The Second Seduction

by Shelley Munro

  His warm, moist breath blew against her cheek, draw-

  ing a sweet shudder. In truth, her knee throbbed, and since

  the hour grew late, Rosalind had no compunction in retiring

  before the guests called for their carriages to leave. “I am a

  trifl e sore.” Th

  e moment she uttered the words, the aches in-

  tensifi ed. “Nothing some salve and rest won’t cure.”

  “Come, say your good nights and I’ll see you to your

  chamber.”

  “Good night, Katherine. Th

  ank you for keeping me compa-

  ny. Justin. Charles. No doubt, I will see you on the morrow.”

  After further farewells, Lucien and Rosalind left the

  parlor and made their way through the Long Gallery. At

  the base of the stairs, Lucien paused. “Would you like me to

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  carry you?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Lucien took one look at her pinched, white face and lifted

  her into his arms. She felt so tiny cradled next to his chest,

  but it was a sensation he was becoming used to. His English

  mouse possessed strength of character that made the rest of

  the women in the parlor look ordinary. And, it was becoming

  more diffi

  cult to ignore her charms.

  Lucien paused outside Rosalind’s chamber to open the

  door. A sound coming from inside the room made him halt.

  Rosalind tugged his sleeve in a silent demand to be put

  down. Lucien frowned at her and indicated with a hand

  gesture that she should stay right where she was. He moved

  silently into the chamber. A whisper of silk behind him made

  his teeth clench.

  Rosalind sidled up to him and tugged on his sleeve once

  more. “Who is it?” she whispered. Her blue eyes fl ashed ex-

  citement, and Lucien groaned inwardly.

  “Stay there,” he mouthed.

  A fl urry of movement coming from Rosalind’s dressing

  room made her leap into action.

  “If someone is destroying my clothes again I’m going to

  scream.” She limped past Lucien, evading his grasp and shot

  into the dressing room.

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  “Damn,” Lucien muttered. He hurried after her to avert

  further injury.

  Rosalind slammed to a halt. “What on earth do you think

  you are doing?” she demanded. Her severe voice sounded sur-

  prisingly like Lady Augusta at her most imperious. Lucien

  saw her eyes narrow a second before she darted from sight.

  A feminine screech rent the air, loud enough to make his

  ears ring.

  “What’s going on here?” Lucien burst through the door-

  way in time to see Rosalind grab the dark-haired maid by the

  shoulders, the one that was always dropping sly hints about

  joining him in his bed, and shake her vigorously.

  “I asked you a question,” Rosalind snapped.

  Th

  e maid glared at Rosalind, her mouth fi rmed to a stub-

  born line.

  “Tell me.” Rosalind shook the maid again.

  “I came to turn down your bed and light the candles,”

  the maid said. “Ask Tickell. He sent me.”

  “He told Maria to do it,” Rosalind countered, releasing

  the maid.

  “No, he . . . How did you know?” Th

  e maid edged away.

  “I just do.” Rosalind folded her arms across her chest and

  glared down her upturned nose, her chin jutting upward.

  Lucien bit back a smile. Rosalind was handling this in-

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  terview well without his help. And, she was right to question

  the maid. Th

  ere was no need for her to be in here. Several

  gowns lay on the fl oor in a puddle of silk and the maid still

  grasped a lacey shawl in her right hand.

  “Would you like to hand over the knife from your

  pocket?” Rosalind asked, her tone as pleasant as if she were

  taking tea with acquaintances.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Rosalind pointed. “Th

  e knife in that pocket.”

  Th

  e maid’s shoulders slumped. She yanked the knife

  from her pocket, and Lucien stood poised, ready to intercede

  should she threaten Rosalind.

  “Th

  ey’re right,” the maid said with a snarl. “You’re a witch.”

  Lucien took two steps forward, but Rosalind stilled him

  with a look.

  She grabbed the maid’s forearm. “Who says I’m a witch?

  Who’s spouting such falsehoods?”

  Th

  e maid tried to ease away from Rosalind’s grip. “I have

  more rooms to ready for the guests. Tickell said I have to

  fi nish them by midnight.”

  “You’re going to clean up the mess here fi rst,” Rosalind

  snapped. “But, before you do that, you’re going to tell me

  who suggested you destroy my gowns. I presume it was you

  who ransacked my room last week. You must have laughed

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  when I asked you to help me clean up the mess. How much

  did Lady Helena pay you?”

  Th

  e maid gasped; the color fl ed her cheeks, leaving her

  looking pasty white.

  Lucien leaned back against the doorframe and waited.

  He hoped Rosalind knew what she was doing because when

  she blurted out things like that without warning, damned if

  she didn’t sound a like a witch.

  Th

  e maid refused to meet Rosalind’s gaze. She mumbled

  under her breath and this time Lucien heard Rosalind gasp.

  “You pushed me down the stairs tonight. Why?”

  “I did not!”

  But, one look at the maid’s face told Lucien she was

  guilty. She had pushed Rosalind down the stairs.

  Lucien closed the distance between himself and the two

  women. Th

  e idea of losing Rosalind . . . Fury whipped him.

  Losing Francesca had been bad enough, but to lose another

  wife was unthinkable. “You could have killed my wife.”

  “I think that was the idea,” Rosalind said. A look passed

  between them that needed no words.

  “Don’t joke,” Lucien muttered. He turned a glare on the

  hapless maid. “Why?”

  Th

  e maid tossed her head and tried to tug free of Rosa-

  lind. “Let me go,” she muttered. “I haven’t done anything.”

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  Rosalind’s mouth hardened. Lucien watched her tense,

  then relax. She loosened her grip on the maid. “Go,” she said.

  “I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

  About to protest, Lucien snapped his mouth shut when

  he saw the warning Rosalind sent him.

  Freed, the maid shot past them. Her hurried footsteps

  sounded as she raced across the room. Th

  e door creaked and

  then slammed, indicating her exit.

  Lucien moved from the cramped dressing room into the

  more spacious chamber. “Do you think she was acting on her

  own or is she being paid?”

  “Lady Helena paid her.” Rosalind settled into
a wooden

  chair with a relieved sigh. She rubbed at her knee through her

  skirts and winced. “I feel as though I’ve been used for target

  practice. I think my bruises have bruises. I’ll talk to Lady

  Helena in the morning. She won’t get away with this.”

  Lucien frowned. “She didn’t admit that Lady Helena paid

  her. Why are you so sure that Lady Helena is responsible?”

  Rosalind’s eyes fl ashed. “Because I read the maid’s

  thoughts,” she retorted. “Lady Helena is responsible.”

  “You read her mind?” Lucien seized Rosalind’s words

  and threw them back at her with clear disbelief.

  Rosalind’s glance contained a mixture of guilt and frus-

  tration, tinged with something that looked like hope. Read

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  her mind, Lucien thought in shock. How was that possible?

  He laughed and heard uneasiness in the sound. “You’re

  joking, aren’t you?”

  “No,” Rosalind stated, holding his gaze and maintain-

  ing it with a steady look. “I have . . .a gift,” she fi nished in

  a defi ant tone. “Sometimes, I’m able to read minds. Not all

  the time, but . . .most of the time now,” she confessed. “My

  grandmother had the same gift.”

  Lucien felt an urgent need of movement, so he walked to

  the door and returned. “How does this. . . gift work?”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I . . . it seems unusual.” Lucien wasn’t sure he liked the

  idea of her knowing his thoughts. She’d said she could only

  read some people. Hope surged, then withered at her look of

  sympathy. “You can read my mind.”

  “Mostly.”

  Lucien stiff ened. “So, you know of my past.” Somehow,

  the idea that she knew his inner thoughts seemed obtrusive.

  She met his gaze fearlessly. “Yes.”

  Lucien compressed his mouth to a fl at line. “Good

  night, Rosalind.” He strode to the door that connected their

  chambers and jerked it open. It was only with the greatest

  willpower that he didn’t slam the door shut. God forbid, he

  wanted to. Lucien paced the length of his chamber, ignoring

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  the luxurious surroundings and the softness of the Persian

  rug beneath his shoes.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  Th

  e door burst open before he could even begin to think.

  “Don’t walk away like that.” Rosalind limped into his

  chamber, her blue eyes fl ashing.

  Th

  e door slammed behind her, and Lucien suppressed

  the fl ash of dark humor. He’d restrained his temper.

  “How would you feel if I knew your every thought?

  Th

  at not one single thing was private? You’d hate it,” Lucien

  answered his own question.

  Rosalind’s chin jerked upward. “I don’t know your

  every thought.”

  “Th

  at’s not what you said before.”

  “I said I knew your thoughts, but only if I’m touching

  you. I don’t know what you’re thinking now.” She planted

  her hands on her hips. “Although I could take a guess. Do

  you think I enjoy knowing what the maid thinks, what Lady

  Augusta thinks? All my life this gift has set me apart. Do you

  think I want to be diff erent from everyone else? Do you think

  I want people to look at me and call me witch? Why do you

  think I wear gloves most of the time?” She paused, her chest

  heaving with indignation. “Th

  e only reason I’m trying to read

  people now is so I can fi nd out who’s trying to hurt us.”

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  Lucien stiff ened. Us. “Don’t,” he snarled. “It’s too dan-

  gerous.” Th

  e idea of being responsible for another death ap-

  palled him.

  She approached him and stopped an arm’s length away,

  so close he smelled fl owers on her skin and hair. “Do you

  think that the accidents have something to do with Franc-

  esca’s death?” She moved even closer until a mere hand span

  separated them.

  Hearing Francesca’s name on Rosalind’s lips shocked

  him. Pain, sharp and jagged wrenched his heart, and the

  ring of truth made him draw a sharp breath. It was obvious

  she was using her gift, trying to help him locate Francesca’s

  murderer. Even though it put her in danger. Th

  e selfl ess act

  battered down the last fl imsy defenses he’d erected.

  “Hell, Rosalind.” His voice broke on her name. He closed

  the remaining distance between them, wrapping his arms

  around her body and holding her to his chest. He smoothed

  his hand over her hair and saw that his hand trembled. He

  moved it again, smoothing and petting, savoring the softness

  of her and the trusting. It was a long time since someone

  had looked at him with such belief. He pressed a kiss to the

  fragrant blond hair at her temple. Lucien didn’t know how

  he’d inspired such loyalty in not one, but two women. But

  he had, and it was a precious gift. A second chance at love, if

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  he wanted it.

  “Lucien?” Her upturned face shone with trust, but un-

  derlying the conviction was clear determination.

  Lucien sighed. He just knew she was going to be diffi

  cult

  about staying out of his investigation. “Yes?”

  “I would like to have a child.”

  Her words were like a spear piercing his heart. Sudden.

  Unexpected. Painful.

  “No,” he said harshly. He wrenched away from the temp-

  tation to seize her in his arms and off er comfort. Guilt and

  confusion made him unable to face her hurt expression.

  “Why not?”

  She’d had to ask. Th

  e raw emotion he’d held in check since

  Francesca’s death bubbled out before he could stop it. “Because

  I don’t want to go through the same thing all over again. I

  don’t want my wife and child to die and leave me alone.”

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  Harsh fi nality enveloped his voice. Rosalind felt her

  uncertain grasp on her dreams slipping. Her stomach

  cramped with fear, followed swiftly by anger. She’d fought

  for everything in life. Why should the fi ght for Lucien’s at-

  tention be any diff erent?

  So, she’d resort to her original plan and seduce him. Not

  that she knew how to go about a seduction, however she’d

  watched Miranda fl irt with male visitors often enough. Men

  fl ocked to Miranda in the hope of being bestowed with one

  of her pretty smiles or a gurgle of laughter. It would work. It

  had to work.

  She turned to face her silent, brooding husband. Ig-

  noring the nervous stutters inside her chest, she said, “I’m

  frightened to sleep on my own. Can I sleep in your chamber

  THE SECOND SEDUCTION

  again tonight?”

  At fi rst, she thought he’d balk at her suggestion. His

  muscular body stiff ened beneath the black jacket. Hands
/>
  fi sted at his sides until he caught her watching him. Th

  en,

  he fl ung off the tenseness as easily as she discarded a shawl,

  except in his eyes. Th

  ey still held pain and wariness. Rosalind

  edged closer. Before the thought even entered her head, she

  reached out to off er comfort.

  “No, don’t touch me.” Lucien wrenched away before her

  hand contacted his skin.

  Pain sliced through her. Another rejection. Her throat

  closed. She wanted to rail and scream at the unfairness. Why

  had it been she who received the gift and not Miranda? Gift!

  Huh! It was a curse that kept coming back to haunt her with

  the regularity of the monsters in a gothic tale.

  She turned away to hurry for the door connecting their

  chambers before Lucien saw the tears leaking from her eyes.

  Th

  e only good thing about her gift was that she knew for sure

  Lady Helena was directly responsible for a lot of the things

  that had happened to her since her arrival at Castle St. Clare.

  She’d paid maids and some of the other servants to make life

  diffi

  cult for her. Rosalind had her suspicions why, but needed

  to confront the woman to confi rm it was plain jealousy. Lady

  Helena coveted Lucien and would do anything to remove

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  Rosalind and the barrier she represented. Huh! Rosalind

  tried to dislodge the achy lump in her throat with a swallow.

  Lady Helena would laugh hysterically if she learned Lucien

  didn’t want her, that he consistently pushed Rosalind away.

  “No. Wait.” He caught her upper arm and forced her to

  stop. His hand dropped the instant she halted.

  “I don’t bite,” she snapped, hurting at his rejection.

  Lucien raked a hand through his hair, leaving dark tufts

  sticking out of his queue. “Hell. I’m sorry, Rosalind, but it’s

  diffi

  cult. Th

  is is not an ordinary situation.”

  “I have to live with it every day.”

  “Please, go ahead. Make me feel better,” he said in a

  dry tone.

  Rosalind stared. Was that a twinkle lurking deep in his

  dark eyes? Had he made a joke?

  “All right. You can sleep in my chamber tonight.”

  Rosalind stared anew. Th

  eir gazes clashed and held. Th

  e

  silence stretched. In the distance, soft music tinkled, mascu-

  line laughter fl oated up from outside. A soft breeze ruffl

  ed the

  Flemish tapestries that covered the walls.

  “Where . . .” Rosalind paused to clear her throat. “Where