The Seducer

by Madeline Hunter

  A snickering laugh greeted his outrage. It sputtered into coughs as Jonathan dropped into a chair and doubled over.

  “Dupré, you are such an ass.” He barely got the words out as the coughs and laughter racked his body. “We abducted the man’s wife, you fool. Be glad you are still alive. You will probably write your next treatise from a prison cell.”

  Prison?

  “Do not swoon on me, Dupré. I have no plans for you,” St. John said. “Adrian, will you see to them? Diane is waiting for me, to learn what transpired with the marquess.”

  After St. John left, Gustave turned on his secretary. “I am very disappointed in you.”

  “He told me everything,” Adrian said coldly. “I know about your old history with Tyndale, and how you got that library. So I know how you came by that proof that bears your name.”

  “You would never—” But he might. St. John probably would. There would be those who had always been suspicious, who would spread the rumor.

  Gustave had never felt so helpless in his life. Not only his fortune but his reputation was destroyed.

  “We are caught, Dupré,” Jonathan said. “You are ruined, as I was. Well, it could have been worse for us. After all, Tyndale is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  “Mmm.”

  He was cornered. Doomed. “I may as well shoot myself. I haven’t a franc left.”

  “That is not entirely true,” Adrian said. “There is a shed in Southwark full of metal. Those piles contain copper and zinc, and there is a lot of iron there too. When it is sold, you and Jonathan will be better off than when this started. Let us go there now and see what can be salvaged.”

  Jonathan appeared incredulous. “St. John will permit this?”

  “His wife suggested it and he could not refuse her, since you helped her escape last night.”

  “I am overwhelmed,” Gustave said, heady with relief. The little sparrow had done this. He knew she had a special affection for him, but such a gesture— The room swam as this unexpected salvation made his blood rush in all the wrong ways.

  “Hell, he is going down,” he heard Jonathan yell, right before oblivion swallowed his consciousness.

  Diane took Daniel’s hand as soon as he entered the garden. “Later. Tell me later,” she said.

  She led him to a corner farthest from the house and embraced him under the stars while she hungrily sought his kiss. “Just hold me now, so that I am sure we are both here and that it is over.”

  “It is very over, darling.”

  She grasped him to her, desperate for contact. All of the worry of the last two days threatened to flood back, and only holding him kept it away. “Kiss me. Love me.” Her hands moved over him, feeling his body, searching for all the warmth she could touch. She held his hips to her own, so that she could feel his desire for her.

  She wanted no words now. All of that could wait. She needed him, his love and his hunger and the passion that would convince her soul that he was here and safe and that this was real.

  His embrace absorbed her. His kisses consumed her. It was not enough. She needed more. Everything.

  “Here. Now.” She gasped the pleas between savage kisses. “Love me. Fill me up, darling.”

  He lowered them both until she lay on the spring flowers. He settled between her legs, surrounding her totally with his embrace, and covering her with his body. Sweet scents rose up from the crushed blooms, intoxicating her more.

  She savored the reality of the scents and sky, of his weight and wanting, of the passion binding them totally. There were no words and no need for any. She felt everything in him, all of the love and relief.

  He began raising her skirt. She helped, eager to complete their unity, desperate to be together.

  He caressed her, to make her ready. She did not want that, did not need it. “No. Just come to me, darling. Fill my body and heart, fill all of me as only you can.”

  He looked down at her, his head framed by the night sky. The frenzy calmed, but not the passion. It filled and surrounded them like a spiritual wind.

  The beauty made her want to weep. When he entered her, silent tears dripped down her temples. In their union she knew him completely. Her soul understood the mysteries that had no words. Her heart felt the cautious wonder in his soul.

  He made love to her slowly, wonderfully. He held nothing back. The pleasure was the least of it, a mere metaphor for the more important sharing. They poured love into each other, reaffirming their alliance against an indifferent world.

  The ending was powerful, mutual, mystical. They melted together for a long moment of fulfillment. In her ecstasy she knew that the best parts of this night’s loving would go on forever. She would never be alone again.

  Afterward he stayed inside her, the two of them pressed to the reawakening earth. He quietly told her about the meeting with the marquess, and the way that Tyndale’s brother had erased all of them from the story of Tyndale’s death.

  “So you were right when you told Jeanette it is finished,” she said. “All of it might have never happened. Can you accept that the world will never know what he did?”

  “I never sought to have the world know.”

  “Why not? Why didn’t you denounce him?”

  “I had no proof of what he had done, or even who I was. Who would have believed me? He was the brother of a peer, and a powerful man in his own right. Even if I had shouted the truth for years, his world would have ignored me. So I handled it a different way.”

  Yes, a different way. A subtle way. A duel over a young woman. Not Jeanette, though. There was no proof on that, either, except the word of a shipper and a crippled woman.

  “You brought the others down in ways that echoed the past, and what they had done. I think that you wanted to do the same with Tyndale.”

  “Perhaps I did.”

  She stroked her fingers through his hair. “So I know everything now. There are no more mysteries. Except one.”

  “What is that?”

  “My father said that there were no St. Johns waiting on the coast all those years ago. Nor any St. Clairs, the name you used when you ruined him. So, tell me, husband, who are you? If your history is to be my history, I want to know.”

  He rose up on his arms and looked down at her. “Today, now, I am Daniel St. John. However, I was born Daniel de la Tour. My father taught ancient languages at the university in Paris.”

  “And your mother?”

  She sensed an echo of the old anguish quake in him, and instantly regretted the question.

  “My mother was the youngest daughter of a baron. She married far below her family’s station and was disowned by them. That meant nothing in the end, however.”

  “You told me in Scotland that your father was not an aristocrat. You neglected to mention that your mother was.”

  He settled back down into their embrace. “An oversight.”

  She laughed. “Have there been other oversights?”

  He shrugged. “I should probably mention that I am the last of the line, except for Jeanette.”

  “That means that you are now the baron.”

  “I suppose so, if I want to try and claim it. Louis’s word on my identity may be enough.”

  “Do you want to claim it?”

  He did not answer for a while. She sensed a new shadow in him.

  “It will be some time before I know that. My family did not believe in such privilege. Like many intellectuals, my father approved of the revolution, and as a boy I thought it a good and necessary thing, a blow for equality. We never expected it to eventually devour us, too, of course.”

  She did not know what to say. She had thought that she knew all of the mysteries, but she had not guessed that this final one lurked in his soul. The great cause he had believed in eventually took away all he held dear. It added a dark nuance to his boyhood experiences, and another snarl to the tangle of emotions that had driven him all his life.

  The final confidence lightened
his mood. He kissed her cheek. “Such things are not so important anymore. I have other things to occupy my thoughts now.”

  “What things?”

  “You, and the gift you have given me in your love. Without you, I would be bereft today. Empty, with one life over and no new one waiting. Instead I am glad it is finished. Relieved. We will build a new life together, anywhere you want. All that matters to me is that you are with me and that your love is mine.”

  “It is yours forever. Loving you makes me whole. If not for you, I would still be an orphan with no history or family. Even finding Jonathan could not have filled the void I once lived with. Only loving you did.”

  “We were both orphans, Diane. But that is over now. We will make our own family, and a new history.”

  Hearing the confidence and certainty in his voice moved her more than she could contain. Her heart swelled, filling with the promise their love offered.

  “Diane, the night before the duel, when you came to me—that was very brave and generous. Telling me that you loved me—that broke through clouds in my heart that were dark and old. Until that night, I had not even realized how they dimmed the world.”

  It had not been brave. It had been necessary, for herself and her own heart.

  He looked down with his body still pressed to hers. Night hid his expression, but she could feel his total attention on her.

  He kissed her. “Thank you.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Madeline Hunter has worked as a grocery clerk, office employee, art dealer, and freelance writer. She holds a Ph.D. in art history, which she currently teaches at an eastern university. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, her two teenage sons, a chubby, adorable mutt, and a black cat with a major attitude. She can be contacted through her website, www.MadelineHunter.com.

  Also by Madeline Hunter

  BY ARRANGEMENT

  BY POSSESSION

  BY DESIGN

  THE PROTECTOR

  LORD OF A THOUSAND NIGHTS

  STEALING HEAVEN

  Coming soon

  THE SAINT

  THE CHARMER

  THE SINNER

  And look for two new tales of

  seduction and scandal . . .

  Madeline Hunter’s

  THE SAINT

  Vergil’s story

  November 2003

  and

  THE CHARMER

  Adrian’s story

  December 2003

  Read on for a preview. . . .

  And look for the glorious finale

  to Madeline Hunter’s “Seducer” series

  in THE SINNER, Dante’s story,

  in January 2004!

  THE SAINT

  On sale November 2003

  I still don’t understand your impatience,” Dante said. He flicked cigar ash out the coach window. “No reason to drag me back from Scotland. She doesn’t come of age for almost a year.”

  That was an eternity by the way Dante calculated his calendar with women. Normally he would court, seduce, bed, and discard two mistresses in that time. Vergil studied his younger brother’s beautiful face, limpid eyes and dark brown hair. Dante’s history with females had almost been inevitable with features like that. Vergil had seen ladies of the highest breeding catch their breath when Dante approached.

  “The season starts well before her birthday, and with Charlotte coming out we can hardly leave Miss Kenwood here while we all pack ourselves off to town. You need to be married before then, not just engaged.”

  “Why? Do you think some fortune hunter will cut me out?” Dante’s tone implied the notion was preposterous.

  No, I think that if she is married we can prevent her from going up to London at all, if necessary, Vergil thought. The very notion of Bianca Kenwood in polite society, calling dukes and earls “Mister” and announcing that she intended to study performance opera, was enough to ruin his spirits on this late August day.

  But Dante’s question also pricked at the foreboding that had continued to plague him since he had left Penelope’s house. It might be best for Dante to get this over with while the field was clear.

  Dante looked him squarely in the eyes. “We are almost there. Don’t you think you should tell me now?”

  “Tell you?”

  “You haven’t said much about this Miss Kenwood, whom I am expected to marry. I find that suspicious. After all, you have met her. We both know that I have no choice except to agree to this, but if warnings are in order, you are running out of time.”

  “If I have not described her in detail it is because it would be indelicate to do so. This is not one of your racehorses.”

  “You have not described her at all.”

  “Very well. She is of middling height and slender, with blue eyes.”

  “What color hair?”

  Damned if he knew. What color hair had been hidden by that ridiculous wig?

  “Just how bad is she?”

  Vergil had fully intended to warn Dante but had failed to come up with the right approach. A tinge of guilt colored his reflections while he debated the appropriate one now. After all, he had practically forced his brother into this. Not that Dante had resisted much once he learned that over five thousand a year came with her.

  “It is not her appearance. Her manner, however . . .”

  “Is that all? Just like you to get stuffy about a few faux pas. What did you expect? She is an American. Pen will shape her up in no time.”

  A few faux pas did not do Bianca Kenwood justice, but he let it pass. “Of course. However, even so, she is . . . distinctive.”

  “Distinctive?”

  “One might even say unusual.”

  “Unusual?”

  “And perhaps a bit . . . unfinished. Which can be remedied, of course. Pen has her in hand even as we speak.”

  Dante peevishly looked out the coach window at the passing Sussex countryside. Vergil hesitated continuing, but they were almost there and he was running out of time. “She may need a strong hand. She is a bit independent, from what I could tell.”

  His brother’s gaze slid back to him. “Independent, now.”

  “She has certain notions. It is her youth, and they will pass.”

  “It would help immensely if you would balance some of this by adding how beautiful she is.”

  No doubt. The problem was, he didn’t know if she was beautiful. He only remembered big eyes, interesting because of that intelligent and spirited spark in them.

  What else could he offer? All that stage paint had been obscuring. The possibility of a lovely complexion, but who could be sure until he saw her washed? A nice form, but that might have been the costume. The suggestion of an underlying sensual quality . . . not something one noted about a brother’s future bride.

  “Damn it, if she is vulgar I won’t go through with it, Vergil. Nor should you want me to. Aside from the fact that she would reflect on me and this family, I could hardly avoid her completely once married, even living in town and leaving her out here, which is how I plan to arrange things. And until you marry Fleur, which you are taking your damn sweet time doing, and set up your nursery, I am your heir and this American could end up the Viscountess Laclere.”

  Vergil did not need his younger brother to list the pitfalls dotting this path. Pits much deeper and more numerous than Dante imagined. A honeycomb of them. If he could think of an alternative, he would use it, but two weeks of debating options always led him back to the same conclusion. Bianca Kenwood needed to be bound to this family with unbreakable chains.

  Dante bit his lower lip and again looked out the window from beneath heavy lashes. “The income from her funds will be mine? As trustee you will not interfere? And my allowance continues until the wedding, enhanced as we agreed?”

  “Of course. I also promise to continue management of the financial investments, as you requested. The income from the funds is secure, but the others require occasional oversight and I know that you hate such things
.”

  Dante gestured dismissively. “Sordid and nettlesome things. I doubt they are worth the trouble. Sell them out or hold them, as you judge best. After the way you scraped us through when Milton died, I would be a fool to question you.”

  They rode in silence through the oak and ash forest filling the back of Laclere Park. Vergil much preferred this approach to the broad sweep of landscape facing the front, and always instructed his coachman to take it. Normally it served as transition space for him, a few miles in which to prepare himself for the role of Viscount Laclere and the responsibilities that it entailed.

  He had first come this way when summoned by news of Milton’s death, choosing the longer route in order to delay that arrival, churning with conflicting emotions and spiking resentments at the changes in his life suddenly decreed by his older brother’s demise.

  It was in this forest that he had finally accepted the new reality and its attendant restrictions. Little had he guessed how complicated his brother’s death would make his life. Along with restrictions, mysteries and deceptions had waited for him at journey’s end.

  Dante suddenly leaned toward the window. He squinted. “What the . . .”

  “Is something wrong?” Vergil pushed Dante’s head aside a bit and stuck his own to the opening.

  “There, over in the lake. Wait, some trees are in the way. Now. Isn’t that Charlotte?”

  The trees thinned while they began to pass the lake.

  Two women bathed in the water, laughing and splashing. Naked, for all intents and purposes, since their chemises had gone transparent with water. Hell yes, it was their younger sister Charlotte, with that maid Jane Ormond.

  The water broke and a third feminine body rose up. A soaked chemise adhered to her skin and obscured little. Pretty shoulders . . . tapered back . . . nipped waist . . . graceful hips . . . finally the tops of enticing rounded buttocks slid into view. Long blond hair fanned in the eddies and then clung to her body in a thick drop from a well-formed head.