A Season of Seduction

by Jennifer Haymore

  Drawing on the gloves the butler had just handed him, Jack glanced at the Earl of Stratford. “Everything in place?”

  Stratford nodded, then cocked a blond brow. “I feel it imperative to ask you one final time: Are you certain about this course? I am not personally acquainted with the woman, but her family is formidable. If they were to discover that you planned it—”

  Jack raised his hand. “Easy, man. No one else knows. No one will ever know.”

  Stratford was the only man in London he trusted with his plan. Jack had returned three months ago after a twelve-year absence from England to discover most of his childhood acquaintances had matured into weak, foppish creatures. He’d met the earl one night at a tavern on the Strand and discovered he was neither.

  In the past weeks, Jack had learned a little of the man’s past. Like Jack, the earl had suffered a great loss. That experience had done much to form the man he was today. He was well known as a profligate rake, immoral and debauched. He was the kind of man the mamas of the ton cautioned their innocent daughters against.

  Despite the abundant warnings against him, however, with his devil-may-care indifference, his stylish good looks, his sandy blond hair several shades lighter than Jack’s, and his pugilist’s build, Stratford managed to lure every female that came within his proximity. The earl managed his reputation with a devilish glint in his blue eyes and a carefree smile. If Jack hadn’t been accustomed to such feelings himself, he never would have recognized the bone-deep misery and weariness within his friend.

  The two men walked through the front door of the earl’s townhouse and into St. James’s Square. The sun streamed through a thick haze, and leaves and rubbish tumbled down the street, propelled by a stiff breeze. The wind had whipped away the sooty smells of the city, leaving the crisp scent of the late autumn air in its wake.

  Staring over the windswept square, Jack tugged at the black woolen lapels of his coat, pulling it more tightly about him. Two carriages rattled past, followed by several men on horseback and a milk cart. He glanced at his friend, who had paused at the top of the stairs to button his stylish dark gray topcoat.

  “I need this,” he said, just loudly enough for the earl to hear over the sounds of the street.

  Stratford paused, his hand on the stair rail. An amethyst ring winked at Jack from the earl’s fourth finger. “I know.”

  Jack spoke flatly. “It is the only way. I haven’t much time. I’ll not run from England with my tail between my legs.”

  “Of course.” Stratford’s tone was mild, but he gazed at him from beneath the brim of his hat, his blue eyes probing. “I’d choose a different course. But I am not you.”

  “No,” Jack agreed, his voice tight. “You are not.”

  The earl shuddered, the stiffness in his shoulders evaporated, and he descended the remaining two steps with easy grace. “I possess no desire to be shackled to anyone. Ever.”

  Neither had Jack. Not until he’d seen Lady Rebecca—Becky. He’d first glimpsed her six weeks ago at the British Museum. He’d followed her at a distance, observed how she’d clutched her arm to her chest as she studied the artifacts in studious silence while her companions gossiped and chatted amongst themselves. A part of him had softened. Standing apart from the others, she looked fragile and distant. She was beautiful, delicate, seraphic. But something about her, some dark edge he couldn’t quite place his finger on, reminded him of himself.

  In the ensuing days, he’d learned she was the widowed sister of the eccentric Duke of Calton. At the tender age of eighteen, she’d lost her husband and then she’d injured her arm badly in a carriage accident, which explained the way she’d guarded it so carefully at the museum. Though four years had passed since the accident and the death of her husband, her family reputedly hovered over her and protected her virtue as though she were a virgin debutante.

  As Jack learned more about her, understanding dawned. She was the answer to his dilemma.

  He’d discovered that Cecelia, Lady Devore, was a bosom friend of his target. Fortunately for him, the lady had been one of Stratford’s conquests, and they remained on civil terms. Stratford had arranged an introduction, and upon meeting Jack and hearing of his interest in Lady Rebecca firsthand, Lady Devore’s cool, cunning gaze had swept over him, and she’d agreed to discuss the prospect of presenting him to Lady Rebecca.

  The next day Lady Devore sent a note naming a date, time, and place—a room in a small, elegant, but unassuming hotel near the Strand.

  He’d seen Lady Rebecca five times. Lady Devore had chaperoned the first meeting, but they’d met alone since. They’d dined, they’d played chess, they’d talked late into the night. She had played the pianoforte for him while he’d watched raptly, his body hardening at the way her teeth grazed over her lower lip as she focused on the notes.

  He was tired of being teased. He was tired of shaving through her layers of shyness. He knew she wanted him—he witnessed it when her eyes followed him across a room, when her breath caught as his fingertips grazed her cheek. He’d kissed her two nights ago, and she’d responded with breathless passion.

  She was ready.

  More important, he was running out of time. He would be married—or dead—before Christmas.

  Tonight would seal their future.

  Tonight would be the first night of the rest of his life with Lady Rebecca Fisk.

  Becky took the coachman’s hand and stepped out of the carriage, drawing her hooded, fur-trimmed cape close against the chill. She stared at the edifice of the hotel as Cecelia slid out and came to stand beside her.

  The unremarkable façade of Sheffield’s Hotel was painted a somber gray to complement the slate of the sky it stood beneath on this chilly November afternoon. Behind the façade, however, stood a stately place, with common rooms on the ground floor and twenty well-appointed and expansive guest chambers on the floors above. Cecelia had advised Becky to take a suite of two rooms on the top floor at the end of the corridor. The door to the suite opened to a sitting room containing a pianoforte, a marble hearth, and elegant French furniture. Double doors in the back of the room led into a bedchamber Becky had never entered. She’d have the opportunity tonight—although she knew it was more likely she’d have eyes only for Jack Fulton rather than the bedroom décor.

  Cecelia squeezed her hand. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” Deliberately, she added a steel edge to the timbre of her voice. “Yes, I am.”

  She wanted this to happen tonight. More than she could adequately convey to Cecelia. Even though she knew Cecelia would understand.

  “Let’s go, then.”

  Cecelia pulled her bonnet low on her brow, and Becky drew the hood of her cape over her head. They walked in side by side. The hotelier, Mr. Sheffield, stood at the door as if he’d spent all day waiting for them to appear. He bestowed a friendly, guileless smile on them both.

  “Ah, Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. James. How lovely to see you again.”

  They’d given him false names. Cecelia had explained she always used her maiden name when she engaged in trysts outside her own home. Her maiden name was a common one, and though she was a member of the aristocracy and hardly invisible, it did offer some measure of anonymity. Becky’s maiden name was James, an even more common name, so she had followed Cecelia’s lead.

  Both ladies offered their greetings to Mr. Sheffield, Becky without meeting the man’s eyes. This was very awkward for her, because she was certain Mr. Sheffield knew that she’d reserved his finest suite to meet in secret with a man. Yet, whenever she did chance to glance at him, she saw only graciousness. There was no judgment in his expression.

  She didn’t understand his reaction—it was not one she’d have expected from anyone, even someone she was paying.

  Mr. Sheffield led them into his tiny but tasteful and well-appointed office. The whole downstairs level of the hotel smelled of coffee, tobacco, and nutmeg, but most of the other rooms were larger, and space diffused the scents.
Still, it wasn’t an unpleasant combination, though it was one that struck Becky as entirely masculine. It didn’t come as a surprise, either, since the hotel appeared to cater mostly to wealthy merchants in London for business.

  Mr. Sheffield turned to a strip of wood lined with keys hanging on pegs. “I’ve had the rooms cleaned especially for you tonight, Mrs. James. There is a buffet of selected cheeses, breads, and fruits, and the bottles of spirits you requested await you.” He paused. “And, of course, your guest has already arrived.”

  In an instant, burning heat suffused her face. “Thank you, Mr. Sheffield.”

  He pressed the key into her hand, and she closed her fingers around it and turned away to his hopes that she had a very nice evening.

  Cecelia chuckled as they turned down the passage. “You’re adorable.”

  Becky’s blush deepened, and she choked out, “Adorable?”

  “How flushed and flustered you become every time we come here. As if Mr. Sheffield doesn’t deal with this kind of thing every single day.”

  “Is that why he doesn’t judge?” Becky murmured, wondering whether all those men she saw in the corridors and common rooms weren’t here on business at all, but to engage in torrid affairs with their mistresses.

  “Of course it is. You pay him well, you don’t destroy his property, and you’re respectful. What right has he to judge?”

  “He knows what I am doing? Why I am here?”

  “Of course he does.”

  Becky sighed as they mounted the stairs. Truly, the world was much different from how it had been presented to her when she was younger. She had always been taught that there were certain moral laws everyone abided by and everyone upheld. There was right and wrong, good and bad. In her marriage, she’d seen true evil, and in her family she’d seen true good. But so many other actions and thoughts blurred in the center of the spectrum.

  “People are so complicated,” she murmured as they stepped onto the landing of the first floor and turned the corner to mount the second set of stairs.

  “That they are,” Cecelia agreed.

  “Deeds are complicated, too.”

  Cecelia was quiet for a moment. “Yes,” she finally said. “That’s also true.”

  The strong, cloying scent of ambergris and carnations heralded the approach of another lady. The swish of skirts preceded the large woman as she bustled toward them. Startled, Becky looked up and met a set of heavy, dark-ringed hazel eyes. The woman stared at her for a long moment, and a flash of recognition jolted through Becky.

  The woman turned to Cecelia. “Excuse me,” she said in a haughty voice. She twisted her skirts out of their way and continued her progression down the stairs.

  By the time she disappeared, Becky and Cecelia were at the landing. Becky paused, gripping the top of the stair rail. “I know her,” she whispered.

  Cecelia frowned. “Really?”

  “That was Lady Borrill. Her husband sits in Parliament with my cousin Tristan. They’re friends. I knew they’d been staying at a hotel while their townhouse was being refurbished, but I didn’t know it was this one.”

  Cecelia glanced back down the stairs. “Well, she didn’t seem to know you.”

  How could she not? Becky had met Lady Borrill several times. It was certainly true that she had never struck Becky as the most intelligent woman of her acquaintance, but Lady and Lord Borrill had even come to visit Calton House for a month the winter before Becky had come to Town for her Season.

  “She just gave me the cut direct,” Becky whispered.

  Cecelia gave her a dark look. “You cannot know that. More likely she simply didn’t remember you.”

  “I… don’t think so. Oh, Cecelia, she must know what I’m doing here.”

  “Of course she doesn’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Even though Becky kept her voice quiet, her words emerged in a low wail. “I’m at a hotel in town, when she knows full well I live at my brother’s house. Why else could I possibly be here?”

  “You are with me,” Cecelia explained patiently. “She doesn’t know anything about me. The first assumption, of course, would be that you are here to visit me.”

  Becky closed her eyes. She clenched and unclenched her fists, deliberately releasing her tension. Lady Borrill truly had no reason to cut her. Surely she hadn’t known her, in her dark cloak with her covered hair. If she had recognized Becky, of course she would have stopped to inquire after her family’s health.

  She was being ridiculous. “You’re right. I suppose I’m just on edge.”

  “Perfectly natural.” Cecelia’s mouth relaxed into a smile. “Come.” She held out her hand. Becky took it, and Cecelia’s tight squeeze reassured her even more as they walked down the corridor.

  “I envy you,” Cecelia said in a near whisper.

  Becky raised her eyebrows. “Why?”

  Cecelia sighed. “There’s nothing quite like the first time…”

  “But… it won’t be my first time.”

  A real grin split Cecelia’s face. “Oh, but you don’t understand, my dear. There is a physical first time, which you’ve already experienced, and a visceral first time, which I think is what you have in store tonight.”

  Becky shook her head and released a nervous chuckle. “I don’t think so.” She’d enjoyed making love with William. As fleeting as those moments were, and as abruptly as they’d ended, she’d taken true pleasure from the experience. Despite the horror of what had happened afterward, there was no sense denying it.

  Cecelia just smiled knowingly. They’d reached the end of the corridor and stopped before the tall, white-painted door that led to the suite.

  With a final squeeze of her hand, Cecelia dropped it. “I’ll leave you here, Becky. My coachman will come round for you at two o’clock.”

  Becky leaned forward and kissed her friend’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  Cecelia’s laugh tinkled pleasantly, reminding Becky of a tiny waterfall. “It is my pleasure. I know you will have a perfectly lovely time.”

  She glided down the hall, her heels clicking over the wooden floor. Becky stood staring at the door until she couldn’t hear the sound of Cecelia’s footsteps anymore. Then she took a deep breath, thrust the key into the lock, and turned it.

  Chapter Two

  At the sound of the door handle, Jack turned from the crystal decanters at the sidebar, a tumbler of brandy in his hand.

  Lady Rebecca closed the door and glided in, her steps whispering over the dark gray and blue swirls of the carpet. She reminded him of the Queen of Winter, icy perfection, petite, sleek, and flawless. Her behavior was aristocratic, reserved, her demeanor stiff and chilly, at times downright cold.

  A smile twitched at the edges of his lips. He’d watched her melt, turn warm and soft, and bloom like the spring. His goal was to see that happen again tonight, and Providence willing, many more times in the days to come.

  After acknowledging him with a nod, she stripped off her cloak, turned, and hung it on the gilded coat rack that stood beside the door.

  His pulse had leapt to his neck when she’d entered, and now it sped. He clutched the glass of spirits and froze as every nerve in his body spun in somersaults.

  She wore a diaphanous gown of gauze, reminiscent of the turn-of-century styles of France rather than the stiff, thick fabrics of today’s fashions. It clung to her feminine shape and molded her into an Aphrodite. The neckline swooped low, revealing the plump top curves of her breasts, and a fine braided gold rope was belted just below, gathering the fabric to draw attention to her décolletage and hint at the dark shadows of her nipples. The skirts hugged the subtle flare of her hips and revealed an outline of the willowy legs beneath. She stood there, breathless, like a beautiful offering.

  She trusted him, he realized with a jolt. She trusted him not to hurt her.

  A dagger point of guilt sliced through all the masculine cravings roaring through him and pricked at his soul.

  Damn it. Ther
e was no other way. He took a steadying breath.

  “Do you like it?” The melody of her voice chased away his guilt, and his gaze snapped to her face.

  “I do,” he murmured. “Very much.”

  Some of her stiffness receded. “I’m glad.”

  He turned back to the sidebar and retrieved the glass he’d poured for her. “Sherry?”

  She took it with a grateful smile, wrapping her pale, delicate fingers around the glass. “Thank you.”

  He followed her to the silver sofa at the center of the room and waited until she settled on the sleek cushions and took a sip of her drink before lowering himself beside her.

  This was where he’d kissed her the night before last. He could see the memory of it in the depths of her gaze. She possessed the most fascinating pair of eyes he had ever seen. Sometimes a dark, midnight blue, other times—like now—the deepest indigo.

  The need to take her mouth again burned through him, and his body hardened in anticipation. He schooled himself to temperance, however. Tonight was special. He couldn’t botch this.

  For a long moment he stared at her. Then he tossed back his brandy and set the tumbler on the side table.

  Reaching out, he clasped the back of her pale neck and drew her to him. She came without resistance, with a sigh—a near desperate sound—escaping her lips.

  He pulled her close, closer, until their lips met in a touch that lit the fuse running through his veins.

  Her lips were like rose petals. So soft, so enticing. Delicate and sweet.

  He held her there. Closing his eyes, he breathed in flowers and spring. Proof that she had already begun to thaw. Their noses bumped as he brushed his lips over hers. She held still, waiting, her skin warming, anticipation humming over her flesh.

  “I could stay here all night,” he murmured against her mouth. “Right here.”

  Again, he bussed her lips, a light graze. He firmed his grasp on her neck, keeping her steady, and touched his tongue to her upper lip, rewarding himself with the tiniest taste of her.