by Nan Ryan
Standing directly beneath the chandelier in the center of the black-and-white-marble-floored foyer, Sutton Vane began taking the final steps in his well-planned, unemotional seduction of Laurette Howard Tigart.
Overwhelmed by his smooth, slow, sensual assault, Laurette felt herself losing control, knew what was going to happen if she was not careful. Suddenly she was uneasy again. She felt as if she were in imminent danger. All at once his very image was both evil and erotic. Powerfully provocative. This man whose kisses she craved was, she feared, quite capable of making her lose her head, of behaving irresponsibly. Of causing her to surrender to his dark, irresistible sexuality. Should that happen, she would surely suffer for her unwise indiscretion.
“The pages burn as Nan Ryan works her magic…This is vintage Nan Ryan: sensual, steamy, titillating.”
—Romantic Times on The Seduction of Ellen
Also available from MIRA Books and Nan Ryan
THE SEDUCTION OF ELLEN
THE COUNTESS MISBEHAVES
WANTING YOU
NAUGHTY MARIETTA
This book is for that bubbly, brash, bouncy, brainy, beguiling blond bombshell Katherine Orr.
K.O., you’re O.K.
Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Two
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The door closed quietly behind her.
The only sound she heard was that of a crackling fire. Frowning now, she anxiously stepped into the drawing room where a fire blazed in the grate and a dark, totally naked man sat on the floor before the dancing flames. He sipped brandy from a crystal snifter.
The man looked up, smiled disarmingly, and raising his brandy said, “Welcome home.”
The sudden, unexpected sight of him caused her heart to miss a beat or two. Foolishly longing to throw herself into his arms and press kisses all over his handsome face, she glared angrily at him. “How did you get into this house? I always keep the doors locked and—”
“I have a key,” he said with no apology.
Her eyes widened. “You have a…? You’ve no right to have a key to—”
“Ah, but I do,” he corrected her. “I own this house.”
She shot him a wilting look and shook her head. “For your information, a large company owns this house now. The Bay Minette Corporation.” He nodded knowingly. Flabbergasted, she swallowed hard, then snapped, “Just what do you think you’re doing without any clothes?”
“My clothes were wet,” he replied, “as are yours.”
Her chin elevated pugnaciously, she quickly shrugged out of her long, sleet-dampened cape and tossed it over his lap as she ordered, “Get dressed and get out!”
To which he calmly replied, “Get undressed and get down here.”
Insulted, she said, “You are an arrogant bastard and if you do not vacate the premises at once, I shall summon the authorities!”
He tossed aside the cape she had thrown over him and rose agilely to his feet. He waited a couple of heartbeats before making another move and she realized that he was giving her the opportunity to turn and flee if she so desired. She strongly considered it.
But how could she leave when he stood gloriously naked before her, his tall lean body, burnished by the firelight, a study in male perfection.
When she didn’t move, he reached out and took her in his arms, drawing her against his frame. At first she tried to free herself, but his will was stronger than hers. He kissed her then, and continued kissing her until she was short of breath and her heart was beating rapidly in her own ears.
In minutes they sank weakly to their knees before the fire and continued to kiss each other ardently, hungrily. When finally, after at least a dozen heated, probing kisses, he took his lips from hers, he gently cupped her flushed face in his tanned hands and said, “I cannot wait another minute to make love to you.”
“No.” Her inborn spirit rose and she declared hotly, “No. You can’t just wander in and out of my life and expect me to—”
“There was a very good reason for my absence,” he said.
“Fine! I’d like to hear it.”
“As soon as we’ve made love,” he replied as he bent and pressed his lips to her exposed throat. She felt the flick of his tongue against her flesh and it made her gasp.
Trying very hard to keep her wits about her, she said, “Don’t. Stop it. Either you tell me why you—”
But his masterful lips silenced her and she soon surrendered to the searing passion he had aroused in her. Within seconds she was as naked as he and glad that she was.
While sleet tapped against the windowpanes and the winter darkness engulfed the river city, he stretched out on his back and drew her to lie atop him.
The next few minutes were spent in arousing sexual play as he slid her slender body sensuously against his own, pressing her soft, full breasts into the crisp, black hair that covered his chest. He kissed her, caressed her and murmured promises of forbidden sexual pleasure, promises that she knew he was quite capable of keeping.
Soon he switched their positions, easing her over onto her back in front of the snapping fire. His dark, chiseled face and wide gleaming shoulders looming just above, he moved so that his slim hips were between her pale, parted thighs. He slid slowly down and, with a hand between their bodies, carefully positioned himself so that only the smooth, hot tip of his throbbing erection was inside her.
It was enough to instantly arouse her to the boiling point.
She looked anxiously up at him and watched as his lips languidly lowered to meet hers. It was a slow, sensual kiss of such potency that she felt as if she were already a part of him. At last his lips left hers. He lifted his dark head and, looking directly into her eyes, eased his hard male flesh up inside her. She sighed with pleasure and gave herself completely to him.
For the next half hour he made love to her the way he knew she liked it. His weight supported on stiffened forearms, he watched her beautiful face change expressions as he slid almost all the way in, then pulled out, stopping when, once again, only the tip of his blood-filled erection was inside her.
He loved to hear the kittenish whimper she sometimes made when she wanted him to thrust forcefully into her; her sweet, pliant body begged for all he could give her, her dark, sparkling eyes glazed with lust. And then after the whimper, she usually made a deep sigh of gratitude as he penetrated fully.
Generally, she flung both her arms and her legs outward as she enjoyed the incredible pleasure of his sexual torment.
Not this time.
Not now.
She gripped his biceps so tightly her nails cut into his flesh and frantically she wrapped her legs around his back to draw him to her.
Her message was clear.
She desperately wanted to keep him as close as possible, wanted him to stay buried deep inside her, wanted him to never leave her. Which was exactly how he wanted her to feel.
Her eyes slid closed with bliss and she missed his faint smile of triumph. She had no idea she had once again played right into his hands.
He was well pleased. Everything was going according to plan. Soon, within weeks or perhaps a couple of months, she would be hopelessly in love with him, would belong to him, body and soul. And then…
He ground his even white teeth and snapped himself back to the moment at hand. He flexed his firm buttocks and drove deeply into her. She sighed with building ecstasy. He changed the tempo of his love-making, thrust more seekingly until he totally possessed her. She responded with a wild sweetness that gave him the same kind of pleasure he was giving to her.
The lovemaking was incredible. Their shared orgasm wrenching. But when at last both were satiated and drowsy, she said, “I’m still angry with you. You should just leave now. Go home.”
Never raising his dark head from where it rested comfortably on her breasts, he said, “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” she said as she made a halfhearted attempt to rise.
He tightened an arm across her waist and accused, “You’re behaving like a child.”
“What would you know about being a child?” was her retort.
“Even I was a child once,” he said with a yawn. “And I remember my childhood well.”
PART ONE
One
Mobile, Alabama
Tuesday, July 23, 1844
It was a still, muggy day in the southern port city of Mobile. The streets were near deserted as the hour of 3:00 p.m. approached, bringing with it the hottest part of the afternoon. Gentlemen in offices along Water Street had long since shed their frock coats and loosened their cravats. More than one businessman, face shiny with perspiration, dozed in his studded, high-back leather chair, his well-shod feet resting atop his mahogany desk.
The ladies of the city, having anticipated the oppressive mid-afternoon heat, had done their errands and shopping early and were now secluded in the relative comfort of their homes. Many had retired to their bed chambers. There they had pulled the heavy drapes against the scalding sun, disrobed down to their underclothing and would attempt to take a nap.
In the bedroom of an eight-columned mansion on peaceful, oak-shaded Dauphin Street, a young woman, drenched with perspiration and writhing in agony, had chosen the blistering hot July day to give birth to her first child.
When the blond and very pregnant Marion Howard had awakened that morning with a nagging backache and the beginning hints of contractions, she had known that her child was not going to wait much longer to enter the world. The baby was not due for another two weeks, but Marion felt certain labor was beginning. Despite her discomfort, she smiled dreamily and gazed at her sleeping husband. It was early morning—not yet 7:00 a.m. She would let him rest. She would, she decided, wait at least an hour before she awakened him.
Marion waited less than five minutes.
Frightened when a stab of pain shot through her lower belly, she laid a hand on her husband’s bare shoulder. He came instantly awake. He saw the fear in her large, dark eyes and the discomfort etched on her beautiful face.
Quickly sitting up, he said, “My God, it’s time. You’re going to have the baby!”
“I believe so, my love,” she said, determined that she would remain brave and silent throughout the coming ordeal.
“I’ll send Daniel after Dr. Ledette,” said the excited T. Hershel Howard, bounding out of bed and anxiously stepping into his trousers. “Ring for Delia, darling! Hurry, sweetheart, the baby may be here any minute.”
The statement made Marion laugh. “T.H.,” she said, opening her arms wide, “come here, please.”
His brow furrowed with concern, the slim, sandy-haired man hurried to his wife. Taking a seat on the bed facing her, he asked anxiously, “What is it? Is the baby already coming?”
“No. Not yet,” she assured her worried husband as she took one of his hands in both of hers and placed it gently atop her swollen belly. “But soon. Now, T.H., I want you to promise me something.”
“Anything, darling. Name it and it’s done,” he said, lightly caressing the smooth skin of her belly.
“Promise me you won’t behave foolishly today,” she said in her most honeyed voice, while she reached up and stroked his unshaven jaw.
T. Hershel Howard frowned, taken aback. Defensively, he asked, “Have you ever seen me behave foolishly, Marion?”
Smiling at the dear, handsome man whom she knew absolutely adored her, Marion reminded him, “Only on those rare occasions when I was sick and you were worried.” Remembering, he nodded sheepishly. She continued, “Today there is nothing to worry about, T.H. I am young, healthy, rested and oh so eager to deliver our firstborn.” She tilted her head to one side on the feather pillow and confided, “I believe a lot of women carry on over the horrible pain of childbirth to get attention and sympathy. I’ll make you proud, darling. I fully intend to breeze through this delivery without a complaint or a whimper. Now kiss me.”
“Oh, dear God, nooo,” groaned Marion as the tall clock in the corridor downstairs struck the hour of 3:00 p.m. Another deep, painful contraction racked her tired, delicate body. “I can’t stand it, I can’t stand it,” she sobbed loudly, tears spilling down her hot cheeks.
Naked now, her body shiny with perspiration from head to toe, her blond hair lying in damp, matted curls around her stricken face, she lay in the middle of her sweat-dampened bed. Her legs spread, she attempted to follow the stern orders of her attending physician, the portly, white-haired Dr. Gerald Ledette, and the gentle coaxing of her loyal personal maid, Delia.
“You push just as hard as you can now, sweet-ums,” the big black woman urged. “Won’t be much longer, then all the pain will be gone.”
As she spoke, Delia pressed a damp cloth to Marion’s forehead and throat and held her frightened mistress’s hand. Two younger servants scurried about, doing the doctor’s bidding, bringing basins of hot water and clean white towels.
Outside the room, T.H. paced nervously, stopping every few minutes to pound on the door and ask about his wife. He had intended to stay by Marion’s side throughout—to watch his son being born—but Dr. Ledette had soon ordered him out, saying he was in the way and doing Marion no good. T.H. was secretly glad that the doctor had made him leave. To see his beloved lying there, frightened, helpless and in such obvious agony, was more than he could bear.
His fists and teeth clenched as he paced, T.H. cursed himself for making Marion pregnant. He was responsible for the terrible pain she was enduring. It was all his fault. He had wanted a son. How ungodly selfish of him! How thoughtless and uncaring. He didn’t need a son. Or a daughter. He didn’t need anyone but his precious Marion and now he might well lose her.
Something must surely have gone terribly wrong for her to be suffering for so long. Her wrenching labor had lasted for seven long hours now and still she could not expel the child. How much more could such an exhausted, fragile woman endure?
T.H. stopped abruptly as another loud, keening wail came from beyond the closed bedroom door. He clamped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes tightly, knowing that his wife was enduring yet another painful, tearing contraction. At the same time the sound of faint laughter caught his attention. He took his hands from his ears and made a face. He had completely forgotten that guests filled the downstairs rooms.
Earlier in the day, he had sent a quartet of servants to the homes of his good friends, inviting them to the Dauphin Street mansion where a miracle was about to take place.
Colonel Ge
orge P. Ivy and his wife, Martha, had arrived first, coming from their home in the Oakleigh Garden district. The childless, middle-aged couple said they wouldn’t have missed this event for the world. Shortly after the Ivys’ carriage had pulled into the drive, the Adairs—prominent attorney Paul Adair, his wife Melba and their twelve-year-old daughter, Lydia—had shown up. Melba had brought a gigantic bouquet of delicate pink roses that had come from her own gardens, which were considered the most beautiful gardens in Mobile.
Eminent Springhill resident, Judge Noble Parlange and his wife, Lena, also attended. The Parlanges had just returned from South Carolina where their only son’s wife had given birth to twin girls in early June. They were joined by the Faradays, the Pirrilliats, the Caldwells and, of course, the Douglas Dasheroons.
A buffet had been laid out in the high-ceilinged dining room where the gleaming cherrywood sideboard and long matching table now held a wide variety of delicacies for the visitors.
In one of the mansion’s drawing rooms, the gentlemen, most of whom were standing, spoke of the cotton market, sugar production and Thoroughbred horse racing. In the other drawing room, directly across the wide, marble-floored vestibule, their wives were seated on brocade sofas and velvet chairs, reliving the births of their own dear children.
For some it had been a long time. For others, like dark-haired Carrie Dasheroon, who lived with her husband Douglas directly across Dauphin Street from the Howards, it had been only one short year to the day.
The child, their dark-curled little boy with his olive skin and deep blue eyes, had just now climbed down off his mother’s lap to go in search of his father. As Carrie watched her adorable son in his short white trousers and starched white shirt make his unsteady way past the smiling ladies who reached out to touch him, to tousle his hair, her heart swelled with maternal pride.
Carrie thought Ladd was the prettiest, sweetest little boy in the whole wide world. She marveled every time she looked at him, almost unable to believe that such a perfect child actually belonged to her. From the minute Ladd had opened his eyes, he had been a constant joy. So beautiful and bright and affectionate and curious.
