A Season of Seduction Page 3

  “Jack,” she sighed, her lips barely moving beneath his. She clutched his arms; her fingers locked around his biceps.

  “What is it?” He brushed his lips against hers in a sensuous glide with every word. “What do you want?”

  She stilled. It seemed she had stopped breathing. He opened his eyes to discover that she’d closed hers. She held herself immobile, a flawless porcelain statue.

  He drew back just enough to study her face. Its oval shape, smooth skin, red lips. The dark sweep of thick eyelashes and the midnight arcs of her brows. The silky black hair he suspected was naturally straight, curled to frame her face.

  Her lips parted, and he resisted the urge to touch them again, either with his own lips or by tracing them with his fingertip.

  “I want you,” she said simply.

  He sat frozen. Stunned.

  He’d sensed that she wanted him, of course. In all their previous assignations, she’d been receptive to his every advance. She’d confirmed it by wearing that sheer gown tonight.

  He hadn’t expected her to say it, though—at least not this early. He’d planned to take all night to coax her free from her innate shyness, calming her, softening her, making her comfortable, willing. Making her not only want him, but need him.

  He’d met her five times before, each time honing his strategy for tonight so that he could execute it without a hitch. The seduction had been timed perfectly. It was flawlessly planned.

  Hearing her voice her desire fired his blood in a thousand different ways, but he couldn’t submit to either her wishes or his body’s demands. Not yet. Not for—he slid his gaze to the clock on the mantel—another hour.

  He gritted his teeth. Damn.

  “Becky…” His hand slid down her neck, between her shoulder blades and lower, until it rested on the small of her back.

  He did kiss her then. The tug of her hands on his arms was irresistible. Their lips met in a fierce clash, and he groaned inwardly. She was an intoxicating mix of fiery hot aggression and sweet question, tentative yet brave. Fierce yet submissive. Darkness and lightness.

  His breath caught, and Becky stilled, leaving the kiss suspended as if in midair.

  “What is it?” she whispered, her words a soft puff of breath over his cheek. “Why do you hesitate?”

  Drawing her closer within the confines of his arms, he tugged her onto his lap. Tilting her head, she gazed up at him, still trusting.

  He traced his fingertip along her hairline then across the smooth skin of her cheek. She was so young and looked even younger, but an air of experience radiated from her, giving the impression of someone much older.

  She reached back for her sherry and took a healthy swallow of the liquid, grimacing a little as she lowered the glass.

  Sliding off his lap, she moved away from him and set her glass on the table. He watched as she erected those barriers again, turned chilly and distant. Spring retreated as quickly as it had come.

  She stared straight ahead. “I don’t understand.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I truly don’t understand why you’re here with me.” Sighing, she pressed her fingertips over her injured arm. “I am a novice at this, Jack. Surely that truth must be unappealing, when you can have your pick of any widow in London with a much broader arsenal of sensual skills than I have. So why—”

  The sick feeling in his gut tightened until it felt as if a cannonball had lodged there, and he covered the hand that was restlessly kneading her arm. “If I wanted anyone else, I wouldn’t be here. You must know that.”

  “But why?” Her dark blue gaze searched him, trying to seek out the truth, and he knew he must lie to her once again.

  “You’ve intrigued me from the beginning.”

  That was no lie. Perhaps this would be more a matter of omission of facts than lying.

  “Why?”

  “Because you remind me of myself,” he said before he could think about the wisdom of that response.

  “What do you mean?”

  He slid his fingers up her crooked arm. “You have suffered. You have experienced pain.”

  She shuddered.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Becky. A perfect lady. But ever since I first saw you, I’ve wanted to know you better.”

  “Where did you first see me?”

  “At the British Museum.”

  “I remember that day. It was the first time I saw you, too.”

  “Was it?” He thought she hadn’t seen him at all.

  “Yes. You leaned against the wall, your stance so casual, yet you watched everyone with sharp eyes. You seemed so interested in the people surrounding you.”

  He gave a low chuckle. He’d only been in London for a short time, and he’d been studying the people of England, of his homeland, comparing and contrasting them with the people he’d encountered on his travels.

  “I found you… intriguing, too,” she said. “Appealing. I wanted to know who you were, but none of the ladies I was with was acquainted with you.”

  “I asked Stratford about you that afternoon,” Jack said, “and in turn he questioned Lady Devore. And here we are.”

  Her brow furrowed. “But what could you have seen in me that day? I was doing nothing but studying the artifacts with my companions.”

  He shook his head. “ You studied the artifacts. They chattered. You set yourself apart from them.”

  Her frown deepened. “Unknowingly.”

  “Nevertheless, you did. I watched you. I couldn’t place it, but there was something very different about you.”

  “And now you have learned more about me, and you understand it is because of the loss of my husband that I appear distant at times. And because of the carriage accident that left my arm crippled and deformed.”

  His fingers, which had been trailing up and down her injured arm, stopped, tightening over her elbow, and she flinched.

  His grip loosened instantly. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No,” she murmured. Yet her eyes glistened.

  “Your arm speaks of a tragedy, but please don’t call yourself crippled and deformed. I’ll never think of you as either.”

  She took a steadying breath. “But what of you?”

  “What of me?”

  “You said I reminded you of yourself because of my suffering. You seem to know all about my suffering. Now you must tell me of your own.”

  A wry chuckle escaped him. “I shouldn’t have hoped you’d forgotten about that, should I?”

  She shook her head, her expression somber.

  He knew he must reveal the truth to her, but how much of it? There must be more omissions, and now, most certainly, there would be lies. But these were lies he was accustomed to telling. She’d hear some of the story in the next few days, of that he had no doubt.

  How much easier it would be to take her straight to bed. To possess her sweet, delicate, willing flesh. To seduce her, to bring her to rapture, to dive deep within her, and experience the fulfillment he’d been anticipating for what felt like forever. His body commanded him to act.

  But he’d taken it this far. Surely he could control his base desires for a while longer.

  “Twelve years ago, I was a youth of eighteen.” At her nod, he continued. “I was… well, I was involved in a scandal.”

  Twelve years ago, Lady Rebecca had been a child of ten sheltered in the Yorkshire dales. She’d have heard nothing of the events that had defined him for the past twelve years.

  She cocked her head. “What kind of scandal?”

  “It concerned a lady I had known since childhood and her husband, a marquis. Society assumed I was involved only because of my previous connection to the lady…”

  “Involved in what?” she asked.

  He faced straight ahead, staring at the small but elaborately carved marble fireplace. Someone had built the fire earlier, and it crackled cheerfully behind an Oriental screen. Flexing his fingers, he laid his hands on his knees, giving th
e appearance of relaxation. He hated talking about this. Hated it. But it had to be done—she would probably hear the story in a way that would transform Anne into a whore and him into a depraved seducer of married women.

  Unexpectedly, nerves flickered in his gut. He’d planned this, but he never spoke of his past, of his exile, of Anne and the events surrounding her death. Yet Becky was important. She must know the story—at least the parts of it that would ultimately be revealed to her by parties who would depict his role in a less favorable light. She’d need ammunition with which to respond to the cruelty of the gossipmongers, of those who would try to destroy his association with her just for the sheer joy they would glean from doing so.

  “The marriage was tumultuous. It was well known that the marquis had taken a mistress, and his wife—her name was Anne…” There, he’d said it. Her name. He hadn’t spoken her name aloud in years. It emerged more smoothly than he ever would have imagined.

  Becky frowned at him. “Yes?”

  “She was very unhappy.”

  Becky gave a compassionate murmur.

  “Late one night, the marquis was murdered between the door of his club and the mews.”

  “Just a moment.” Becky raised her hand to prevent him from continuing. “I believe I’ve read about this. The Marquis of Haredowne was murdered in… 1815, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Jack said, his voice as taut as a mooring line under the strain of a gale. One strong gust, and it would break.

  Her brow furrowed in thought. “I recall he was shot by footpads intending to rob him, but the sound of the gunshot attracted the attention of passers-by, and they ran away before they could steal anything.”

  “That is the general understanding of what happened.”

  “His wife died the very same day, didn’t she?”

  He nodded, his throat dry.

  “But she died of natural causes while he was murdered. It was a terrible tragedy.”

  “Yes. It was. A tragedy of the very worst kind.”

  “Oh, God.” Straightening, she stared at him with widened eyes. “Before the authorities could make sense of what had occurred, a young gentleman was implicated in the crime.”

  “Yes.”

  “That was you,” she whispered.

  He nodded.

  “You were accused of murdering the Marquis of Haredowne.” She blinked at him owlishly, as if the truth of it did not register. No doubt it did not. No doubt she was as innocent as a young widow could be.

  How she took this would determine their fate. Jack was not oblivious to the fact that such information would frighten the wits out of most London society misses. This news might very well send her bolting out of his life forever. He could only pray that she was as unique as her actions had hinted.

  “I was cleared of all suspicion,” he said.

  “I remember that, too. A witness came forward with an alibi, and a judge decided it was impossible for the young gentleman—you—to have committed the crime.”

  “That’s right.” Jack caught himself fidgeting and forcibly stilled his body and lightened his voice. “How can you know so much of this? You were just a child at the time.”

  “Haredowne was a peer, so it was a well-publicized case. I read about it years later.”

  And it seemed she had remembered every detail. Jack gazed at her with newfound respect.

  “But you—” She broke off, still staring at him in shock. “That was you.” Taking a great, gulping breath, she shook her shoulders as if flinging away some burden. “What happened?”

  “Afterward, you mean?”

  “No—I mean, were you there when he was killed? Why is it that you were accused?”

  He noted that she had put as much distance between them as the sofa would allow. He must tread carefully here.

  He remained very still. “I was accused because of my prior relationship with the marquis’s wife. It was rumored that we were lovers.”

  Becky was silent. He glanced at her to see her studying him with a frown, and he turned away, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t detect any hint of horror in her eyes.

  He and Anne had been lovers when they were younger, but not then. They hadn’t touched each other since the day she had come to him weeping that she was to marry the Marquis of Haredowne.

  “Was the rumor true?” Becky asked.

  Jack spoke through a tight jaw. “No. It wasn’t.” His voice shook with the power of his conviction. “I have done many unprincipled and dishonorable things in my life, but I draw the line at touching married women. I wouldn’t cuckold any man.” Not even as despicable a man as the Marquis of Haredowne.

  Becky’s luxurious, black velvet eyebrows swept downward as she blinked, and then those indigo eyes fixed on him. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I believe you.”

  Jack pushed his hand through his hair. “In any case, because of that rumor, suspicion immediately turned tome.”

  She nodded, but she still pressed her body against the arm of the opposite end of the sofa. God, he wanted to snag her waist and haul her back onto his lap. His fingers itched to stroke that porcelain skin again. He couldn’t touch her, though—not until he soothed her fears.

  “The witness came forward explaining that I was elsewhere at the time of the murder, and the charge was dismissed two days after the marquis’s death.”

  She nodded.

  “Nevertheless, there was an enormous scandal. I’m sure you can imagine.”

  An expression of complete understanding crossed her face. “Oh, yes. I can imagine.”

  Jack had learned some about her family. They were no strangers to scandal. Nor were they as snobbish as Anne’s family had been. While Anne’s father would accept nothing less than a peer for his daughter, Becky’s own brother had married a woman from the lower orders—the current Duchess of Calton had once been a maid.

  From the start, everything he’d learned about Lady Rebecca Fisk, her past, and her family had convinced him that this was the right course for him to take. Every moment he spent with her strengthened that conviction. He liked her. He wanted her. More important, he needed her.

  “My father sent me away,” he continued. “He ordered me to vanish until the gossip abated. I didn’t officially return to England until August of this year. Before then, the last time I’d set foot on English soil was in the spring of 1815.”

  A long, painful silence ensued.

  Revealing it all had been more difficult than he’d expected. But it was over now. All he could do was wait. And hope.

  “You were gone for so long,” she murmured.

  “Twelve years.”

  “But you explored the whole world in that time.”

  “Well, not the whole world.”

  She sighed. “I have always dreamed of exploring the world. Africa, Asia, Polynesia. I am fascinated by indigenous cultures. But I’d especially love to visit America.”

  “America? Why?”

  “I imagine the Americans to possess many of the qualities I admire: curiosity, adventurousness, bravery, practicality. I’ve always envisioned them to be enterprising and imaginative.” She gave him a wistful smile. “Though I’m sure my girlish conceptions have little to do with their real character.”

  “No, I think there is much truth in them. As with any place, however, America is filled with all kinds of people.”

  “I wish I could travel—go wherever I wanted and do whatever I wished to do. I wish I could be a sailor… but alas, I am a woman, and a duke’s sister. It is not meant to be.”

  “Yet you have traveled within the United Kingdom?”

  She hesitated. “A little. I have been between London and Yorkshire, where Garrett’s seat is, several times.” She stared at the fire. “I have been to southern Scotland for a few days, and I lived for a time with my husband in Warwickshire. But really, I haven’t seen much of the country. I have a house in Cornwall from my mother, but I’ve never been there.”

  Cautiously, h
e took her hand in his own, turning it over in his palm. It was so soft, so fragile. “If you could pursue a profession, what would it be?”

  She took a long moment to consider, and finally she smiled. “I’d be a surgeon.”

  “Really?” She’d surprised him yet again. He could hardly see this delicate, elegant creature sawing bones, sewing up wounds, and issuing draughts to the dying.

  “Yes, I believe I would,” she said, her voice grave. “Ithink it must be a most gratifying profession. A heartbreaking one, but ever so worthy.”

  “Very true,” he said, remembering Smith, the surgeon on the Gloriana. He’d drowned last autumn in a gale off the coast of Jamaica, along with three other sailors. Smith was his friend, and a good man. It took a special kind of man to be a surgeon.

  Becky brought her knees close and wrapped her arms around them, gazing at him. “Why didn’t you return to England sooner?” she asked finally. “Twelve years is such a long time.”

  “I wasn’t welcome. My father, as you know, is a member of Parliament, and my brothers have their own ambitions. They didn’t want their scapegrace of a youngest brother ruining their chances for success.”

  “That’s so cruel.”

  “I understand their hesitation in allowing my return, and I cannot blame them.”

  That wasn’t a lie, not really. After twelve years, he was as distant from his closest family members as anyone could be. He’d seen his father and eldest brother once since his return, and the meeting had been stiff and formal, and eminently uncomfortable. He had no wish to repeat the experience. “My father was sworn to the Privy Council last year, so my absence was certainly not detrimental to his career.” He took a breath. “England is my home, though, and I intend to make a life here now that I have returned.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  He fetched his glass from the side table. Rising, he went to the sidebar to refill it with brandy as she sipped at her sherry.

  As the amber liquid streamed into his tumbler, he said, “Tell me about your husband.”

  She recoiled, and he instantly regretted the command. He couldn’t fathom why he had brought up her husband—except, he thought ruefully, for the fact that he had revealed a part of himself, and now he wanted her to reveal something about herself in return. It was childish of him, really.