Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction

by Jayne Fresina

  “Oh.”

  “Girls of sixteen,” he muttered, grim, “cannot be trusted.”

  She looked up at him. “The same might be said of some gentlemen who are no longer sixteen, your lordship.”

  “I assure you, Miss Robbins, I can be trusted.”

  Sighing, she finally placed her hand lightly on his arm. It was easier to do so. Less awkward than walking side by side, especially since he kept altering his pace and his stride, making it difficult for Molly to keep up without looking as if she’d imbibed too much punch.

  “No argument to that?” he pushed softly.

  Struggling to remember what he’d just said, she was distracted by the heat of his arm, the hard muscle beneath her hand and his sleeve. “I know you, remember? How is the baroness?” Aha. She was pleased with herself for that recovery.

  “Well enough.”

  She studied his fine profile as he looked away down the path after Lady Anne and Fred, who was laughing at something his companion had said. “Will you tell the Earl of Saxonby about this?”

  “About his sister and your artist? That lanky, fish-faced boy?” He huffed. “It is nothing of concern. Lady Anne is madly in love with some new fellow every week. It never lasts. It is never serious. As soon as he paints her with a crooked nose or a squint eye, she’ll send him packing.”

  Molly turned her gaze back to her feet. It is never serious. No. Just like his affairs. “But Lady Anne’s brother has brought her to London to find a husband. He won’t be pleased to hear of her spending time with a young man like Frederick Dawes, who is amiable but not marriage material for the sister of an earl.”

  “Lady Anne knows what is expected of her. Eventually she will find some portly fellow with deep pockets and marry him.” Carver added, “Some old chap who will never manage to keep up with her but will adore every curl upon her head. Hopefully, for his sake, he will be hard of hearing. Until then, she is like a child running rampant through a bakery, taking a bite of all the wares.” Before she could accuse him of being remarkably casual about Lady Anne’s behavior, he added softly, “No harm will come to her. She has me and her brother to watch over her. We always have, and we always will.”

  “You are close to the Rothespur family.”

  “Since boyhood. Then Sinjun lost his father not long after I lost mine. The misfortune of having little sisters to manage brought us closer.”

  She supposed no one would dare misuse Lady Anne with those two gentlemen guarding her. Especially Carver, who could be very fearsome when he chose. After all, even Molly felt safe when he was beside her. Safe from everything but him, of course.

  Shooting another shy glance upward, she said, “Just as you once watched over her brother? At school?”

  “Yes.”

  “You saved him from bullies.”

  “Hmm.”

  “That was a kindly act, your lordship.”

  “Hmm.”

  A little color had crept up over the high collar of his coat.

  “You are reluctant, I think, to admit yourself capable of good deeds.” She spread her fingers a little over his arm, relaxing her hand.

  It was a softening she regretted in the next moment, for he took advantage of the lapse. Suddenly he drew her into a shallow alcove between the trees and changed the subject. “Have you reviewed the amendments to our contract, Margaret?”

  His eyes were pure silver, gleaming brighter than the gas lamps along the alley. The panther was poised to pounce upon the mouse. He had trapped her there.

  ***

  She was solemn, the lamplight barely enough to touch the side of her face as it tipped upward. “I have, sir.”

  “And?” How cruel she was to make him wait. Carver’s hands found her waist through the soft fabric of her gown. He bent his head until his lips were almost upon hers.

  “I cannot become your mistress. It is not the life I want for myself.”

  He stared down at her, a castaway again.

  “I am sorry if you are disappointed, sir,” she added. “I do hope we can continue as acquaintances, with no hard feelings.”

  “Are you quite mad, woman?”

  “Possibly.” She pressed a gloved finger to his lips. Then, having turned him down flat, she smiled, ducked out from the alcove, and walked onward, leaving him to follow. Her step was jaunty as she looked back over her shoulder, still smiling sweetly, and said, “Look how the trees arch overhead. It’s almost like walking down an aisle, don’t you think? Isn’t the music lovely, your lordship?”

  So was she, he thought churlishly, quickening his stride to catch up. More than one pair of masculine eyes had turned her way as she passed them, and there was no mistaking the open admiration. Damn and blast. He’d arranged all this to get her to Vauxhall Gardens, and now he owed Lady Anne a new bonnet for this service.

  “Miss Margaret Robbins.” He joined her, breathless. “What can be the meaning of running away from me?”

  “Purely self-preservation, your lordship.”

  So she was tempted. “I suppose that’s a start,” he muttered. Again he took her hand and tugged her aside. She gave a small yelp that went unheard by the younger couple, who continued their stroll up ahead. This time he held her more firmly in a niche beside a small fountain. “Acquaintances, Miss Robbins? Is that all you mean to offer me?”

  “Is it not enough?”

  “Certainly not. I’m a grown man, not a boy.” He would not be relegated to “friend” alongside Rafe Hartley and her artist neighbor.

  She groaned and tried to slip out of his grasp. “Did you ask Lady Anne to bring me here this evening? Was this all your plan?”

  He didn’t respond to that question. Didn’t need to. She was too clever not to know the answer. Although it was not his idea to invite that artist fellow along; that was all Lady Anne’s decision. “Miss Robbins, you must be aware of the honor I am willing to bestow upon you. Any other woman would—”

  “I do not mean to be rude, sir, but yet again I must remind you that I am not like those other women.”

  He drew her closer. Margaret glanced anxiously down the path in the direction of Lady Anne, so he turned her face back to him again, made her look at him. “Let me be candid, Miss Robbins,” he said quietly, his fingers on her cheek. “I want you. I want you because you are not those women. I have need of you. Have you any idea what you’ve done to me?”

  “Oh, I wish I knew what I’d done, sir, and then I could be sure to stop doing it.”

  “Don’t push my patience, Miss Robbins. I won’t be toyed with.”

  “That makes two of us, your lordship.” She tried pulling away again, but he kept her firm, his hand moving behind her head, fingers trying the neat pins that held her hair in place tonight.

  “Perhaps I am still too subtle.” He frowned fiercely. “I intend to make you my mistress. I will give you a full wardrobe, a house in Town, complete with staff—anything you desire.” His other hand moved to the small of her back. “Carte blanche.”

  She was staring at his mouth; her eyes were almost sleepy, confused. Finally she said, “I appreciate the frankness, your lordship, and the extreme generosity. But I could not possibly accept the post of your mistress.”

  The smile which had begun to tug at his lips now wilted.

  “I must ask you, sir, not to importune me again in such a manner as you do this evening. As you did when you came to my lodgings. It can do neither of us any good whatsoever.”

  “You said yourself, Miss Robbins, life is short and pleasure hard to come by. Yet you deny yourself that pleasure now with me, out of a wasteful sense of propriety?”

  “Someone in this town ought to be proper.”

  “Unfortunately for me,” he muttered wryly, “it has to be you.”

  She looked pensive. “Do you think it’s easy being a good person in this town?”

  “I’m not asking you to be a bad person. If you were anything other than what you are, Margaret Robbins, I would not want you so
very much.”

  Her brown eyes widened, and he thought he saw a tear forming. How tempting it was not to throw her over his shoulder and run away with her, there and then. Instead, he must be satisfied with holding her trapped for as long as he might get away with it. He was surprised, in fact, that she had not wriggled away again yet or stabbed him with something sharp.

  “But being with you would change me,” she whispered. “Would it not?”

  “It might change me.” Carver spread his fingers against her spine, urging her the last little distance closer. He needed her body against his. There was nothing else for it. “I will catch you, Mouse. I shall not give up. Let this be your warning.”

  ***

  The scent of his shaving soap surrounded her, along with his strength, the potent masculinity he wore with such confident ease. “One kiss,” he whispered.

  “Then you will release me?”

  “Yes.” It was another fib, of course, like before, in his carriage. He wanted more than a kiss. So did she. So much more.

  She went limply into this improper embrace, felt every hard, vital inch of muscle of his body against her, separated merely by a few garments that suddenly seemed only to heighten her desire rather than make any barrier between them.

  Slowly his lips claimed hers, and he held her closer still. She sensed the latent power in his hands, but she was not fearful. Far from it. His kiss breathed new life into her and filled her with vigorous spirit.

  Her fingertips inched up his chest and found his neck, then, tentatively, his jaw. Smooth tonight. Warm. Oh, she hadn’t meant to touch him, but she did. Molly ran her fingers along the sharp line and heard a low sound escape from somewhere deep inside his body. He’d almost lifted her off the ground; her toes barely touched earth.

  As their lips parted, he whispered, “Come to me, Mouse.”

  “I cannot. I will not be another of your conquests.”

  “You are nothing”—his voice broke with frustration—“nothing like them.”

  “But I would be treated just the same.” The words flowed out of her now as if his kiss had unlocked their chains. “I would soon become just what they are, and once you were bored with me, what then? What would I have left?”

  “You will have anything else you desire, Margaret.”

  But that was a lie too. He could not offer her what she truly needed. He could not give her all of him. The Earl of Everscham and a dressmaker? They would be laughed out of every Society drawing room. And even if that did not matter—even if they could somehow survive the ridicule and the scandal—how could she trust that his heart was hers? That in time his eye would not wander, along with his affections?

  At Danforthe House there was glass case containing a perfect model of the naval ship Victory. It still had all its sailors, canons, barrels, and sails. Lady Mercy had told her that it once belonged to an elder brother who died in childhood. Carver was not allowed to play with it or even open the glass case, which is why all the pieces remained intact. As a boy, he could only look at it. She always thought how terribly sad that was.

  But that was the way he had learned to keep his heart safe too. Away from the touch of anyone who might cause it harm.

  So she must remain sensible. “Please let us walk on, your lordship. Folk will notice, and I’d rather not be seen cavorting in dark corners with a notorious rake who treats women with less concern than he treats his boots and no doubt leaves them just as worn down.”

  “I see you have grown bold, Miss Robbins, since you left my employ. You are full of thorns with which to prick me.”

  With an arch smile, she replied, “Thorns, indeed! Do you think it was a bed of roses working in your household, having to hold my tongue every day for twelve years? I have wounds of my own.”

  “And now you have found your voice to retaliate.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” He released her hand. “No wonder you couldn’t wait to escape my house. Such a tyrant I must have been. I’m shocked you did not poison me with cyanide in the wine or smother me with a pillow while I slept.”

  Molly laughed gently. “It was tempting on occasion.” How strange it was to be talking and teasing with him like this. A few months ago she could never have imagined herself to be this playful in his presence, but she liked it. There was no getting around the fact.

  He was looking at her oddly. “How can I tempt you now, Margaret?”

  Her heart thumped wildly, and the more she tried to ignore it the worse it became, more forceful and insistent. Just like him wanting her attention, her submission.

  “They say the prize most worthwhile is hardest won,” he muttered.

  Don’t look into his eyes, she told herself frantically. Don’t let him trap you again. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever worked hard for anything,” she replied saucily, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Until now.”

  Pretending not to hear that last comment, she finally succeeded in leading him out of the niche and back into the striped light of the walk. “Don’t look so depressed, your lordship. We can still be friends—share conversation.” Yes, she wanted that. She wanted to keep talking to him now that she’d begun at last.

  “Conversation?” he exclaimed, clearly horrified.

  “Don’t you ever talk to women?”

  He cursed under his breath and then grumbled, “Not upright.”

  Torn between shock and amusement, she was still considering how to reply to that when a loud voice pierced their quiet moment.

  “Is that you, Danforthe?”

  ***

  Carver groaned inwardly.

  Fletcher Covington, the Duke of Bloody Preston, marched toward them down Druid’s Walk—more commonly known as Lover’s Walk—swinging his cane over the gravel and making more noise than a coach-and-four. Carver was aware of Margaret slipping away, putting herself closer to Lady Anne, partially hiding in shadow. He didn’t look at her, guessing she would not care to be introduced to Covington, and not wanting to share her anyway. He was permitted too little of her company as it was.

  “What are you doing here?” the other man demanded, squinting and puffing as he drew near. “Not with the Baroness Schofield, tonight, I see. You should take care, Danforthe, or someone might steal the lovely lady away from you.”

  He coughed sharply, swallowing another curse. “I am here to escort Lady Anne Rothespur. She wanted to attend the concert.”

  Now Covington spied the young sister of their friend and bowed, pressing the tip of his cane into the gravel. “Charming! Charming! Of course, yes, I do remember Lady Anne.” Then his sly gaze slid to where Margaret stood by an arching yew tree. Her study was restricted to her shoes.

  “This is my friend Miss Robbins,” Anne blurted and then went on to introduce Frederick Dawes, but Covington took no pains to hide his disinterest in the latter.

  “Why, this must be the skilled dressmaker of whom I hear so much.” He grinned at Carver.

  “Yes. Quite. I believe Miss Robbins is a very talented and successful designer and seamstress.” Carver put his hands behind his back and assumed a careless, casual pose with his feet apart.

  “Interesting. Interesting! Yes, indeed.”

  He didn’t like the way Covington was looking at her. Leering might be a more apt word.

  “And here we all are on Lover’s Walk,” the duke pointed out, tapping his cane on the gravel. “Surely the ladies won’t mind if I join you. Or am I interrupting the cozy foursome?”

  For a moment no one spoke, and then Margaret said, “I think we should go back toward the pavilion and find chairs, Lady Anne. You won’t want to miss the rest of the concert.” Taking the young girl’s arm, she led her back the way they’d already walked.

  Carver was thwarted. His plan ruined, he could only watch and admire from a distance. It did nothing to diminish his growing desire for her. If this was indeed her scheme to seduce him, render him her slave, it was working.

  Thirteen


  For the Duke of Sutherland’s ball, Molly had six gowns to finish, and each one must be unique and charming. With only the well-meaning efforts but very poor skills of Mrs. Slater to cause more hindrance than help, she feared never being finished on time. And then a miracle occurred. Mr. Edward Hobbs sent his young nieces to her. Introduced as two parson’s daughters from Aylesbury, Emma and Kate were speedy, efficient, and tidy needlewomen. Arriving in London to visit their uncle, they were eager for a chance to make use of themselves.

  “I did not know you had any family, Mr. Hobbs.” She’d never suspected it, because he devoted all his time working for the Danforthes, getting them out of various scrapes.

  “I do hope the girls are adequate,” was his only reply.

  Adequate? They were lifesavers.

  They came to her lodgings early every afternoon and stayed often until past midnight. Mr. Hobbs sent a carriage to bring them to and fro. The extra hands meant that she required less from Mrs. Slater, but the lady still came up to help with the trimmings, bringing her noisy baby with her. Frederick called in some evenings, but she was too busy to stop work and chat with him. Sometimes he made sketches of the ladies at their work, surrounded by a flurry of muslin, silk, and taffeta.

  Mrs. Lotterby braved the steep, crooked stairs at least once a day, bringing little treats for Molly and her assistants—hot chocolate and apple dumpling if it was cold out, lemonade and caraway seed cake if the weather was warm. Discovering that Molly shared her fondness for marzipan, the landlady bought some for her whenever she could. A pig being fattened for honorable slaughter at the harvest feast could not have been better cosseted.

  Meanwhile, across the landing, Mrs. Bathurst’s haven of memories fed Molly’s mind with inspiration, just as heartily as Mrs. Lotterby fed her stomach. From the colors of her old moth-bitten ball gowns, to the tarnished gleam of her rings and chokers, Mrs. Bathurst provided Molly with a glimpse into another world, a place inhabited by lusty Hungarian princes, somber British Naval heroes, fiery-tempered Russian Cossacks, a tough-skinned Highland gillie, and two romantic Italian sculptors.