A Season of Seduction Read online

  Becky’s brother was heartily indifferent to propriety. If he believed his sister was in danger, he’d charge into the fray without considering the consequences.

  Becky swallowed down a choking sob.

  Pressing her hand against the stylishly loose blonde knot of hair at her nape, Sophie hurried to the edge of the bed, the coffee-colored skirts of her evening gown swishing and her brow lined with concern. “Oh, Becky.”

  Becky knew she didn’t mean to have that tone of censure in her voice. Still, Sophie never failed to make her feel like a naughty child. “Just give me my dress, if you please, Sophie.”

  Silently, Sophie handed it over, her lips pursing when she saw the sheer quality of the fabric as it fell over Becky’s breasts. She looked around the room, evidently on the hunt for something for Becky to wear that would more adequately cover her.

  Finally, she sighed. “Well, we’ll have to drape the blanket over you before we take you in to see the gentlemen.”

  Becky wrapped her arms over her chest, trying to contain her shudders. “No. I’ve no intention of seeing the gentlemen. I’ve had enough of gentlemen tonight.” Across from the bed stood a paneled door, presumably leading to the outside corridor, and she intended to use it. She had no desire to face Tristan or Garrett, and when it came to Jack, her mind was a confused jumble of emotion.

  The most pressing thing to do now was prevent Garrett from killing Jack, and while Tristan could be counted on as a temporary measure, the only person in the world who could talk sense into Garrett was his wife. Becky would speak to Kate, and Kate would find a way to prevent a duel.

  “What do you mean? Of course you must go—”

  “No,” she said. “Please, Sophie, just take me home. I want to see Kate.”

  Jack pulled his shirt over his head, and he rubbed the back of his neck as the other two men came into view. Hostile energy buzzed through the elegant sitting room.

  The duke stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw set. A blond behemoth of a man, he had a deep red scar the size of a shilling above his left eyebrow. If Jack hadn’t faced men like this before, he might have been intimidated. But he’d been a sailor for too long. Men like this, while not a common sight in an opulent London hotel, were ordinary enough at sea.

  The duke’s cousin, Tristan, Viscount Westcliff stared at him from behind the duke’s shoulder. This man looked far more at home in these surroundings than his counterpart did. He was taller but slighter than the duke. While the duke’s shirt and cravat were rumpled beneath his dinner coat, Westcliff was impeccably dressed in a black satin-lined tailcoat with an immaculate white cravat held at his neck by a gold pin. His hair was dark brown, and his face was long and aristocratic. Just now, that face was expressionless, but there was a telling set to his jaw. Every movement the man made appeared to be calculated for precision, and his intelligent dark eyes seemed to miss nothing.

  The Duke of Calton was far more expressive than his cousin. The man wanted to kill him, but something was preventing him. Dispassionately, Jack wondered what held him back.

  After a long moment of silence, Jack released a sigh. He was ready for this, and he’d expected it. Ultimately, he loathed that he must manipulate these people—people who, despite their eccentricity, by all accounts and observations seemed of a very good sort.

  “What the hell do you think you were doing with my sister? Do you know who she is?” Calton fumed.

  “I know who she is.” How well I know, he thought bitterly.

  The duke stepped forward, Lord Westcliff at his heels. “If so, then you know I’d kill anyone who touched her, much less debauched and ruined her.”

  Inwardly, Jack cringed. He’d made himself look like a scoundrel of the first order this night.

  He was a scoundrel, after all. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have lived the life he had. He wouldn’t be doing what he was doing to these people right now. His gut curdled in self-loathing. Such a slick villain he was.

  And for what? For his own skin. For goddamned Tom Wortingham—curse the bastard.

  Jack held up his hand to stop Lord Westcliff from adding to what the duke had said. His voice was mild. “I’d hardly say she’s been ruined. She is a widow.”

  The two men stared at him in a silence charged with animosity.

  Jack took a moment to assess his main adversary. The key to men prone to fits of righteous violence involved a combination of appeasement and logic. Certainly not provocation, something which Jack by nature was far more inclined to.

  Jack sighed. No more beating about the bush. Might as well get to the point. He dropped his hands at his sides and faced the two men head-on.

  “I understand your anger.” He made an effort to speak in a humble tone—and succeeded somewhat, a true testament to how important this moment was. “I have no wish to see this ordeal cause Lady Rebecca any pain.”

  It was God’s honest truth. He’d have been disconcerted by that if he wasn’t so determined to achieve his goal.

  “Did you see who witnessed this spectacle tonight?” Lord Westcliff asked. “Do you understand what this will do to her reputation?”

  “I don’t want Lady Rebecca embarrassed,” Jack continued. “To see her as the subject of ridicule or to have her honor besmirched in any way would grieve me.” He straightened, firming his stance and his voice. “I’m willing to go to whatever lengths necessary to prevent it.”

  “You should have thought about all of that before you brought her here,” the duke growled.

  “Sometimes in such matters the heart speaks louder than good judgment.”

  “The heart?” Calton sneered. “Do you take me for an idiot? What I saw here was the speaking of flesh. Hearts had nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” Jack said softly.

  Westcliff leveled a hard gaze at him, as if trying to dive beneath the surface of his words. But long ago, Jack had encased himself within a steel barrier no one could cross. Nobody could dig into him. No one could see his true motivation. He wouldn’t allow it.

  He met Westcliff’s dark gaze evenly. “I intend to make this right.”

  “Oh, Kate,” Becky cried, falling into her best friend’s arms.

  Her sister-in-law’s protruding belly prevented Becky from sinking too deeply into her embrace. The duchess was eight months pregnant with her second child. The first, two-year-old Jessica, was asleep in the nursery along with Kate and Garrett’s adopted children. Jessica had been born in London and Garrett trusted the doctor who had delivered her, so he intended to keep the family here until this child was born. Sophie and Tristan had remained as well to lend their support—though if truth be told, they preferred London over the country.

  Kate’s dark braid hung down to her waist and she wore a soft flannel robe over her shoulders, but she’d been wide awake awaiting Garrett’s return home when Becky had arrived.

  “Shh.” Kate’s arms tightened around Becky’s shoulder blades.

  “I wish you’d been there. You could have talked some sense into him—”

  “Shh. Everything will be all right.”

  “How can you know that?”

  The child leveled a firm kick against its mother’s stomach, and Becky loosened her hold. Kate smiled. “You see? He agrees. He’s trying to make you see sense. Whatever it is, it cannot be that bad.”

  Becky plunked her body onto one of the palm-print sofas, gripped her knees, and tried to calm her panic.

  “What happened?”

  Becky closed her eyes. “I was in bed. In a state of undress. With a gentleman. Engaging in… in…”

  Kate raised her hand to stop Becky from stuttering. “I see.” She sounded mildly surprised but not disappointed.

  “I… Lady Borrill saw me at the hotel, and I’m certain she went straight to Sophie and Tristan. And Garrett was with them tonight, and they all rushed in and saw…”

  “Oh, dear Becky.” Kate settled onto the sofa beside her and slipped an arm over her should
ers. “Garrett and Tristan will be angry at the gentleman, but that is to be expected. It is undoubtedly a wretchedly embarrassing thing to have your brother and cousin witness such a personal, private moment. But once their anger diminishes, all will return to normalcy. Never fear, when Garrett returns home, I will calm him down, and I am certain Sophie will do the same with Tristan.”

  “No doubt you will, if it isn’t too late. Jack—the gentleman I was with—suggested a duel.”

  Kate stiffened. “Well. If they do plan to duel, it won’t happen until tomorrow, at the very earliest. I shall remind Garrett that his child would like to know his father.”

  Tears pricked at Becky’s eyes, and Kate’s hand tightened on her shoulder. Kate would understand. Kate always understood her.

  “Who is this gentleman, Becky?” Kate’s voice was soothing, low.

  “His name is Jack Fulton. He is the son of a privy councilor and has just returned to England after an absence of many years. Cecelia introduced us, and I was… attracted to him instantly.” Heat crept over her cheeks. “The feeling was mutual. We’ve… met several times. Tonight was the first we were… intimate.”

  Kate sighed. “And Lady Borrill saw?”

  “Yes,” Becky whispered. “And there were others I didn’t recognize—guests at the hotel…” She’d never fainted before in her life, but the palms printed on the chaise across from her began to drift back and forth across the upholstery. She gripped the arm of the sofa and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Kate ground her teeth. “Lady Borrill is a notorious gossip.”

  “I know.”

  “The witnesses will make it known what happened tonight. There’s no way around it.”

  “What am I going to do? Oh, Lord, but this family doesn’t need another scandal. I’m sorry, Kate. I’m so, so sorry.”

  She leaned forward and pushed her face into her hands. After all she’d done to her brother, Tristan, Sophie, and Kate. Four years of demure living had done little to soften her guilt over the debacle of her elopement with William.

  She’d finally decided to assert herself, to move beyond William’s betrayal and prove to herself that she was a strong woman worthy of affection. She’d failed. Spectacularly.

  Kate stroked her hair. “You once said that scandal could never touch you.”

  “No,” she said bleakly. “Perhaps it cannot touch me, but it touches the rest of you.”

  From the folds of her gown, Kate procured a linen handkerchief. “I’ve told you time and again through the years that guilt is a pointless emotion. It accomplishes nothing at all. It is useless and unproductive, except to cause tremendous damage to those who feel it.”

  “It is not only guilt, Kate, but regret. I wish…” Lord, what did she wish? Not that she’d never met Jack, that he hadn’t touched her. Selfishly, she coveted every kiss, every touch, and every word that they had shared, and she couldn’t wish them away, no matter how much guilt and regret sliced through her.

  “Do you care for this man? This Mr. Fulton?”

  “I do.” Cecelia would frown at her, or maybe she would laugh. But Becky wasn’t admitting to love—that would be as impetuous and silly as falling in love at first sight with William Fisk four years ago. But she did care for him.

  “Do you admire him?” Kate asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He must be intelligent, then. Well-read.”

  Kate knew well the kind of man who would capture Becky’s interest.

  “And well-traveled,” she said.

  “Is he an honorable man, Becky?”

  Becky considered this. He’d warned her that he possessed a dishonorable nature. And yet his actions proved otherwise. He was gentle, conscientious, caring. Even now, the memory of the look in his eyes when he touched her made her shudder. When the door had opened and all those people had poured in, his first thought had been to protect her from their curious stares.

  “Yes, Kate. I believe he is honorable.”

  “There is only one clear answer, then,” Kate said in a low voice. Sighing, she dabbed her handkerchief to Becky’s damp cheek. “You must marry him.”

  Chapter Five

  Early the following afternoon, Becky hurried to the nursery to see Kate. After Becky greeted the children, Kate instructed the governess to look after them, and then she drew Becky into the corridor and closed the door behind them.

  “I received a letter from Sophie this morning.” Kate looked exhausted—the babe was keeping her awake at night again. Kicking off her slipper, she leaned against the smooth plastered wall and awkwardly reached down to rub the arch of one slightly swollen foot. “It’s still unclear who wrote the note informing Garrett of your whereabouts.”

  Becky crossed her arms. “I’m certain it was that awful Lady Borrill. She gave me the cut direct on the stairs and then took her scandalous news straight to Tristan and Sophie.”

  “Garrett isn’t certain it was Lady Borrill. He told me they’d left dinner and were on their way to drop Sophie and Tristan off when the carriage was stopped by a man on horseback. He gave the note to the coachman and then rode off before Garrett could get a good look at him.”

  “What, exactly, did the note say?”

  “It said you were in trouble, and it gave the name of the hotel. Garrett ordered Pip to drive there straightaway, and when they arrived, Garrett flew out of the carriage, heedless of Sophie and Tristan on his heels. He stomped into the hotel, wrestled the room’s location and a key from the proprietor, and then ran upstairs. All the shouting attracted some attention, but you know Garrett. He didn’t pay it any heed.” Kate lowered her foot back to the floor and looked at Becky, her dark eyes full of compassion.

  “Garrett has summoned me to his study.” Becky hesitated. “I came to ask if you would come with me.”

  Kate straightened, then took Becky’s hand and pressed it to her heart. “You’re my dearest friend, Becky, but he didn’t ask me to come—he asked you. I think you must go to your brother alone.”

  For a flash of a moment, Becky considered pleading with her friend. She knew she tended to lean too heavily on Kate at times, and she knew she needed to start fending more for herself. It was part of the reason she’d taken such pains to befriend Cecelia.

  Kate understood Becky. They’d experienced much tragedy, sadness, and love together. In the past four years, they’d grown as close as any two women could without the bond of blood.

  “I know I should go alone,” Becky finally said. “But I dislike confronting him without you there.”

  Kate smiled. “Why do you have such faltering confidence in your own ability to be brave? I have seen such bravery from you, Becky. It’s just Garrett. You can face him, I know you can.”

  Garrett had seen her just a few hours ago in a very, very compromising position with a man he didn’t know. Was he still intent upon killing Jack? She’d heard no further word of a duel, so perhaps Kate had nipped that ludicrous idea in the bud when he’d returned last night. He’d come home surprisingly early. Not long after she and Kate had settled into their conversation in the drawing room, they’d heard hoofbeats and run to the window to see the carriage drawing up to the house. Moments later, he’d stepped out, apparently unharmed. Becky had spent the remainder of the evening praying that Jack was similarly healthy.

  Leaving Kate, she went downstairs. At the door to Garrett’s study, she pressed her hands nervously over her cherry-striped taffeta skirts and fidgeted with the blond frill at her neckline. Then, taking a great gulping breath, she knocked.

  “Come in,” Garrett called, his voice gruff.

  She pushed open the door, took a step forward, and then froze as her brother—and Jack—rose from their chairs.

  “Rebecca,” her brother said from across his gleaming mahogany desk.

  Jack, who had risen from the mint-green velvet armchair opposite Garrett, gave a silent bow. He was dressed more finely than she’d ever seen him, in an embroidered dark wine waistcoat, a crisply tied cra
vat, dark gray trousers, and a black cutaway tailcoat that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

  “Good afternoon, Garrett.” Her voice was shaky, breathless. “Mr. Fulton. I—I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Jack glanced at Garrett and then gave her an easy smile. “His Grace and I agreed to meet to discuss the… unfortunate event that occurred last night.”

  “I see.” With precise movements, she turned to close the door. The finality of the click resonated through her skull.

  She turned back to the gentlemen, who still stood facing her. Unclenching her fingers, she forced her shoulders to settle and inclined her head at Jack. “I’m relieved to see you in one piece.”

  “If I had known you feared for me,” he said in a quiet voice, “I would have reassured you that I am very difficult to break, my lady.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Keeping her back perfectly straight and her chin high, she crossed the carpeted floor and sat in the floral-print armchair beside Jack’s. On that signal, the men returned to their chairs.

  She tried to muster a smile at him as she ran her fingers over the roses embroidered on the arms of the chair. Awareness of his proximity, even after all that had happened, rang through her veins.

  His smile carved grooves, too deep to be called dimples, in his cheeks. His eyes sparkled when he smiled, and his lips… oh, his wickedly erotic lips…

  Garrett cleared his throat, and she tore her gaze from Jack to look at her brother. He sat as stiffly as his high, heavily starched collar, his narrow gaze focused on both of them.

  He slid a pamphlet across the sleek surface of his desk. “It has already been printed.”

  Becky’s heart surged to her throat. Jack took the paper and lowered it before him, his lips tightening.

  “What?” she whispered. “What is it?”

  Without a word, he handed it to her.

  The open page showed a caricature of her and Jack. They were in bed in an indecent position. The artist had drawn enormous beads of sweat dripping from them both, and they both stared wide-eyed and gaping at the door, which overflowed with people holding lanterns. Becky’s oval face was long and exaggerated, and her straight, dark hair flowed over the blankets. The artist had grossly misjudged the size of her breasts and had drawn them as enormous white globes of flesh as big as her head and spilling over the edge of the blanket, everything but her nipples showing.