Only Seduction Will Do

by Jenna Jaxon

  Holding her head in both hands as her cousin’s words hammered into her brain, Alethea tried to convince herself that Eithne was mistaken. She could deceive the ton in both England and Ireland and pass herself off as a widow with child. Reality slammed into her with enough force it made her cry out and bend double, as though she’d taken a blow to the stomach. She was truly ruined.

  “Alethea.” Her cousin jumped to her feet, standing by her side in moments. “Are you ill? Here, sit down, let me ring for Pruitt.”

  She let her cousin fuss over her. What did it matter anyway? “No.” She shook her head, resigned at last. “Do not ring for anyone. I am distraught to think I shall be ruined for all to see, but I need no comfort for that. I do not deserve it.”

  “Braeton and I will not allow the scandal of this to taint you, my dear. Of that you may be sure.” Eithne patted her hands, a determined set to her square jaw. “I have found that being an earl in England gives Braeton certain influences that a baron in Ireland, like your father, may not have.” A clear light shone in her eyes as she stared at the sitting room door. “Do not distress yourself further. Braeton will make this right.”

  Her cousin continued to pat her hands long after the gesture’s power to comfort had worn off. Still, Alethea was glad of her touch almost as much as her confidence in Braeton’s abilities. What she dreaded now, more than ever, was presenting the problem to the earl. Lord Braeton might be able to fix many things. However, while fixing her particular problem, things were likely to get loud.

  * * * *

  “She’s what?” The earl’s deep bellow echoed through the study.

  Though she had prepared for Lord Braeton’s explosion, the sheer volume of it made Alethea jump.

  Even Eithne, who was used to his outbursts, flinched and turned pale. “I said Alethea is increasing, Braeton. I am quite sure you have not gone deaf, although I may have just now. And lower your voice please. We hardly want the servants to hear about this and tell tales before we can scotch the scandal.”

  Her husband drew breath and Alethea closed her eyes, bracing for another blast. After several seconds, when the room remained deathly silent, she cautiously opened them.

  Lord Braeton stood at the sideboard, drink in hand, glaring at her. He suddenly downed the contents of the tumbler, tipping his head back as he sucked in the few final drops. He set the glass down with a hollow thud, wiped his lips on the back of his hand, calmly strode to the brown leather sofa, and sat beside his wife. “And you have a plan to do this, my dear?”

  Alethea sighed in relief, holding in a chuckle at the earl’s blasé question. Her cousin had married well, a man with intelligence and wit who doted on her. She had hoped for such a match for herself. That was now impossible.

  “I thought I would leave the planning of it up to you, my love. You are ever so clever at such things.” Eithne purred, patting his cheek. “But I believe we must find her a husband posthaste.”

  “I thought that’s what we’ve been doing for the past year.” Finally, he shot a look at Alethea that made her squirm. “I’ve had at least four offers from respectable gentlemen, but she’s turned them all away with a flea in their ears.”

  Alethea bit her lip and suddenly dropped her gaze to the deep red and black pattern on the study’s Aubusson rug. She had been rather picky as to her choice of husband in the last few months. The first one, last February, had simply been a fortune hunter. Even Braeton would admit as much if pressed. The second one hadn’t enjoyed riding at all and she feared he might have tried to put an end to her enjoyment of her passion. But the simple fact was after that first ball in March, she’d met him, the man she’d dreamed of marrying ever since. She’d been determined to refuse everyone until the man she wanted to marry offered for her. But he hadn’t.

  “Well, she will marry one of them now with no fuss at all.”

  Alethea raised her head to find Eithne staring directly at her. Blushing, she nodded. She had no choice now.

  “I suppose it is too much to hope that the father can be induced to marry her? It’s not like she’s a pauper.” Lord Braeton added his glare to his wife’s.

  “I am afraid it is, my lord.” Raising her chin, Alethea returned his gaze evenly. She refused to be bullied, no matter the circumstance.

  “Unfortunately, Braeton, the man is already married.”

  The earl clenched his hands until Alethea feared blood would drip from them.

  Eithne patted her husband’s arm, murmuring softly until he finally relaxed them.

  “Who is it?”

  “She won’t say.”

  Braeton started up, but Alethea stayed him with a raised hand. “It will do no good to threaten me, my lord. And no good at all to learn the name of the man. As Eithne says, he is married already and therefore cannot be induced or coerced to marry me. We must find someone else who will act the knight in shining armor and rescue me.”

  “Huh.” Braeton scoffed and crossed his arms, danger still lurking in his eyes. “That will be a bit more difficult than either of you seem to think.”

  “How so, my dear? Her father, once apprised of the situation, can be generous in her dowry to whomever is willing to take her.”

  Shrugging, Braeton looked from his wife to her. “She might catch an older widower, perhaps, looking for a wife to raise his legitimate children. But if you”—he fixed his stare on Alethea—“have a boy in your belly, it will be considered the issue and heir of whatever man you are married to, unless he already has a son. Most men shy away from deliberately putting a cuckoo’s egg in their nest.”

  Heat burned her cheeks, but Alethea had to admit the truth. A man wanted a son of his own making to inherit his properties and titles. It would not be easy to find someone willing to marry her and take the chance of her by-blow being a boy.

  “What about Lord Mallory? His wife died last year and he has two sons by her. Might he be persuaded to take Alethea?” Eithne rang the bell. “He came to us last summer just after he was out of mourning.”

  “He is a very good prospect, my dear.” Braeton patted his wife’s arm approvingly. “I will send to him tonight, asking him to call tomorrow and spy out the lay of the land, so to speak.” He cut his eyes toward Alethea. “You met him at the house party then, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.” A general truth because they had been introduced. But by that time, she’d long had her cap set for someone else and had paid Lord Mallory the most perfunctory of attentions the whole week.

  The maid entered with tea, which Eithne poured and handed around. Once the servant had retreated, she continued. “Who else do you think, Braeton? There must be other men in need of a wife, or an heir, or a fortune.” Her face brightened. “Is there someone who’s had no luck with getting an heir and would want one no matter whose child it really was?”

  Lord Braeton left his tea untouched and glanced back at the sideboard longingly. “If so, they are unfortunately still married, which does us no good.” With a sigh, he dropped two lumps of sugar into his cup, poured in milk, and stirred. “I suppose Viscount Cryr would be a candidate. Not much money there, so he’d welcome a rich wife and might be willing to gamble this child will be a girl.”

  Forcing herself not to react to that suggestion, Alethea sipped her sugarless tea and wondered how low the earl would go in search of a husband for her. Lord Cryr, while tolerably good looking, was extremely immature in his manner, often acting, in her opinion, like a snot-nosed brat no more than twelve years of age. At the Christmas Ball several weeks ago, which she’d just managed to attend, he’d been boring and childish, talking incessantly about some lark he and his friends had gone off on to watch a boxing match. Sports, other than riding and hunting, interested her not at all. She had danced the requisite quadrille with him and escaped at the end with a joyful heart. To think she might now be married to the man made her spirits droop. Not too s
teep a price for respectability, but the aspect of the boring life ahead of her brought back her nausea.

  “Well, there is always Lord Murchison.” Eithne shot Alethea a wild look, then hastily sipped her tea.

  Her husband sighed. “Yes, I suppose—”

  “No.” Slamming her cup into its saucer with a violence that might have shattered it, Alethea rose and stalked to the fireplace. “I absolutely refuse to consider marriage with Lord Murchison. If I have to live in disgrace for the rest of my life, I will do it rather than marry that villain.” She glared at her cousin. “How could you even suggest it, Eithne? You know what he’s done and even worse, what he’s been accused of doing.” If it came to a choice between marrying Murchison and killing herself, she’d be hard pressed to say she wouldn’t prefer to take the hemlock.

  Lord Murchison had been embroiled in one scandalous act after another long before Alethea had arrived in London. A particularly wealthy family had managed to keep him from the hangman’s noose. Though it had been a near thing with the last duel he’d fought, when he ran his opponent through after the man had dropped to his knees begging for mercy. Murchison had challenged the man for making a slighting remark about the cut of his coat.

  Unfortunately, his cruelty didn’t end there. Tales of Lord Murchison’s debauching of young village women near his father’s estate had circulated the ton for years. And Alethea had overheard at one ball that he had secretly been treated for the French pox. In her opinion, the man was a vicious cur who needed to be put down like a mad dog.

  “No, my dear, she is right.” Braeton rose and headed for the sideboard. “Murchison is beyond the pale as far as I’m concerned.” He turned to Alethea. “We will find someone, my dear. A respectable gentleman.” He sighed. “Although perhaps without a title, who will take pity on you.”

  A shiver raced through Alethea. Someone who would take pity on her. A gentleman noble enough to sacrifice himself to help her. The description brought the perfect man to mind. If Lord Braeton allowed it, would she have the courage to ask him? “My lord, may I make a suggestion?”

  Both her cousin and his lordship turned to her expectantly, and Alethea’s mouth went dry as dust. “I have in mind a gentleman who has been kindness itself in the past, to me and to others as I have observed.” This probably skated close enough to a lie to make her blush, but she screwed up her courage to continue. If the Braetons were already considering Murchison, she had to do something desperate. “May I beg him to take me? I will explain the circumstances completely. He will know my shame and what he will sacrifice if he rescues me. I truly believe he will act selflessly and not forsake me.”

  Braeton’s brow pulled down into a frown. “Do I know this paragon? Doesn’t seem to fit any of the men of my acquaintance.”

  “You do indeed, my lord.” Taking a deep breath, Alethea closed her eyes and whispered, “The Earl of Manning.”

  Chapter 3

  Jack had paced the length of the green room in the House of Pleasure so many times in the past twenty minutes he could tell the exact details of the small, plain room. The smudge on the wall near the fireplace looked like a lopsided flower. Of the three iron bars over the window, all boasted rusty streaks, though one was pitted and had several scratches as well. Uneven floorboards listed to one side and creaked annoyingly when he approached the window. None of it, including Miss Carlton’s story, pleased him.

  The woman he’d met at ton entertainments last summer had apparently fallen on hard times, hard enough that in November she’d finally resorted to employment at the House of Pleasure. Her first customer, however, Lord Trevor, with whom Jack was also acquainted, had rescued her before she’d been physically ruined.

  “You simply cannot remain here, Miss Carlton. Despite your explanation, you’d be a fool to think I could leave you in this place, in such dire circumstances.” Pausing by the fireplace, Jack wished for the hundredth time the room had included a bottle of some sort of spirits. Even bad brandy would be welcome right now.

  “But what do you propose to do with me, my lord?” Miss Carlton looked all in. She sat slumped in the golden wingback chair as though she held a crushing weight on her shoulders. “I truly have no place to go, save here.”

  Well, that did present a problem. If he took her back to his townhouse in St. James Square and she was seen entering alone, her reputation would be just as ruined as if she were discovered in this house. If circumstances were better he could have taken her to his sister at Dunham House. The protection of the Marquess and Marchioness of Dalbury would remove any taint of scandal. God knew his sister Kat would be sympathetic to Miss Carlton. She herself had managed to survive captivity in this brothel without a breath of it reaching the ton’s ears. That Miss Carlton had been a similar victim of kidnapping had leaped immediately to his mind. However, the lady assured him she’d come to the House of Pleasure of her own free will, though her circumstances, as she’d related them to him, made that phrase laughable.

  There was also the problem, as Miss Carlton pointed out, of what to do with her after tonight. Where would she live? What could she do that was respectable? Trevor had attempted to find her suitable employment, without success. She had a good family name and good reputation, although that could end at any minute. He stopped and listened at the door. They must get away from here. And that led back to the question of where to take her? Damn it, he’d met the woman at ton parties and balls. By rights, she should be married to a gentleman by now. Although after tonight’s encounter here, for honor’s sake, it should be him.

  Devil take it, he was only two and twenty, though he’d be twenty-three in a matter of months. A wife was the last thing he wanted. But he absolutely could not leave her here. Clenching his jaw, he sighed. She must go with him and quickly. He would do the honorable thing and offer the protection of his name.

  Not what he’d expected to gain from his experience at the House of Pleasure, surely. He’d not even started to sow his wild oats yet. Still, Miss Carlton’s woebegone face and draggled appearance raised his noble instincts as though he were a Knight of the Round Table. Sir Galahad to the rescue.

  “Miss Carlton, I know this may sound strange, but your circumstances demand that I ask you to become my wife.”

  Eyes widening impossibly large, she grasped her throat, clutching it as if she held a lifeline. “You don’t mean that, my lord.”

  “Indeed I do, my dear.” With a sigh he left the fireplace, stopping in front of her chair. “You cannot continue here. My conscience as a gentleman would make my life a merry hell if I tried to leave you in this godforsaken place. Neither do you have any living relatives to whom you can apply to take you in. What other course can a man of honor follow?”

  “You scarcely know me, my lord.” She blinked rapidly, as if gathering her thoughts.

  “Would that be an argument if this interview had been conducted in a Mayfair parlor? ton marriages do not require the parties know one another. They are, in fact, notorious for their lack of personal attachment. I believe I am less objectionable than some other gentlemen who might offer for you.”

  “Oh, no, my lord.” Miss Carlton’s shocked expression would have been comical if the color had not drained from her face. “I could have no objection to your suit whatever.” She swallowed hard. “You are kindness personified to have offered your protection so generously. However, I do not want you to surrender your happiness in life for a woman who is not worthy of such a sacrifice.”

  “You mean your indiscretion with Lord Trevor?” Her tale had shocked him, though it could have been much worse. During her time under Trevor’s protection, unfortunately, Miss Carlton had succumbed to Trevor’s charms before finding out he had been responsible for her brother’s death. The news of that betrayal had sent her running back here, to the House of Pleasure. From her tone and sorrowful countenance, and the way her gaze darted away each time she spoke of Trevor, Jack
suspected where her affections still lay, despite her protests of hatred for the man. Of course, Trevor was already betrothed. Pity that.

  She bowed her head and nodded.

  “Do not distress yourself on that account, my dear. It is forgotten. We must instead plan how to spirit you from this house with no one the wiser.” If anyone saw her leaving, even marriage to a peer might not keep her from ruination.

  The latch on the door rattled.

  Sweeping his cloak away, Jack spun toward the door, dropping his hand to his sword.

  With a loud bang, the door shot inward, hitting the wall behind with enough force to crack the plaster. Before it could bounce back, a tall, wild-eyed man charged into the room, his gaze immediately darting to Miss Carlton. Hands outstretched, he strode toward her. “Violet, are you all right?”

  In a liquid movement born of untold hours of practice, Jack whipped his sword from its scabbard and thrust it at his opponent’s chest.

  “What the devil?” The man danced backward, swept his black cloak aside and smoothly drew his own weapon. Christ, he didn’t want to kill the man, but if it came to that, he wouldn’t hesitate. “You may retire, my lord. You have no business with this woman.”

  The man scowled, shifting his sword to the left.

  Jack raised his rapier into the more effective high en garde position. Much easier to strike a telling blow from here. “I’ll thank you to leave us.”

  “The devil I will.” The stranger’s gaze kept straying from him to Miss Carlton, as he doffed his cloak and lowered his garde into the most common position. “The woman is under my protection.”

  “I am not!” Miss Carlton jumped to her feet, her voice ringing high and shrill. “He has nothing to do with me anymore.”

  Ah. So that was the way of it. “I’m afraid the lady is correct, my lord.” Jack heaved a sigh of relief, though he kept the point of his sword twisting in the man’s face. Yes, he recognized the chiseled features of his brother-in-law’s best friend. “It’s Lord Trevor, is it not?”