To Seduce a Lady’s Heart (The Landon Sisters)

by Ingrid Hahn

  Eliza had to do something. She couldn’t see her cousin suffer like this. She could not.

  But what?

  The answer didn’t come until a few hours after she’d gone to bed.

  Or an answer, at any rate. It probably wasn’t enough. But to sit idly by and let this happen without trying anything—however desperate—was out of the question.

  Eliza lit a candle and silently crept through the house, pausing at her cousin’s door to press her ear against the wood panel. No sounds of crying. That was something, at least.

  In the sitting room, Eliza sat at the escritoire and withdrew a clean sheet of paper, opened the inkwell, and gently dipped the nib of her pen in the black ink.

  She paused, considering how to address him. Was this formal correspondence? Unlikely. It was beyond the pale for her to be writing to a man to whom she was not related.

  My lord,

  You must not, under any circumstances, marry Lady Rushworth’s niece. Doing so would be a terrible mistake.

  Frowning, she paused. That wouldn’t be enough to convince him to leave off. But what else could she say?

  She underlined not once. Then again.

  Still not enough.

  She bent and scratched the pen against the paper some more.

  Let me assure you, her heart belongs to another. Call off this scheme at once. A small scandal is nothing compared to two lives being forever ruined. Marrying her ladyship’s ward would be the very worst thing you could do for yourself or her. Please, my lord, I beg you—call off this foolishness. Allow her to make the love match she deserves.

  There. Now the question was whether or not she should sign her name.

  No. Absolutely not.

  But then, how could he take assurances from an unnamed person?

  It would have to do. To write such a letter at all was an enormous risk. Signing her name would be far too incriminating. Even were she not found out, he would know. A man who’d agree to marry a woman to pay a debt could not be considered trustworthy.

  Eliza blotted, folded the sheet, and sealed the note with a wafer.

  Back in her bedchamber, she rang the bell.

  “Margaret, pray forgive me.” Eliza rose when the rumpled face of her sleep-worn maid appeared. “No doubt you’ve heard what my mother intends for Christiana.”

  Margaret paused a moment, seemingly unwilling to admit what everyone knew—that the servants gossiped worse than fishwives on a Monday. At last, she muttered something circumspect.

  Eliza drew a breath. “What I’m asking of you—well, you have every right to say no to my request, you understand. I will not fault you.”

  The maid drew herself up, scowling as if suddenly altogether more alert. She was small of stature, but Lord help the man, woman, or beast who underestimated her. Ferocity, thy name was Margaret. “I’m not afraid of anything, my lady.”

  Luckily for Eliza, that fierceness extended to Margaret’s loyalty to her mistress as well.

  “It’s the dead of night. Are you sure?”

  “I’m not a fool, my lady. I know how to navigate dangers.”

  “Very good. I need this delivered to Lord Bennington.” She handed over the note. “I need it delivered to his hands and nobody else’s, and I need assurance that he reads it.”

  A note like this couldn’t be left to languish on a pile of unopened post. Or, worse, be read by someone in the earl’s employ.

  At her dressing table, Eliza dug through the banknotes in her box of pin money until she found several large coins at the bottom. “One is for you. Spend the rest as you must, to see the task completed. Anything left you may keep.”

  When Margaret had gone, Eliza slept, but fitfully. Various scenarios of how the earl might react to the letter coiled through her mind again and again, bringing with them sharp turns of emotion. One minute she was certain of success. The next, certain of failure.

  By first light, she’d had quite enough and tried to amuse herself with a book.

  She jumped at the sound of her door opening. Christiana stood there, her face red and swollen with tears. She sniffed. “I thought you might be awake.”

  Eliza stood and opened her arms for her cousin. “Come here.”

  Christiana settled in the embrace, tears flowing freely, soaking the shoulder of Eliza’s night rail.

  At last, she pulled back and wiped her face. “I won’t be able to bear it. I won’t. I can’t be parted from Tom, I can’t. Whenever I think of that horrid old earl…” Her speech dissolved into incomprehensible sounds as crying overtook her once again.

  If Eliza had anything to say about it, her cousin wouldn’t have to marry “that horrid old earl”—even though to Eliza, who was six and twenty herself, Lord Bennington didn’t seem so old.

  She dug her teeth into her lip, repeating a silent prayer that her note had reached the man by now—that he’d reconsidered, seen the folly of letting Lady Rushworth control him, and would appear on their doorstep by breakfast to call the whole thing off.

  “We’ll find a way.” Eliza spoke from the depths of her soul. Somehow she would see to it this wedding did not happen. “You have my promise. You won’t marry him.”

  Christiana shook her head. “Tom and I should run away to Scotland. That’s what we should have done in the first place. Or to America.”

  “No. It won’t come to that.” Being driven from the lives they led and loved because of one person’s distaste for their union didn’t seem right. “We’ll find a way out—a proper way out.”

  “How did you endure living when…” Christiana trailed off, giving Eliza a careful look.

  There was no question as to what her cousin was referring, though nobody in the house but Lady Rushworth ever dared broach the subject.

  Once, a long time ago, Eliza had been engaged. Now it seemed like that life had been lived by someone else and she’d only stood on the side watching. “You mean when I lost Captain Pearson?”

  Christiana gave a shy nod.

  Oh, but her situation did not compare to her cousin’s. Eliza had discovered for herself the foolishness of thinking she could ever be loved by a man.

  The burning shame at the remembrance came flooding back, as if the engagement had ended but yesterday.

  Used, Captain Pearson had spat before walking out of her life forever. Ruined. No man is going to want a whore like you.

  In one regard, Eliza was utterly alone—always had been, always would be. She couldn’t tell anyone what she’d done. Not again. She’d tried once, with her former beloved, thinking that she owed her future husband the truth about her lack of virginity.

  Thank all that was holy she’d told him while they were still merely engaged. If she had told him after they’d married, who knew what misery he might have made her life. The man had a vindictive streak. For her transgression, he might have punished her all the rest of her days.

  But she was saved the trouble of having to answer by Margaret’s appearance. The maid’s significant look sent a jolt through Eliza.

  Eliza returned her attention to Christiana. “You return to bed, my dear, and try to sleep.”

  “There is no way I shall ever be able to sleep again. Not until I know I won’t have to marry him.”

  “I promise you that won’t happen.”

  “But what can you do to prevent it?” Christiana’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Everything in my power.” She prayed she could come up with something to uphold her pledge. “Everything.”

  Something in Eliza’s voice must have assured the girl. That or weariness was finally having the better of her. She gave a halfhearted nod before leaving.

  Margaret was scowling. Eliza didn’t know what to make of the look. “Well?”

  For one breathless moment, Eliza thought Margaret had failed, and her head swirled as though she might have to sit down. But from a hidden pocket in her skirts, the maid withdrew a folded message.

  A reply. The paper tore as Eliza ripped the red
wax seal.

  Matters of the heart have always seemed to me the most foolish consideration in a match.

  That was all. No signature. Not even an initial. Nothing.

  Eliza wrinkled her nose. She could have sat for a year inventing possible replies to her note, and she would not have come close to considering this one.

  It took a minute, but it finally dawned on her that she had written about Christiana’s heart belonging to another. To that was what he’d chosen to reply?

  He hadn’t said he wasn’t going to call off the marriage. But he hadn’t said he wouldn’t, either. Was she a fool to believe there might be hope?

  Before she knew what she was doing, she was back at the escritoire, pen in hand.

  You are wrong, my lord. Heartily wrong, and I do not beg your forgiveness in pointing this out to you. Matters of the heart are the most important consideration in marriage.

  Poppycock. Eliza might once have believed in matters of the heart. Whether she did or not now, however… The most that could be said was a part of her wanted to believe, if only for her cousin’s sake.

  The “horrid old earl” need not know her true mind. What mattered was that he did not marry Christiana.

  Eliza’s heart started beating as her anger went from a simmer to a boil. Who did this man think he was, to agree to such a preposterous notion as paying a debt by taking a bride? Such things weren’t done—they simply weren’t.

  A fierce wave of protectiveness for Christiana washed over her. She would save her cousin. She would.

  The tip of Eliza’s pen split from the pressure she exerted upon it. It was not so terrible that it needed mending. It only made the lines thicker and darker, which suited her current mood perfectly.

  But I do not pretend that I will sway your opinion. Indeed, that is not my object in writing to you. Matters of the heart might well be the very last consideration you might have for matrimony. They are, however, the very first consideration of the lady in question. You must respect her feelings. You owe it to both her and yourself to do so. Think of which is the greater honor—clearing out some debt or saving two people from an unwanted marriage? Clearly people matter far more than anything else. If you can’t see that, and you force an unwilling woman into marriage, you’ll never again be able to call yourself a gentleman. Then you can take your absurd notions of what is honorable all the way to damnation.

  Chapter Two

  Call himself a gentleman?

  Jeremy was in his library where, for the second time in the last five hours, that strange messenger had called, insisted on seeing nobody but him, and delivered an unsigned note.

  He crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed the ball into the empty fireplace. His pulse pounded hard enough to block out every other sound.

  How dare this person say such a thing to him? His teeth clenched.

  He looked back to the messenger—a small woman of about thirty, with unremarkable features, and a steely look in her narrow, unblinking eyes. “Enough of this absurd game. Tell me who sent this and tell me at once.”

  “You couldn’t pay me enough to say, my lord.”

  “Is that supposed to be a hint? Is it money you want?”

  Her jaw set. There was a long silence.

  He put his back to her and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  One who hides behind the cowardice of unsigned notes has little standing where right and honorable behavior is concerned.

  Four hours later, the messenger returned a third time. Jeremy sighed, pushed his empty coffee cup away, and opened his hand to receive the note.

  You compare unsigned notes to marrying a woman who would rather see herself dead than be your bride? Have you no heart?

  The question required but a single word.

  No.

  Business took Jeremy out for the remainder of the day—business being going to the Doctors’ Commons to see the archbishop about a special license. The trip illuminated one critical oversight: he didn’t know the name of his bride.

  The clerk met the revelation with incredulous surprise. “Don’t know the name of the lady to whom you’re about to be married?”

  For the first time in memory, Jeremy was speechless. He’d been so rattled by being forced into agreeing to marry to clear the debt, he’d never asked—and hadn’t realized his oversight until standing there attempting to apply for a special license. He could ill afford such slips. For one thing, he didn’t want anyone to have any ability to rattle him. Least of all, Lady Rushworth. More importantly, if he began making mistakes in smaller matters, what would stop him from making mistakes in more important ones?

  The clerk tutted, peering over his spectacles at Jeremy. “Most irregular, my lord. Most irregular. Did you think we didn’t have to verify that you were both eligible to wed before the license could be issued?”

  Later that day, without having procured the license, he indulged in a ride through the park at the fashionable hour. The uncomfortable incident with the clerk still stung his pride, so the choice might not have been the best. As much as he loved riding his horse, Poseidon, walking the beast through crowds of people was not helping to relax him. Since inheriting the title, he’d come to know very few of them. Almost none, in fact. And the odd squints he received—like people couldn’t quite place him—were proof enough of that.

  Jeremy had little use for Society. He’d spent ten years absorbed in nothing but the tangled affairs of the estate, having had but a few months between the end of his schooling and his uncle’s death. His birth and station placed him firmly among these people. The stain of his uncle’s scandal placed him outside them all, regardless of his title.

  He wasn’t certain he cared.

  The scandal rankled, that was true. To be so harshly judged by the actions of another…they were small concerns. Petty. Why people buried their heads in such matters when the country was at war, while a mad king sat on the throne, while the American president had put an embargo on trade relations, and the prime minister had been outright murdered just outside the House of Commons…

  Jeremy’s grip on the reins tightened. Poseidon was a dark bay stallion, highly trained and sensitive to the slightest change in his rider, and the creature stopped at Jeremy’s slight movement. He relaxed his hands back into a proper position for holding the leathers and urged the horse forward.

  As much as he wanted to put the problem aside for the afternoon, the thoughts of his impending marriage, his pride, and those letters wouldn’t fully dissolve from his mind.

  Those letters. Those letters. Every female face made him wonder—was that the woman who’d been sending him the unsigned notes?

  The truth was, he needed to see who would write in passionate defense of someone she loved. All the talk of hearts and love matches aside, he admired her boldness.

  Returning from the rather dull turn of the park, Jeremy handed his things over to the butler, a thin-haired man who muttered complaints about rheumatism when he thought others couldn’t overhear. “Did that little messenger return while I was out, Templeton?”

  “No, my lord.”

  Perhaps the plague of unwanted notes had come to an end.

  Which didn’t solve the problem of the restlessness in Jeremy’s bones. He wanted to prowl London and hunt for the woman who’d penned those words to him.

  He shouldn’t have been unsettled. He knew his own mind well enough. As an earl, he’d long been reconciled to the fact that one day he’d marry. When he did, he was under no delusion of undertaking the obligation for any reasons but the most practical.

  Marrying to pay a debt had never occurred to him, but it would do as well as anything else.

  And yet, that talk of hearts and love…he wanted to rebel against the wrongness of it.

  Tomorrow he would do what he should have done in the beginning. He’d have the messenger followed.

  Later that night, Jeremy was in his bath when Templeton appeared. Nobody interrupted Jeremy’s bath—not ever.


  He knew at once why the servant dared to break the rule.

  “Another note?”

  “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord, but I thought you would want to see it immediately.”

  He sat up, steaming water rippling around him. “I’m surprised the messenger allowed it to be taken by anybody but me.”

  “She clearly struggled with herself before doing so. However, she seemed less keen on seeing you in your bath than on not delivering the message.”

  “She’s waiting?” Jeremy, wiping his wet hands on the nearby linen, took the note from the silver tray Templeton held and slid his finger under the asymmetrical globule of sealing wax.

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  Jeremy scanned his eyes over the words.

  My mistake, my lord, in thinking you might have a heart. It’s perfectly clear to me now that one who would agree to such a dastardly scheme, who would marry a woman he knows to be unwilling, could not possibly possess one, and I am left only to be ashamed of myself for having not seen as much sooner.

  Since you have admitted your deficit, let me instead act on your reason—you are possessed of reason, are you not?

  I’ll proceed as if the answer is yes.

  Marrying an unwilling woman is barbaric. This is the nineteenth century. You are not a knight bound by oath to a tyrannical queen. You are an earl. Not an earl in the highest standing, true, but that is no fault of yours.

  Knowing what I do of your family—and it’s more than you might think, more than perhaps you yourself know—you want nothing to do with even the slightest hint of scandal.

  What you also don’t know, or perhaps, don’t want to admit, is that the situation you’re walking into has the rank odor of scandal emanating from it. If you’re going to be a selfish clod concerned solely with yourself, you’d best consider what it will mean when people find out what you’ve done to this poor woman.

  And they will find out. I’ll publish far and wide. Just consider—soon you’ll be known across the kingdom as having done the unthinkable. Nobody could believe you capable of upstaging your late uncle. You think you’re disgraced now. You wait. You’re about to prove them all wrong.