Only Seduction Will Do

by Jenna Jaxon

  “Well, not exactly.”

  She wrenched her face up so quickly a stab of pain shot through her head.

  Jack gripped the back of his neck and squeezed. “I knew that, of course, when I agreed to marry you, Alethea. If that were a major impediment, I would not be your husband at this moment. No, the problem I find is that we hardly know one another. I am not in the habit of bringing a stranger to my bed.”

  Nodding, Alethea said, “I understand.” But she did not. Her impression of men had always been that they cared little about who they bedded as long as the woman was willing, and sometimes they didn’t even care about that. Either her perception of the entire male species was false, or she had married a man far different from the rest.

  “I believe it wiser for us to go slowly, to become better acquainted with one another before we indulge in the physical aspects of marriage.” The flickering firelight cast a reddish tint on his face, intensifying his grave expression.

  Alethea bit back tears. She’d so wanted that intimacy with Jack. All the aching desire she’d known for him these past months wanted desperately to be satisfied in his arms in her bed tonight. To finally have something wonderful to replace the hideous memory of her first time. She swallowed hard and the pain in her chest eased. At least he made it sound as though he would eventually come to her bed. After they came to know one another. She just had to be patient.

  “I would like to begin to know you, Alethea,” he said gently, “by having you tell me what happened the night you were compromised. How you came to be seduced. I know you will not divulge his name.” Jack’s handsome face hardened into rigid lines. “I did not press for details before, but as your husband I deserve to know either what drove you to this cur or left you so vulnerable that he was able to take such gross advantage of your innocence.”

  Stunned by this request, Alethea sat speechless. She might have expected this demand and prepared herself for it had she not been so convinced that tonight her husband would be intent on her and not her past sins. Struggling to gather her wits, she concentrated on where to begin this most humiliating confession. Even telling Braeton about her interesting condition did not hold a candle to the revelation she was about to make. Certainly Jack had a right to know her shame, especially as he had played a part in it.

  Drawing her shawl more closely about her shoulders, she stared into the fire, careful not to look at him, and began her tale.

  “I believe you may remember the night of the Hunt Ball, in September at the hunting lodge in Hertfordshire.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Jack leaned forward, closer to her. “I was there.”

  “I know.” Alethea twisted her fingers together until the pain forced her to relent. “We’d had a grand day of hunting.”

  “Indeed, it was the best day of the entire week. You rode with me, as I recall.”

  “Yes, I did.” For God’s sake, don’t look at him. If she wanted to get through this she mustn’t see his face.

  “You have a splendid seat on a horse, my dear. I don’t think I’ve ever told you. Such a natural control.” He grasped her hands. “I thought you looked magnificent that day.”

  “Thank you, my…Jack. I wish…” A sob fought its way free from her throat. How could he say that? Fighting back the tears, she cleared her throat. In a moment of weakness, she glanced at him, instantly regretting it. His big blue eyes held her, would swallow her whole if she allowed it. Forcing her gaze back to the flames, she made herself continue. “We’d had such a lovely day, I’m afraid I made quite bold with you.”

  His brows shot up like startled birds taking flight. “Bold, my dear? How?”

  “We were waiting for the pack to re-form and I brought up the ball that evening. I managed to squeeze a request for a dance from you.”

  “I’d scarcely consider such behavior bold, Alethea. I’d have asked you to dance that evening in any case.” He tried to shrug it off, but now his gaze avoided her.

  “I sincerely doubt that, my lord. You’d never asked me before.”

  “I beg your pardon.” He rounded on her. “We most certainly had danced before that evening.”

  “Of course we had. But never at your behest. Either my cousin or some hostess always had to suggest it. Braeton had even taken it upon himself to importune you to dance with me on occasion. But you have never once asked me of your own accord.” Bitterness flooded her mouth, spilling into her tone. “And as that day had been so lovely, I hoped it would continue into the night with a dance, a flirtation.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper she could barely hear. “A kiss.”

  He patted her hand. “My dear, please don’t—”

  “No.” She threw him off, her bruised heart turning to stone. “You wanted to hear it all and you shall hear every last word.” If only she could stop trembling. She couldn’t tell if it was caused by his touch or her rage and that infuriated her more. “You agreed to partner me for the supper dance. I was elated.”

  Looking away from her, he darted his gaze from the desk, to the chest on chest, to the mantelpiece before slumping on the chaise.

  “I don’t believe there is a decanter in this room, my lord. Perhaps the previous countess needed nothing further to keep her warm in the dark nights.” A decanter of her father’s best whiskey would appear in this room as soon as she could write to him.

  Finally, the man beside her seemed at a loss. Slumped in his seat, his eyes shadowed by the sudden furrow of his brow, mouth drawn into a pinched knot. In other circumstances she’d feel sorry for someone who looked so miserable.

  “I was waiting for a partner to claim me early on and due to the crush of the crowd, I ended up behind a screen of potted palms to the side of the ballroom. Perhaps that is why that partner never found me.” The wretched evening had occurred almost four months ago, yet she could still see the glittering candelabras and chandeliers, hear the shrill voices and laughter, feel the excitement, the anticipation of dancing with Lord Manning then the opportunity to talk to him all during supper. Also the humiliation.

  “So I stood there, waiting patiently, and you strolled by with Lord Carmichael. I didn’t see you at first, but recognized your voice immediately.” Her heart thumped loudly, like a bass drum. “I made to step out and greet you but you began to speak to your companion.”

  “Alethea.” Compressing his lips so tightly they turned white, Jack gripped the arm of the chaise.

  “Before I could let you know of my presence behind the Oriental palm—”

  “Alethea.”

  “You begged Lord Carmichael to take your place at the supper dance with me. The Braetons, you said, were trying to matchmake you and me, and you’d give him the best horse in your stable if he would make your excuses and partner me instead.”

  Covering his face with his hand, Jack cursed softly.

  “I slipped out of the ballroom, though God knows how I did. I am amazed I didn’t die of humiliation then and there.” Needing desperately to move, she rose and paced to the window.

  He bolted to his feet, then off-balance, grabbed the back of the chair.

  “Alethea.”

  She put out a hand to stay him. “I ran out to the stable where my horse was kept, a smaller one where Braeton keeps the family riding horses. The larger one is for his carriage horses and those of the guests and so closer to the house.” Roaming the room fueled her indignation. She needed the momentum of her movement to carry her through to the end.

  “One groom had been left as attendant, and I had him saddle my horse. The clock had just struck ten and I was wearing a silk ballgown, so he looked at me as though I were mad. Still, he knew my whims and that Braeton never refused me anything, so he saddled him. I went into an adjacent, empty stall and paced and cried, trying to keep calm and failing. When the door to the stall opened, I thought it was the groom come to tell me Goliath was ready, but it wasn’t him.
”

  Move or go mad. She paced back to the window. The room she had believed spacious now seemed a prison.

  Jack hadn’t moved, just stood still, his gaze following her to and fro, his face a mask of stone.

  “Instead it was…a gentleman. An acquaintance of Braeton’s whom I’d met once before at a party.” She swallowed hard, but made herself continue. “I think he must have seen me leave the house and run across the lawn, and he followed me. I like to think”—she wrung her hands—“in the beginning at least, he wanted to comfort me.” She wasn’t facing Jack, but could hear his angry breathing behind her. Good. She hoped he was angry at himself as well as at the man who—

  “Did the groom not say a word?” Suddenly Jack gripped her elbow, his brows knit into a thunderous frown. “Did he not aid you at all?”

  “He either saddled the horse then left before the man arrived, or was paid to leave. I never saw him again that night.” Shrugging, she pulled her arm from his grasp. “At any rate, we were alone. I was crying and trying to hide my face from him.” She’d wanted to sink into the earth never to rise again. “He took me by the shoulders, gently pulled me to him, and placed my head on his broad shoulders. And just let me stand there and cry.” It had felt so good to cry.

  Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Alethea mopped her face. “Finally, leaning against him, so warm and strong, I did calm myself. He pulled my face up to his, stroking my straggling hair out of my face with a gentle touch and asked, ‘Do you feel better now?’

  “The kindness in his voice, in his face, in his touch made me believe that even if you wanted nothing to do with me, someone else might be kind. He brushed my lips with a kiss and I nodded. I did feel better. And more than anything I wanted to prove that someone could desire me. I wanted…” She swallowed, her throat raspy as though she’d swallowed sand. “I wanted to show you that someone wanted me. Wanted to dance with me, wanted to kiss me.” Turning sharply, she stared unrelentingly into his flushed face. “To do all the things I wanted you to do with me.” Her laughter rang with a hollow note. “Even now that we are married you are still reluctant to come to my bed.”

  Standing rooted to the spot, Jack stared into her eyes, spots of red on either cheek, his hands clenching the chair so tightly his knuckles looked white as the moon. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away.

  “The gentleman took me in his arms. He murmured softly that he could make me forget all my hurts.” Her eyes narrowed. “I wanted to forget them, wanted to forget you, Jack. He promised to make me feel like a beautiful woman ought to feel. He called me his beautiful darling.” She could hear him whisper it still.

  “He kissed me again, lingering. I felt so warm inside. When he stroked me through my clothes, I never wanted him to let me go. So he led me over to a pile of hay and laid me down on it.”

  Her husband’s gaze had returned, boring into her. Instead of flinching at the heated scrutiny, she stared back. “I didn’t think it wrong. I only wanted the hurt to go away.”

  “Alethea.”

  For God’s sake, would he stop calling her name? “That was what you wanted to hear, wasn’t it?” She flung the question at him like a dagger, aiming for his miserable heart.

  “Yes.” The word was a whisper. Closing his eyes, Jack massaged his temples.

  Served him right if he had a headache.

  When he dropped his hand, he gazed at her with a softness and a depth of regret she’d never seen in any man’s face. “Did you know he was married?”

  Keeping her chin high, Alethea shook her head. “Not until I saw him dancing with a woman I didn’t know. I asked who she was and my cousin told me.”

  “He is a scoundrel, preying on young, innocent women, Alethea.” Jack’s knuckles threatened to break through the skin of his fists. “For the love of God, tell me who he is so I may stop him from doing this to yet another innocent.”

  A single shake of her head answered him. “I told you before we wed I would not reveal his name. What’s done is done. And you have no proof that he will ever do such a thing to another woman.”

  “If he does not, I will be mightily surprised.” Jack frowned deeply. “Men who seduce innocents seldom stop at one. It becomes a craving.”

  “Anyway, if I told you and you challenged him, there would be talk. My reputation would be lost all the same.”

  “There must be something I can do.” Balling his hand into a fist, he beat upon his leg, as if to punish himself.

  “You have already done that, my lord. You have married me. Though I cannot fathom why.” She cocked her head, contemplating him anew. It still puzzled her. “I suggested your name to Braeton because his other choices were so abhorrent to me and to buy me time before he forced me to marry one of them. And because I felt you somewhat responsible.” Also because despite his repudiation of her, like a moth to a deadly flame, she still wanted his company, his name, his touch, above all others. “I truly never thought you’d do it.”

  “As we are being perfectly candid, Alethea, I will tell you I never thought I’d do it either.” Staring frankly at her, he relaxed at last. “But honor has ever ruled my life and I would have been less than honorable to have turned my back on you when your need was the greatest. Now, seeing that I share a large part of the responsibility for your ruin, I believe it was just and correct that I become part of the remedy to the situation.” The formal Lord Manning had returned as he pressed his lips together tightly. “I will expect you to be ready to travel early in the morning. Breakfast at seven o’clock. We leave at eight. Your servant, my lady.”

  A stiffly formal bow and her husband bolted from the room without a backward glance.

  * * * *

  Striding purposefully down the hall—striding, not fleeing, mind—Jack reached his chambers with his heart beating like a savage’s drum. He burst through the door, startling Thompson so badly the valet dropped the banyan he was holding before the fire to warm. Thankfully the man’s excellent reflexes saved his favorite silver-gray robe from the flames. “Beg pardon, my lord.” He scrutinized the garment and gave a nod. “It didn’t even singe.”

  Jack waved away the apology. It wasn’t Thompson’s fault he’d acted like a wild animal. Pacing to the desk, he poured half a tumbler of brandy, gulped that down, then filled the glass again to the rim. The fiery brew hit his stomach, smoothly exploding in all directions. A second half-tumbler followed the first, leaving another half to sip and appreciate as he pondered the royal mess he found himself in. “Damnation.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord?” Thompson had continued to lay out the banyan and all the rest of his night paraphernalia. The bed was already prepared, covers turned down to Thompson’s exact specifications, sheets ironed and crisply smoothed.

  “Nothing, Thompson.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The lithe young man darted forward, removed his master’s coat and continued the evening ritual of disrobing. Jack stared into the firelight, once again seeing his wife’s face, by turns forlorn and defiant.

  A sip of brandy turned into several swallows. How could such an inexcusable thing have happened? He remembered that conversation with Carmichael, the half-jest that he take his place with Miss Forsythe. At least he’d meant it as a jest. He hadn’t disliked the woman, but he hadn’t wanted to give her hopes of an attachment. In the end, when he’d gone to claim her for the supper dance, she’d been nowhere to be found. Now he knew why.

  At the valet’s signal, Jack sat to have his shoes removed.

  So this impossible situation had been born, to a large extent, from his own efforts not to encourage the woman to believe he would propose. The irony of the situation rebounded and he chuckled. Of course, Miss Forsythe herself and the infamous stranger shared the blame as well. The miserable cur should be shot for taking such gross advantage of a woman so obviously in distress.

  He’d bide his time
and ferret out a way to discover the cad’s identity. He’d have plenty of time to coax information out of his wife. If she would ever speak to him again. And he could question Braeton as to who else was at the Hunt Ball. Work backward from the guest list and come up with a list of likely possibilities. Perhaps he could enlist Reginald Matthews’ help in this. The man must be a genius at putting information together to come up with the correct solution to far graver problems.

  Disrobed at last, Jack raised his arms for Thompson to slide the linen nightshirt over his head. When his man had added the banyan, Jack nodded. “That will do, Thompson. Thank you.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The valet exited, carrying Jack’s wedding clothes.

  Alone, Jack grabbed his glass and replenished it once more, then sat in front of the fire, as though his legs had given away. So many major events and confessions in a single day. His head swirled like a spinning top. Dropping it into his palms, he massaged his face to calm his senses. If only he could snatch one whirling piece, perhaps he could concentrate on it and address it. The most urgent was Alethea herself. He willed the image of her face to mind. Start there.

  If he put all else aside, he had married Alethea for reasons of his own, of his own free accord. Her confession should make no difference in how he’d planned to arrange his marriage. Although he’d not pondered deeply about the marriage save the urgency of Miss Forsythe’s predicament, he found now that a plan had indeed been subtly forming in the back of his head all along.

  Having seen first-hand a marriage where one party disliked the other intensely, he’d resolved to go slowly with Alethea. Become familiar with her and to her. Learn to like her before progressing into an intimacy that might end up hurting her more than not. He was not insensible to the reason she didn’t give for asking him to marry her. She’d developed a tendre for him fairly early in their acquaintance and it had not abated. Her proposal had been another effort to further that obsession with him. It had worked.

  Obviously she had expected more from him tonight. Sorry to disappoint, but he must want to bed her before he actually did. Alethea wasn’t a light woman one took to bed just for the fleeting physical pleasure she would certainly bring. She was his wife and as such deserved more respect than merely a physical craving.