Becky.” He paused briefly before lowering his voice to ask, “Do you still want me?”

  She hesitated. “Wanting you was different… before.”

  A shadow crossed his face as he handed her a glass. “How?”

  “I’d assigned less importance to it.” She took a healthy swallow of wine. It was full and rich, its flavor mingling nicely with the tartness of the apple.

  “You thought to be a merry widow like Lady Devore. I thought you were like her, at first. But you surprised me. You’re nothing like her.”

  She sucked in a breath. “What do you know of Lady Devore?”

  “She is cynical.”

  “So am I.”

  “No. Not like her. She has given up. You—hope still shines in your eyes. Sometimes you try to hide it behind a wintry mask, but it’s there, begging to be set free.”

  “I don’t think so.” Becky closed her eyes and then opened them slowly, hoping to erase whatever Jack thought he saw there.

  She’d abandoned hope four years ago. She could place her finger on the exact moment. It was the night before William died. She’d followed him downstairs in the middle of the night and hidden on the stairs while he talked to his servant, and she’d heard the truth. William cared nothing for her—he’d married her only so he could steal her money, money he meant to use to take his mistress to France. After he murdered Becky.

  She focused on her apple, and for a while, both of them ate and drank, the silence broken only by the sounds of crunching fruit and the pops and crackles of the fire.

  Jack set his apple core aside. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

  How could she not be afraid? She wanted him as she had never wanted anything in her life, and she was scared to death of the feelings he evoked in her.

  He moved his hand to her knee, his fingers playing over the tulle overdress and the layers of her skirts and petticoats.

  Becky cocked her head. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?”

  She lifted his hand and turned it over in her own. A long scab slashed across his palm. “You’ve been cut. What happened?”

  He shook his head and gave her a rueful smile. “I broke a tumbler of brandy in my hand. I suppose we didn’t have anything as delicate as Stratford’s fine crystal aboard the Gloriana.” He shrugged. “It is healing.”

  Finishing the last of his glass of wine, he glanced at the clock on the mantel. She followed his gaze and saw that it was after one o’clock in the morning.

  “It’s late,” she said.

  “Are you tired?”

  “Yes. I should go to bed, but…” Chagrined, she kept her gaze on the mantel. “I cannot undo the buttons on my dress.”

  “I’ll help you.” His voice was low, devoid of undertone.

  In an abrupt motion, she rose and turned her back to him. When he didn’t move or speak, she looked at him over her shoulder, her brows raised in question.

  He rose, unfolding his body until his presence seemed to overwhelm the small parlor.

  He smelled of apples and wine, his scent intoxicating. It made her so dizzy she shifted her stance to prevent herself from swaying.

  His hands rested on her shoulders, big and heavy, stabilizing her, his palms covering the entire width of her upper back. His hands passed over the puffs of her sleeves, then smoothed down her wrists before traveling all the way back up again and meeting at her nape.

  Brushi
ng his fingertips over the back of her neck, he undid the top button. He took his time, working each cloth-covered button as if the process of undressing her fascinated him.

  When he finally finished, he pushed the sleeves of the gown from her shoulders down her arms. She helped him by pulling the sleeves all the way off. Fabric pooled around her knees, and he went to work on the buttons of her petticoats. When her petticoats dropped over her dress, she stepped out of the pile of clothing.

  “Well done.” She laid the dress and petticoats over a chair. “You’ve obviously undressed many women.”

  She regretted saying that instantly. It was none of her business how many women he’d undressed.

  “I’ve never undressed you.” His voice was quiet, yet rough as gravel.

  She ran her hands down the front of her stays and looked up at him nervously. “Will you—?”

  “Of course. Turn around.”

  She obeyed, holding her palms flat against the stiff boning of her stays. He untied the knot Josie had tied yesterday morning and tugged at the crisscrossed lacings, pulling them loose. When the stays gaped open, he lifted them over her head, leaving her clad in nothing but her chemise. She turned and took the stays from him, clasping them to her body.

  “Better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She bit her lip and looked away, still clutching her stays to her chest.

  He gently pried them out of her hands and laid them on the chair. “You shouldn’t be shy with me.”

  “I don’t often find myself in the presence of a man in nothing but my chemise.”

  “Remember what you wore on that night?”

  “Yes.” Becky fought the flush creeping up to her cheeks.

  “It was more transparent than what you’re wearing now.”

  Her feelings about Jack had been different then, though, and while she’d felt shy about that dress, it was nothing to how she felt now. She gave him a half smile. “You’re right.”

  He tugged her gently against him and slid his arm around her waist.

  “Come, I’ll take you upstairs.”

  They walked out into the tiny entryway and turned to go up the stairs. The steps were too narrow to ascend side by side, so he took her hand and led her up, pulling her against his side again as they reached the landing.