An Invitation to Seduction

by Lorraine Heath

  She’d feared she’d have a difficult time finding her way to the garden, but she’d passed various servants who were only too happy to provide directions. Richard’s gardens were truly beautiful with tiny ponds and small waterfalls cascading over rocks. She was amazed by some of the more elaborate displays.

  As she walked the path she’d seen him on earlier, she heard the yipping of the puppy quickly followed by Richard’s laughter. As she neared, the dog darted toward her.

  Richard moved quickly and scooped the dog up. “Oh, no, Sea Breeze. My duchess isn’t fond of dogs.”

  He cradled the writhing dog against his chest, seeming not to be disturbed in the least with the dog’s licking of his chin.

  “Sea Breeze?” she asked.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He held the dog out. “What would you call her then?”

  She looked the puppy over. Her reddish brown coat, her large dark eyes. “Nicolette.”

  Richard arched a brow. “You think Nicolette is better than Sea Breeze?”

  She nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”

  He held the dog aloft. “Nicolette. Nicky for short, I suppose.”

  “Do you mind?” she asked.

  “Of course not. I’ve told you before that I only wish for you to be happy.” He grinned at her. “Your brow is furrowed. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that you’re in pain.”

  His smile dimmed. “A small price to pay.”

  He’d told her that he groaned with pleasure, but now she had to wonder if he’d groaned with discomfort as well. “What caused you to hurt yourself?”

  “Sleeping in the bed.” He shrugged. “I generally sleep on the floor.”

  She knew her eyes widened. “Why?”

  “The hard, flat surface eases the discomfort I sometimes feel in my back.”

  “You have a great deal of discomfort then?”

  “It’s manageable. I’ve grown accustomed to it over the years.”

  “Put the dog down. It can’t be comfortable for you to hold her like that when you’re in pain.”

  “She’s a bit frisky this afternoon. She’ll jump on you.”

  “Then I’ll kick her aside.” Although she knew she wouldn’t. She was only saying it because she wanted him to put the creature down.

  “She’s very much like me, Duchess. She’ll only come back.”

  She sighed. “Then I suppose I shall have to grow to like her.”

  He angled his head thoughtfully. “Am I to assume then that you’ve grown to like me?”

  Tentatively, she reached out and petted the puppy, snatching her hand back when it rolled its tongue toward her. “You have some favorable habits.”

  “I’m pleased you think so.”

  “Farthingham thought so highly of you. He was always expounding on your good virtues.”

  “She won’t bite,” Richard said quietly, as though he wished to turn the conversation away from Farthingham.

  She supposed she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to talk about his friend. She lifted her gaze to his. “Do you feel guilty about his death?”

  “I feel guilty about much that happened that day.”

  “I don’t blame you for his death.”

  “But he is still between us.”

  “Not as much, I think. I loved him for so long. I miss him.”

  “I know you do. Perhaps you should call the dog Farthingham.”

  “Perhaps I should, although it’s hardly feminine. She seems playful like Farthingham. How do you know she won’t bite me?”

  “You’ve given her no reason not to love you, so she’ll only seek to please you.”

  “When I was very young, a dog attacked me. He actually bit me.” She touched the side of her nose. “I have a tiny scar where his teeth scraped me. I’ve not liked dogs since.”

  “I would have never known,” he said. “The scar is not visible.”

  “But it’s there,” she pointed out succinctly.

  “I think we often see things because we expect to see them. You know the scar is there, and so you see it. I didn’t know it was there, and so I didn’t. When I was a lad, I fell into a pond. I’d not yet learned to swim. I had a beautiful Irish setter. The dog closed his jaws around my shirt and pulled me out of the pond. I truly believe I would have drowned had he not.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He died many years ago. I was near to being a man, and I wept like a baby—where no one could see, of course.”

  “You do not strike me as a man who would weep.”

  “I have only wept twice in my life. When I lost my dog and when I lost my father. I do not love often, Kitty, nor do I love many, but when I love, I love deeply.”

  She nodded, not certain she wanted the conversation to follow this path. “I figured that out,” she said softly.

  “If you see this dog as a danger to you, she will be. She will become what you expect of her.”

  The challenge was there, the gauntlet tossed down. “Will you let me hold her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She took the puppy in her arms, surprised by the softness and the warmth, more surprised by how the dog stilled, as though content to be where she was.

  “Ah, it seems she is truly your dog, and well she knows it.”

  “I didn’t give you a gift,” she blurted. “A wedding gift. I didn’t give you one.”

  “You married me, Kitty. That was gift enough.”

  Chapter 25

  Kitty had always known that a good deal of married life involved corresponding for one purpose or another: to thank someone for calling, to invite someone to call. She’d not expected married life to entail gazing out the window into the garden and wondering when her husband might return.

  Married a mere three days, she’d begun to think that she and Richard might seldom venture from the bedroom—which she had to admit was a notion she no longer felt uncomfortable with. The things they did quite amazed her. His patience, his tutoring, his explaining…she’d never thought actually to relish the marriage act. She’d certainly never expected to come to realize so soon that her body’s reactions to Richard’s touches were more natural than her constant retreats had been.

  She tried to imagine spending as much time in bed with Farthingham, and she simply couldn’t envision it. She thought he might have been quick about it—as quick as he was with his kisses on her forehead and cheek—and then they’d have gone off to play with friends. She couldn’t help but believe that her marriage to Farthingham would have been so very different from her marriage to Richard.

  She would have been content with Farthingham because she would have never known anything different. But now, having experienced marriage to Richard…

  He’d been gone but a few hours, and she missed him already.

  With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the task at hand. As a child, she’d been taught perfect penmanship, had mastered the eloquence of the written word, phrasing her thoughts in a way that made them almost poetical. So she didn’t know why she’d put off the one letter she knew she needed to write, the one she had no desire to write.

  Her usual habit was to address unpleasant tasks first so that her reward was taking on the pleasanter endeavors. But this chore she kept avoiding—writing to the woman who’d given birth to her. She was certain her parents had thought she’d welcome knowing Jessye Bainbridge, but the truth of the matter was that she would have preferred not to. She saw too much of herself in Jessye—the pale skin, the red hair, the green eyes.

  Kitty wasn’t tall, dark, and exotic like Madeline. She was coarse and too often reflected her roots. Her roots wouldn’t have written the letter, so she took a deep breath, dipped the nub of the pen into the inkwell, and applied it to the delicate parchment that carried her husband’s family’s crest.

  She began her letter as she did each one she wrote to the woman:


  Dear Mother Jessye

  She’d never liked the name. A man’s name. She’d liked even less referring to her as Mother Jessye, as though she were a nun when she was anything but. Her dislike for this woman was not a part of herself that she relished, was not something she’d ever shared with anyone. It made her feel mean, ugly, and petty.

  I hope you and your family are well. I’ve recently married—not Lord Farthingham as I’d hinted at in my previous correspondence—but the Duke of Weddington.

  Kitty stared out the window. Where to go from there escaped her. Did she reveal the whole embarrassing situation, confess that she was more like Jessye than she’d ever wanted to be, or did she let sleeping dogs lie. Surely everyone would comprehend the truth of the matter when her child came only eight months after the marriage—if that. Dear God, she’d had visions of him coming earlier. A month early, and people would speculate. Earlier and eyebrows would wag because there would be no doubt.

  Oh, the shame of it. She didn’t want her child to know about her what she knew about the woman who’d given birth to her: that she’d not been strong enough to resist temptation. And yet she had to wonder if any woman—when pulled toward such incredible sensations—would have the power to resist.

  She did not consider herself weak. Rather the temptation to give in to Richard’s touch had been so overwhelming.

  Had Jessye found herself in a similar situation? Not weak, but simply confronted by an overpowering attraction?

  Kitty sat back in her chair. She’d never considered the circumstances of her conception from the angle of power rather than weakness. Yet the man had abandoned her mother. While the attraction might have been powerful, the man had been weak.

  Unlike Richard, who’d not hesitated even a heartbeat before announcing that he would marry Kitty. How devastating it must have been for Jessye to have shared such intimacy with a man, and then to discover he was unworthy of her.

  Yes, he was the unworthy one. Not her mother.

  Kitty placed her hand on her stomach where her own child now grew. She’d always been obsessed with the shame of her birth and never considered the larger picture.

  What might she have done had Richard not married her? She had wealth. She could support her child without a husband. Jessye had been penniless. Twenty-one years ago. Her mother had only been seventeen.

  Her mother. She’d never truly thought of the woman as her mother before. Seventeen. Abandoned. Alone. Poor.

  Not weak. Simply human. Wanting what was best for her child.

  Oh, dear God, Kitty whispered, as tears stung her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth. How unfair she’d been. How judgmental. She’d judged her mother’s actions without truly understanding them.

  Moving the top piece of paper aside, she again dipped her pen into the inkwell before writing:

  My dear Mother,

  Of late, I’ve come to realize that life seldom provides us with an easy path to follow. The road contains far too many forks, and often the decision we make in determining which fork to travel is extremely difficult. I can’t recall ever telling you that where I was concerned, I thought you chose well.

  She scowled at the words, which were totally inadequate for expressing her feelings. How could she truly reveal her sentiments?

  By honestly confessing all.

  Sometime later, lost within the numerous pages of her doubts, fears, worries, and realizations of sacrifices made, she barely stirred when Watkins walked into the room.

  “Your Grace?”

  Distracted by her musings, she turned her head slightly. “Yes, Watkins.”

  “There is a gentleman from Scotland Yard who wishes a moment of your time.”

  “Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Whatever does he want?”

  “I’m certain I have no idea.”

  Of course, he didn’t. And even if he did, he was too proper to speculate. “I’ll see him.”

  She couldn’t imagine what the man could possibly want, but she didn’t think it would be wise to deny him.

  Inspector Alistair Boulton wasn’t at all what Kitty expected in a man whose job it was to enforce the law. He had a youthful, eager face and startling blue eyes that invited trust.

  “Your Grace, thank you for seeing me,” he began.

  “Would you care for some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I fear this is not a social call.”

  “Then how can I help you, Inspector?”

  “I was hoping you would be so kind as to answer a few questions that will help me in my investigation regarding the murder of Lord Farthingham.”

  Chapter 26

  Kitty stared at the man as though he were quite mad. A strangled laugh escaped her mouth before she could stop it. “Murder? Do you intend to put Nature on trial?”

  “No, madam. We intend to prove that your husband murdered Lord Farthingham.”

  She felt as though the words were traveling through a tunnel filled with wind, roaring through her mind with such velocity that she couldn’t grab on to them. “Why would he murder Lord Farthingham? What could he possibly hope to gain?”

  The man gave her a pointed look, and suddenly, he didn’t appear so youthful or trustworthy. He appeared to be a man with a suspicious nature who searched for answers in places where they didn’t exist.

  The room tilted as though some giant hand had lifted one end. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Are you aware that your husband was suspected of murdering his father?”

  “His father died during a storm at sea.”

  “Exactly. And another man dies while on the duke’s boat during a storm at sea. Coincidence? We think not. Rather we suspect a pattern of behavior that is most troublesome.”

  Kitty held her hands up in front of her as though that would be enough to stop the images from bombarding her, to stop his relentless pursuit of this ridiculous theory.

  “Your Grace, I know this news is disconcerting, but please hear me out. Your husband and his father had been overheard arguing heatedly the morning before they last sailed. When the storm came up, the crew was told to board a lifeboat. Your husband and his father remained on the ship…again arguing. Arguing in the midst of a storm. Your husband towed his father to shore, but the old duke’s head had been bashed in. Your husband claimed it was the result of the storm. We are more inclined to believe your husband did the bashing.”

  “To gain what?”

  “The dukedom. Men have been known to kill for much less.”

  The story was incredible. Kitty began pacing, her thoughts a jumble. “And now you think he killed Lord Farthingham?”

  “Yes. We have a witness who overheard the gentlemen arguing.”

  “What witness?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. The duke and Lord Farthingham went out on a boat that should have had four crewmen.”

  “They’re competitive men who wanted to test their skills…”

  “Or Weddington wished to have fewer around him who could speculate as to the reason behind Farthingham’s death. The sea leaves no witnesses.”

  She shook her head, a throbbing between her temples. “It was an accident.”

  “He made a payment of six thousand pounds to Lord Farthingham’s family and gave them a legal document, signed by him, indicating that he would provide them with an annual sum of six thousand pounds each year hereafter as long as he drew breath.”

  Her legs no longer able to support her, she sank into the chair. “He knew Lord Farthingham was in need of funds. It was no secret that it was that very need that caused Lord Farthingham to want to marry me. The duke was no doubt feeling guilty—”

  “Our sentiments exactly.”

  Horrified by his conclusion following her words, Kitty could do little more than stare at the man. Yes, Richard was competitive, he didn’t like to lose, he’d wanted Kitty, made that perfectly clear throughout the Season…but murder?

  As his coach came
to a halt in front of his London residence, Richard couldn’t be happier with the direction that his marriage had taken. He’d been loath to leave Kitty that morning, but he did have business ventures that needed his attention. He couldn’t very well begin to neglect all that provided a comfortable living for his family.

  Although with Kitty at his side, he realized he needed little else. He so loved her passionate nature, as well as her curiosity—once she’d become comfortable with her body’s reactions to his touch.

  The day of the storm still haunted him, the decisions he’d made, the actions he’d taken—but the guilt was lessening. And he was beginning to hope that a day would come when all the doubts would no longer linger, when he might even be able to share with Kitty everything that had happened that day—and know that she would forgive him.

  The footman opened the door, and Richard strode into the entry hallway. Watkins immediately approached as though he’d been waiting for Richard’s arrival.

  “Watkins, where might I find the duchess?”

  “Her Grace is in the drawing room—”

  “Thank you, Watkins.” Richard turned—

  “—with a gentleman from Scotland Yard.”

  Richard froze, as trepidation sliced through him. “Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “Close to half an hour.”

  Richard nodded. “Well, I’d best see to his reason for being here.”

  Although God help him, he feared he already knew.

  When he entered the drawing room, he was certain of it.

  Kitty was as white as the sheets upon which they’d made love only that morning. Sitting in a chair, she looked as frail and devastated as she had the night of the storm, when Farthingham had become lost to her.

  He crossed the room. “Kitty—”

  She rose to her feet, horror clearly written on her face. “He said you murdered your father.”

  “That was never proven.”

  The words were wrong, so wrong. But he’d grown tired of proclaiming his innocence when so many had doubted him. But they couldn’t doubt the facts. No one had ever been able to prove he murdered his father.