April Seduction

by Merry Farmer

  “Is it?” Katya feigned innocence. “I’ve never found that to be true. Have you, Sir Christopher?”

  She glanced up at Christopher. The poor man’s eyes had gone wide, as though he’d been caught between a river in full flood and a pack of rampaging lions. “I have no idea, Lady Stanhope,” he said, then swallowed.

  Malcolm opened his mouth to make what was likely to be some other witty reply filled with innuendo, but his expression collapsed into a genuine scowl. “Oh, God,” he muttered, staring off across the hall. Immediately, he moved to take Cece’s arm. “It’s time for us to go,” he said curtly.

  “It is?” Cece asked. She glanced where her father was looking, and understanding instantly lit her face. “Ah. It is.”

  Katya turned to see what the fuss was. Her blood instantly froze in cold anger. At the other end of the hall, Lord Theodore Shayles had just made an entrance. The crowd had parted around him as he moved to intercept Alex and Marigold on their way out of the hall. Alex seemed to be holding his own, but Shayles was grinning like a wolf, which was never a good thing.

  “Come along, Cecelia,” Malcolm growled. “I don’t want you exposed to a pestilence like that.”

  Cecelia agreed with a nod, and she and Malcolm marched off toward one of the doors at the opposite end of the hall from Shayles. Katya’s heart sank, more because her game with Malcolm had come to an end than because of Shayles. She hated Shayles with a vicious passion, but a good half of that was because of all the wrongs the devil had done to Malcolm.

  “What’s Lord Shayles doing here?” Christopher asked.

  Katya dropped his arm and stepped away, moving to stand with her daughters now that she had no need to toy with Christopher. “He’s only here to gloat,” she said.

  “Is he?” Christopher frowned across the room. “I’ve never met the man. All I know is from the articles in The Times last year and the rumors I’ve heard.”

  “You’re not missing out by not knowing him,” Katya said. “The man is pure evil.”

  “He’s so evil he isn’t even intriguing,” Bianca said, tilting her chin up at an angle that matched Katya’s.

  “The man truly is one to be avoided,” Lavinia said in a voice laced with fear. She would know better than any of them. Shayles had arrived on her doorstep at Broadclyft Hall mere days after she and Armand had been married, and the trouble he had caused was still affecting them all.

  “Oh, dear.” Christopher stood straighter. “He’s coming this way.”

  Katya’s nerves bristled. Sure enough, Shayles had spotted them and was making his way across the hall. She had a split-second to decide whether to stay and fight or to take her daughters and run. Since the very idea of backing down from any threat a man presented left her cold, she straightened, squared her shoulders, and prepared for battle.

  “Lady Stanhope, you’re looking quite lovely this evening,” Shayles said as he reached them. “And your daughters are downright delectable.”

  “You look at them twice and I’ll have your testicles for Christmas ornaments,” Katya growled.

  Christopher flinched, staring at her with wide, offended eyes.

  Shayles caught his expression and chuckled. “It seems you have put off another conquest, Lady Stanhope.” He clicked his tongue. “How many times have I told you that a more delicate approach is needed before moving in for the kill?”

  Christopher blinked at Katya, as though seeing her in a new light. The overall effect made the poor man’s face look even more idiotic, but there was a sharpness of thought in the man’s eyes.

  Shayles didn’t see it. He continued to gloat and send Katya a look of victory as he offered Christopher his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Lord Theodore Shayles, at your service.”

  “Uh.” Christopher cleared his throat and stared at Shayles’s hand for a moment before taking it. “Christopher Dowland. That is, Sir Christopher Dowland, now that I’ve inherited.”

  “Inherited, you say?” Shayles’s eyes lit with avarice. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and presented Christopher with a black card. “Allow me to invite you to my club.”

  Natalia made a strangled noise, but Katya reached for her wrist and squeezed it to stop her from saying more or getting involved. She glanced around for a way to get her daughters out of the room and as far away from Shayles as possible.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long before reinforcements arrived.

  “Alone, are you, Shayles?” Peter deVere asked as he and Armand, Lavinia’s husband, strode deliberately over to join their group.

  “Where’s my erstwhile cousin?” Armand asked.

  Katya hid her interest in the answer to that question. Armand had a good point. Where was Lord Mark Gatwick? The man followed Shayles around like a shadow, though he rarely said much. And even though Lavinia had been convinced last autumn that Gatwick wasn’t all that he seemed, Katya wasn’t convinced the man’s conspicuous absence meant he’d seen the light and disassociated himself from Shayles.

  “Gatwick’s chasing after some ridiculous painting on the continent,” Shayles said, failing to hide his genuine irritation. “He claims not to think much of these Impressionists, but there’s some ridiculous woman painter, Cassatt, or something along those lines, whom he’s determined to acquire.”

  “Mary Cassatt?” Natalia brightened. “She’s American, but she lives in Paris. She paints—” Natalia’s words died on her lips as Shayles sent her an irritated scowl.

  “Yes, well, she’s the only woman I’ve ever known Gatwick to take an interest in,” Shayles said with a sneer. “Must be because of his American relations.”

  Katya had heard whispers of Gatwick’s relatives in the States, but only whispers.

  “Why are you bothering these ladies, Shayles?” Peter asked, moving to stand between Shayles and Katya’s daughters, his arms crossed.

  Shayles glared at him. “I’m simply being social. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Be social with our neighbors?”

  “You are no neighbor of mine,” Katya said. She turned to Bianca and Natalia. “Come along, girls. I think it’s about time we go home.”

  “I think you’re right, Mama,” Bianca agreed, sending Shayles a withering look.

  Shayles licked his lips, and if they’d been in a slightly less crowded arena, Katya was convinced he would have handled the unsightly bulge in his trousers as well just to infuriate her and throw Bianca off-guard. “Don’t let me be the one to break up a party of friends,” he said. “I’ll go.” He turned. “But you haven’t seen the last of me. Sir Christopher, would you care to walk with me?”

  “I…uh….” Christopher sent Katya a panicked look, but it wasn’t enough. Shayles steered him away, marching him across the hall.

  “I hope Dowland has enough sense to stay clear of Shayles’s machinations,” Armand growled once they were gone. “He needs money more now than ever, and if what I’ve heard is right, Dowland just inherited a mountain of it.”

  “He did,” Peter confirmed. “His estate isn’t far from Starcross Castle. Dowland has one of the most productive farms in Cornwall, and a high-producing mine to boot.”

  “He doesn’t look particularly bright,” Armand said.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Katya said.

  The conversation lulled as they were all lost in their own thoughts.

  Lavinia broke the silence a few moments later by saying, “Lord Gatwick is out of the country.” They all turned to her. Katya was surprised by the seriousness in her expression. “He said he wanted to be out of the country when we used the information he gave us to bring Lord Shayles down.”

  “Could this be the time?” Bianca asked.

  “I still don’t trust Gatwick,” Peter said.

  Katya kept her opinion to herself. She wasn’t certain if she trusted Gatwick either, but there certainly seemed to be a sense of frisson in the air. Malcolm had his contacts working on the information Gatwick had given Lavinia before Christm
as—information about the corrupt policemen who turned a blind eye to the salacious and illegal activity of Shayles’s club. The club was nothing more than an illegal brothel—one that specialized in dark, abusive practices.

  “Either way,” Katya said, clearing her throat to shake off the horrific memories the Black Strap Club raised in her, “I’m taking my girls home. Bianca, Natalia.”

  She started to go, leading her daughters behind her.

  “Katya, wait.” Peter stopped her.

  Katya turned to him in question. Peter reached into his pocket and took out a simple, folded piece of paper, which he handed to her. She opened it, read the hastily-scrawled words, and fought not to break into a smile. “Did you read it?” she asked Peter.

  “I was told not to,” he answered with a knowing grin.

  “Good.” Katya nodded, then faced her daughters. “Girls, will you be able to find your way home on your own? It seems I have an appointment to keep.”

  “I can take them,” Peter said, his grin even more pronounced.

  “Thank you.” Katya smiled, pretending innocence, even though Peter probably knew what she was up to. Of all her friends, he was the most perceptive. Of the men, at least. “Go straight to bed when you get home,” Katya admonished her girls. “We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “Do we get to come shopping with you and Cecelia?” Natalia asked, brightening.

  “If you behave yourselves, yes,” Katya said, then turned to go.

  “Just as long as you behave yourself too,” Peter chuckled as she started away.

  Katya glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Since when have you ever known me to behave?”

  The answer, of course, was never.

  Chapter 2

  It was late when Malcolm arrived home to Strathaven House, but his night was just beginning. As soon as his carriage stopped, he hopped down, turning to help Cecelia alight and make her way up the stairs of the stately, Georgian townhouse.

  “Thank you, Galston,” he nodded to his butler and gestured for Cece to go on ahead. As soon as she had turned the corner into the drawing room, he slid closer to Galston and murmured, “I’m expecting a guest.”

  “Understood, my lord,” Galston replied, his expression betraying nothing.

  Malcolm nodded to him again, then strode across the hall and into the drawing room. Cece had taken a seat on the sofa nearest the fireplace and tucked her feet up under her. How any woman managed to look so comfortable in such restrictive clothing was beyond him. Young people seemed to be made of rubber compared to his tired, old joints.

  “Shall I have Cook send a light supper up to your room?” Malcolm asked as casually as he could, inching toward the window that looked out on the square where his townhouse stood.

  “Don’t you want to have a bit to eat with me, Papa?” Cece asked. “We’ve so much to discuss after that session of parliament.”

  Malcolm parted the curtains, looking out onto empty, lamp-lit streets. It took him a moment to realize his daughter had addressed him. He let the curtains drop and turned to her. “It was a damned boring session and you know it,” he said.

  Cece didn’t flinch at his curt tone or his mild cursing. He’d raised her by himself, and she’d heard much worse. “There was some useful debate tonight,” she said. “Irish Home Rule seems closer than ever.”

  Malcolm snorted, crossing to the fireplace and tapping his hand impatiently against the mantle. “The Conservatives won’t let Ireland go without a fight, I can promise you that.”

  “Home Rule sounds like such a sensible option, though,” Cece said, leaning back and toying with a lock of her hair that had come loose from its fashionable style.

  She had the same honey-blonde hair as her mother. She had Tessa’s bright, blue eyes as well. If not for the stubborn set of her jaw and her feisty attitude—something most definitely inherited from him—he’d be tempted to wonder if Tessa had strayed.

  An old ache squeezed his heart, but he batted it away before it could take hold and make him melancholy. Tessa was gone, and she’d taken that part of his heart with her.

  “I’m not interested in Irish Home Rule,” he said, his tone sharp once more. He took his pocket-watch from his waistcoat, glanced at the time, and slipped the watch back into his pocket. The minutes were ticking by fast. “You should be in bed by now,” he told Cece with a frown.

  Cece, imp that she was, glanced up at him with a lopsided grin and eyes that weren’t fooled. “Are you expecting something, Papa?” she asked. “A visitor, perhaps?”

  “No,” Malcolm answered, a little too quickly. “It’s too late for company and you know it. You need your rest. You’ve a big week ahead of you.”

  “Yes, I do.” Cece’s face lit up, and she stood, crossing to join him at the fireplace. “I’m so excited and so nervous about it.”

  “Which is to be expected,” Malcolm said, though in truth, he knew nothing about young women being presented at court. All he knew was that the moment he’d been dreading for the past eighteen years, the moment his darling little girl became a woman in the eyes of society, was upon him.

  “I’m so grateful that Lady Stanhope has offered to sponsor me,” Cece went on, the devilish light back in her eyes.

  Malcolm’s face heated. “Katya is a good friend.”

  Cece’s grin was more lopsided than ever. “Of course she is.” She schooled her features into a perfect mask of innocence. “She’s been so kind to take me shopping and to make certain I have everything I need for my coming out. Why don’t you invite her to stay with us at Strathaven Glen for a while?”

  Malcolm laughed. “Katya hates the country, especially in Scotland.”

  “Does she?” Cece batted her eyelashes, overdoing the false innocence. “I think she would enjoy it in the right company.”

  Malcolm crossed his arms and stared at her. “Go to bed, Cece.”

  “What’s the rush?” she asked, mimicking his stance. Yes, she was his daughter, for good or for evil.

  “I’m your father, and I say it’s time for you to go to bed,” he said.

  “Lady Stanhope, Bianca, and Natalia are staying the night here on Friday anyhow so we can all travel to the palace together in the morning,” Cece continued to argue. “Why not invite them to stay longer?”

  “Because they already have a London residence,” he told her. “And Stanhope House is perfectly adequate.” He didn’t need to add that Katya kept a second apartment in St. John’s Woods for other purposes. He was beginning to see why as well. The longer it took Cece to go up to her room, the more of a risk of exposure he ran. Then again, it was fairly obvious he wasn’t fooling Cece one bit.

  “I think you and Lady Stanhope look dazzling together,” Cece went on, the teasing light in her eyes growing. “I’m not going to live here with you forever, you know. You might want to think about bringing another woman into your life.”

  If she’d said the same thing five years before, he would have taken it as the not-so-subtle hint that it was. Under the circumstances, however, her words tugged at his heartstrings. “You’ll always be my little girl,” he said, cradling her sweet face in his hand. “No matter how old and mischievous you get.” He bent to kiss her cheek, his throat tightening with sentimentality that would cause his friends to roar with laughter if they could see it.

  When he straightened, Cece’s eyes were glassy with emotion of her own. That only brought him closer to the edge of doing something unmanly. He sniffed, cleared his throat, and stood straighter, fighting to hide how much he wanted to pull his daughter into his arms and never let her go. If he could hold back the hands of time for just a little while longer, freeze the two of them in a moment where nothing would change and it would be the two of them against the world forever, he would. But time was merciless, and even the sweetest of children flowered into adulthood.

  He cleared his throat again and frowned. “Now, go to your room. I want you fresh and lively as you face everything c
oming this week.”

  “You want to get rid of me for your own, nefarious reasons,” she countered, picking up her skirts and heading away from the fireplace. “I’ll go,” she fired over her shoulder as she reached the door. “But you don’t have me fooled, Papa. Not for one moment.” She winked at him before sailing through the doorway. A moment later, he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

  He turned to stare into the fire, swallowing the lump in his throat. Love had never come easy for Malcolm, much less affection. But raising a daughter had broken open things inside of him that he never thought anyone would be able to crack. Not after all he’d been through. And Cece was right. He wasn’t sure what he would do once she married and started a family of her own. Thinking about it made him feel old in a way nothing else could.

  “Well, this is hardly the Casanova I expected to find, based on this note.”

  Malcolm jerked straight and turned away from the fireplace to find Katya standing in the doorway, holding his note, a sly grin adding heat to her striking features. His aching heart leapt in his chest, renewing his energy. He launched into action, striding across the room to her.

  “Would you prefer something more like this?” he asked before taking her in his arms and kissing her with searing passion. He didn’t stop there. He pivoted with her in his arms, pressing her back against the doorframe and leaning his body into hers. The bulk of her bustle served to thrust her hips forward, and he wedged himself between her legs, certain she could feel the evidence of what one sultry look from her did to him.

  A whisper of relief washed through him as she responded to his brutish advances with equal passion. She hummed low in her throat as their mouths met, teasing and tasting, and raked her fingers through his hair. She lifted one knee just enough to signal for him to grab her leg and hike it over his hip as best he could with her restrictive skirts. He broke away from her mouth and trailed kisses down the lithe line of her neck to the low scoop of her bodice. She sighed in encouragement, and he cupped her breast, pushing it up to meet his hungry mouth. The temptation to lift her skirts, loosen his trousers, and take her right there in the hall was almost too much to resist, and if they’d been ten years younger, he would have tried it.