Four Times The Temptation (The Northumberland Nine Series Book 4)

by Dayna Quince

  Her stomach, on the other hand, was infested with butterflies, and she wasn’t sure she could face him again. But he was already here somewhere in the castle, and they would share the same roof for a fortnight again.

  She wasn’t sure she could do it. She might die or embarrass herself so thoroughly she wished she would die.

  And no one knew. She couldn’t tell her sisters that after one dance and one kiss she’d fallen head over heels for a man she might never see again. They would laugh.

  She’d laughed.

  But now she was back at Selbourne Castle, and for two weeks, she would be a guest of honor with the hopes that she or at least one of her nine sisters would form an attachment that would lead to a marriage. And he was one of the gentlemen invited as a possible candidate.

  Possible.

  What a marvelous word.

  So much seemed possible and yet to think that he…and she…

  How could that be possible?

  She turned toward the house. She was supposed to be in the drawing room with her sisters by now. Her heart hammered as she left the solitude of the terrace and made her way to the Queen’s drawing room. She slipped in quietly, with her unique ability to blend into the walls as Georgie would say.

  Jeanie had never strived for such a talent, it just happened that way. Among nine women in one house, it was usually impossible to be heard or noticed. Her sisters’ personalities were so much bigger than hers. It was easier to just step aside and remain quiet than fight for space in such a small home.

  And then her meekness had become habit and then a shield.

  But that didn’t mean she didn’t hunger to be seen, to have a voice, to be the center of someone’s world.

  She fought the urge to shiver nervously as she regarded the scene. The dowager duchess reigned over the room, her regal smile and infectious charm bridging the divide between these elegant gentlemen and her wild card sisters.

  The Marsdens earned their infamy from the ridiculous notion that their father had continued to produce children in the vain hope of a son, but the result had been nine daughters. Most found this quite amusing, but in Jeanie’s mind, they’d never had to live off potato and cabbage soup for weeks at a time when the household budget was tight. And now her mother was pregnant again. After seventeen years, there would be another baby in the house. Another mouth to feed and keep warm and clothed.

  There was nothing amusing about hunger, or the threat she and her sisters lived with, now that they were growing older.

  The death of their father.

  He’d spent years traveling, searching far and wide for husbands, because even he knew what terrible future awaited them once Cousin Irving inherited their home and land. If this baby was a boy, then they would be saved form Cousin Irving but not poverty.

  Being one of the Northumberland Nine was not amusing to Jeanie.

  The stupid name only served to remind her of what she couldn’t have.

  A season, a debut, a chance to marry a man like Lord Luckfeld, to dance on his arm, to be wooed under the lights of a chandelier, driven in a high phaeton around Hyde Park, or sit in a private box at the theatre.

  These were the things that were beyond her world.

  Because she was born into a large family and poor.

  The closest she got was reading about such a life in the papers.

  She sighed, searching for a place to sit, or a group to merge with where she wouldn’t draw too much attention to herself.

  Because of this party, those things might be possible now. She couldn’t go to London, but thanks to the dowager duchess and new duchess, the London gentlemen had come to her.

  She inhaled slowly, trying to sooth her frantic nerves.

  She searched for Georgie, her closest sister. Just as she was about to give up and retreat—there he was.

  He stood next to the hearth, elbow propped on the mantle, ankles crossed, smiling and at ease, more so than when she’d last seen him.

  Her feet rooted to the spot.

  An arm slipped through hers, and Violet, the new Duchess of Selbourne, filled her vision.

  “I know you’ve been hiding.”

  “I—” have. Blast it.

  “Come. I will reintroduce you, and you will see that these men are not so terrifying once you get to know them. The last house party was for Roderick’s benefit but this one is for you. Show them how lovely you are.”

  “’Tis easy for you to say.” Violet was beautiful and the sister-in-law to the Duke of Ablehill. She had every advantage Jeanie did not as well as beautiful blue eyes, shiny gold hair, and a bosom any woman would envy, unlike Jeanie’s slim frame.

  “They’re all the same. If you look past the fine clothes, you’ll see they’re all—”

  “Naked,” Josie said and looped her arm on Jeanie’s other side.

  Violet glared in admonishment. “I expect such talk from Bernie but not you, Josie.”

  “But ’tis true,” Josie said with a grin.

  “What have you been reading now? I shall have the library searched and removed of all inappropriate texts.”

  Josie scowled. “That’s not fair. I should have the same access to information that any gentleman has.”

  “I don’t disagree with you but please temper your tongue when expressing that information.”

  Josie rolled her eyes.

  “I expect the gentlemen to do the same and please tell me if they don’t,” Violet added.

  “I make no such promises,” Josie said.

  Jeanie relaxed. This was the sort of banter she lived with on a daily basis, and somehow it was comforting.

  Violet wagged her finger at Josie as they joined a group with the duke and two unknown gentlemen, none of which was Lord Luckfeld.

  The duke, Weirick, smiled warmly at his wife and welcomed the sisters. They’d known him all their lives, and while some might consider him terrifying with his scars and shaven head, he was still just Weirick to Jeanie. The same boy who took it upon himself to help mend a hole in their roof with his own hands, even when his father, the old duke forbade him. Jeanie was only a little girl at the time, but she could still picture him up on the roof. She’d had quite the infatuation for him that day. Luckily, she’d grown out of it.

  Weirick introduced them to the Earl of Selhorst and Mr. Denham.

  “A pleasure,” Jeanie murmured.

  “Likewise, I don’t believe we met at the last party,” Lord Selhorst said.

  “We did. Briefly,” Jeanie replied. Did none of the men remember meeting her before? Perhaps she should give up all hope of catching anyone’s attention and lend her talent for invisibility to espionage.

  She had the strangest urge to look over her shoulder, as if someone watched her. She ignored the strange feeling and tried to focus on Lord Selhorst. He was handsome with rich auburn hair and bright blue eyes, tall and broad shouldered but not ruggedly so, like Weirick.

  Mr. Denham had intriguing features with jet-black hair and brown eyes, but neither gentleman stole her breath, not like Lord Luckfeld. She didn’t know what she would do when she had to speak to him again. Her reaction to him was so powerful, she didn’t know if she could hide it, and how humiliating it would be to have him see how infatuated she was.

  And after only one kiss.

  Curse her foolish heart.

  She fought the urge to wiggle her shoulders as a tingle of awareness struck her right in the center of her back.

  How odd. She turned, expecting to find one of her sisters summoning her or staring at her, but no, it was him.

  Their eyes locked and her body went up in flame.

  He pushed away from the mantle and strode right to her, taking her hand and kissing the air above it. He nodded, and then his attention left her. Her breath whooshed from her.

  Was that it? Was he not even going to acknowledge her more than a brief greeting?

  She went through the rest of the afternoon and dinner wondering why he hadn’t spoken to
her, and why she couldn’t muster the nerve to speak to him.

  Nerve was not something she had an abundance of to begin with, but he was acting as though they’d never shared that moment on the terrace or maybe…

  Maybe she’d made a fool of herself the last time, and he was avoiding another awkward encounter with her.

  That night in her room, about to sleep alone for the first time ever, she stared at the bed, a behemoth cave of comfort with two rows of pillows and thick sapphire velvet curtains encircling it. The maid had left moments ago, after turning down the corner of a plush quilted coverlet and spritzing the pillows and sheets with lavender oil.

  Jeanie hugged herself, her plain cotton nightgown rough against her palms compared to the silky softness of those sheets.

  She hesitantly moved toward the bed, sliding her feet along the plush Persian rug. She’d never felt something so fine, like walking barefoot on thick moss. The fire crackled behind her, a stack of logs beside the hearth. The smell of beeswax candles filled the room. She touched the mattress, her hand shaking as her weight dipped into the softness, sinking into the feather mattress. She yanked her hand away.

  What was the matter with her? It was just a bed. A cloudlike, luxurious bed. She straightened her spine and dove into it, wrestling herself to the middle and laying there, looking up at the midnight canopy and the stars stitched into it. She climbed to her feet and tried to touch it, but she sank into the mattress, and she couldn’t reach the delicate stitching.

  What an excellent metaphor for my life.

  She dropped to her bottom and folded her legs.

  What do I do now?

  What is Georgie doing?

  Her sister was probably asleep. She never had an issue going to bed. Her chores exhausted her during the day while Jeanie, whose work mostly consisted of mending clothing over and over again, would often lie awake at night, her thoughts churning, the creaking of the house her only company.

  This comfy bed was not likely to change that, it seemed.

  Jeanie fell back against the pillows with a sigh. She sank into the mattress and immediately thought of quicksand.

  “Nope.” She jumped out of the bed. “It’s too soft,” she muttered.

  She walked to her hearth and sat in the chair there, a firmness much more comforting. But still, she couldn’t unwind.

  She closed her eyes and Lord Luckfeld’s face came to mind. She’d studied him all night, as inconspicuously as possible. He was different from before, less open, something about him less friendly.

  He was playing the consummate gentleman with all her sisters, but Jeanie could see it came with effort. Had anyone else noticed?

  She stood up, she was too infatuated, and worst of all, he probably hadn’t given her a second thought after that night.

  Here she was obsessing over him, when she should give her attention to someone who had talked to her today, like Lord Selhorst or Mr. Denham. Lord Selhorst was nice. He didn’t make her heart race or her stomach hop around like a deranged rabbit.

  And then this room, so opulent, so large and while not empty, it was too much space, and yet the four walls pressed in on her.

  She’d never been alone like this.

  Jeanie threw on her cloak and stepped into her slippers. She left the room, the cloying scent of bees wax staying in her nose as stopped in front of Georgie’s door. No light came from under the door, and when she pressed her ear to the panel, there was no sound from inside.

  In the cool quiet of the hall, she couldn’t make herself disturb her sister’s rest.

  Georgie had worked harder than all of them, taking on their father’s duties while he was away. And to show for it, she had nothing but her calloused fingers.

  Jeanie turned back toward her room, but at the threshold, she couldn’t cross.

  That cloud-like bed should have been welcoming, but instead she was frightened, only reminded of how different she was from that bed, these fine things, and most of all, a man like Lord Luckfeld.

  Had he ever felt like this? So out of place he wanted to crawl out of his skin?

  Had he ever longed for things he could not reach?

  Jeanie spun away from her door. She was going to walk this castle until her toes froze—not likely given all the priceless rugs—but she would do it until her legs gave out and her eyelids refused to stay open.

  Only then would her mind stop spinning and let her fall asleep.

  The darkness did not bother her. She felt invisible, a ghost moving through this world as an intangible visitor. She’d spent so many nights lying awake that the darkness was her friend, hiding her thoughts and her fears from her sisters.

  And also her dreams.

  They knew she fancied the idea of London society, of a life where they didn’t toil for every coin, but they didn’t really know why.

  It wasn’t because of wealth. Riches didn’t equate happiness. The obvious troubles of the old duke and dowager duchess made that evident. The deceased duke had everything he could ever want and need, and yet he chased perfection and beauty to the point that he’d willed his own son and heir to die rather than be scarred, for being less perfect than he was before.

  And it wasn’t for the parties. Teas, balls, Bond Street. She could read about these things in the paper. They sounded fine, but there was always an undercurrent of disincentive malice. Though it was expected from the tabloid papers they collected.

  What enchanted Jeanie above all else was the possibility.

  There was that word again.

  So many things were possible in London.

  Art, invention…love. A city where all walks of life made their home, and the opportunities were endless as long as one had the will to achieve it.

  Here in Northumberland, nothing ever changed.

  There were no possibilities, no opportunities to change her life.

  To be more than what she was.

  A poor gentlewoman, proficient with needle and thread.

  Jeanie reached the gallery, her eyes adjusting enough to allow her to see the pale faces of the Selbourne ancestors. She slowed, nodding to each one as she passed. She climbed the stairs to the next floor, when from the corner of her eye, a shadow moved.

  Jeanie darted to the wall, her heart jumping to her throat.

  She didn’t believe in ghosts. She pressed back, hoping to disappear into the shadows themselves as the light from a high window cast moonbeams onto the narrow stair that led to one of the towers.

  “There is no such things as ghosts,” she mouthed to herself.

  But that didn’t stop her pulse from reverberating in her ears. The hair on her arms stood up as she saw movement again, this time coming from the stairwell that glowed with moonlight. A shadow appeared, growing larger as it floated down the curving stairs.

  Jeanie bit her knuckle to keep from screaming as the black shape grew, and then a solid shape appeared around the curve of the stair. A man lit by silvery light.

  Jeanie held her breath.

  Lord Luckfeld?

  He stopped at the bottom, his face shrouded in darkness.

  Jeanie prayed the shadows concealed her. She hunched into herself, making her frame as small as possible.

  He ran a hand through his hair, a sign of agitation, but he said nothing. Then he turned and walked in the opposite direction toward the back stair.

  Jeanie held her breath until she couldn’t hear the barest hint of his retreat then exhaled, nearly collapsing with relief.

  She pressed the back of her hand to her brow and straightened, focusing on the stairs from which he’d come. She reoriented herself, frowning in the darkness. She must be facing the…south tower?

  She inched away from the wall, taking each step carefully as if at any moment she might step on an imaginary twig. She was now in view of the hall to the back stairs, but she could see nothing in the darkness, no movement and no sound. She took a deep breath and ascended the stairs.

  She shivered, the cold stone step
s permeating her knitted slippers. She trailed her hand along the wall, careful of each step lest she lose her balance and go tumbling down.

  The narrow stairs spiraled, and blindly she followed the curve of the tower until she reached the top. A ring of windows encircled the tower, filling the room with moonlight.

  She halted, stunned by the magic, the moon a pale orb in a clear, star-laden sky. She moved farther into the room, spinning slowly to take in the whole view. She could see in every direction, as if she were high above the castle nestled in the stars themselves.

  The small room had nothing but a stool and a tall, long-armed candelabra. The same kind they’d used during the ball.

  There was nothing else.

  What was he doing up here?

  Stargazing?

  She walked to the window, swallowing as she gripped the stone edge and peered through the glass.

  Something was bothering him. She just knew it deep in her bones.

  Something had changed or he had something heavy on his mind.

  She couldn’t claim she knew him, but she could tell that much. She wouldn’t be able to focus on what she was supposed to do at this party until she figured it out.

  Until she figured him out.

  She hugged herself, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill.

  A yawn overtook her, and Jeanie decided maybe it was time to try her bed again. She’d had enough wandering for one night and tomorrow she had a purpose.

  Chapter 4

  Luc stared intently into the mirror. His fingers moved out of habit, tucking, twisting, and folding his cravat until it was perfect. He adjusted his collar and then picked up the brush to meticulously groom his jacket. He set the brush down and stared at his reflection, pressing his cold fingertips to the shadows under his eyes. He didn't enjoy waking up early at country house parties, not when the burdens on his mind kept him up into the wee hours.

  Seeing Jeanette Marsden yesterday was like having a bucket of water dumped over his head. His reaction to her astounded him. He'd been dreaming of her for months now, reliving their kiss and more. He thought seeing her again in the flesh, in the soft creamy afternoon light of the queen’s drawing room, wouldn't affect him as it did.