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

by Ingrid Hahn

  When his father died, she’d mourned appropriately. Then she’d blossomed to life. He swallowed, saying a swift prayer that he—Jeremy—wouldn’t do to Eliza what his father had done to his mother. It was paramount he remained in control.

  “How was Bath?”

  “Oh, you know. Bath.” His mother shrugged. “When do you suppose would be the right time for me to pay a visit to your bride?”

  “I’d quite forgotten you hadn’t met her yet. That will have to be remedied.” His mother and Eliza were going to get along like jam on cake.

  Isabel excused herself. Jeremy spent a good hour with his mother before going to seek out his cousin. He found her in the lesser drawing room, the one that his mother had dedicated to all the things she loved without care of fashion or elegance. It was not quite the thing, such a room, but his mother had never cared.

  On the wall were pictures he and Arthur had drawn as children. Other sundry items decorated the room. Little things they’d collected from traveling to this place or that. Things that helped her remember times she’d been happy, she said.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Isabel gave him an arch look. “If you think you have anything to say to me this time that will change my mind—”

  “Actually, I want to know if you know anything about a particular person.”

  She sat back in her chair, but she didn’t relax. Her eyes shone with a sort of ruthless intelligence that said very plainly no person—especially no male—should underestimate her. “I know a lot of things about a lot of people.”

  By contrast, few people knew about Isabel. His mother, of course. She’d known since the beginning, not sanctioning the arrangement—so she claimed—as much as giving Isabel a safe place to do something she was not going to be stopped from doing. Apparently, Isabel’s youngest sister, Phoebe, had found out. And somehow, so had Phoebe’s now husband, Max. Jeremy didn’t have the whole story, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it. Knowing would undoubtedly make him worry after his cousin’s safety.

  “What about a man named Sir Domnall Gow?”

  She considered a moment. “A distinct name. I’ve heard it, I believe.”

  Jeremy frowned, perfectly prepared to play any game Isabel wished for information. “What will it take for you to know something about the man?”

  If Isabel could have given him a sharper look, she’d have drawn blood. “That’s not what I mean, cousin. What I mean is, I have heard the name. I don’t know anything else. He must not come into Abraham’s place. But I can, if you wish, try to find out.”

  Abraham. Ire heated Jeremy’s blood at the casual way she mentioned the Christian name of the man who’d enslaved her. If Jeremy ever met the man, his control would be sorely tested indeed.

  “Would you?” Considering the strength of the clash they’d experienced when he’d first discovered her double life, it was rather surprising she’d offer anything to the likes of him.

  “Consider it an olive branch. Grace is always going on about needing to forgive and move on. I suppose I can practice her philosophy on you. See how it feels.”

  Jeremy cracked a small smile at her lightly teasing tone. “I appreciate it, cousin.”

  “Also, I assume it must be important for you to have come to me.”

  “It is important.” The expression on Eliza’s face when Sir Domnall had entered that room would haunt Jeremy to his grave. “Very important.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  That night, Jeremy once again found himself on the other side of his wife’s door. That he was in Lady Rushworth’s house drew some compunction against knocking, but not enough to stop him. Fully aware of a husband and wife’s right to make love when and where they pleased—observing the basic rules of decency, of course—he rapped lightly.

  When the answer came, anticipation kicked his heart up a notch.

  The room was smaller than expected. Or maybe it was that there were fewer candles lit than there ought to have been, drawing the shadows inward.

  At the dressing table, his wife sat.

  It was quiet and intimate. They were alone in her bedroom, and she was going to prepare for bed. Bed. Where he would join her.

  “I—” He picked up the dog, who’d scampered up to him, and then addressed his wife. “You look tired.”

  “Not precisely a compliment, my lord.” Eliza rose, still wearing the pale-pink gown she’d donned for dinner. It made him think of the morning in the orangery, and the little buds about to bloom on the bush that had grown wild with neglect.

  The pup squirmed and whined, wiggling to free himself of Jeremy’s grasp and return to his mistress.

  “Here, Daisy.” Eliza extracted the little dog, who strained upward with all its might until it was close enough to lick her chin. His wife laughed and pulled away.

  “You haven’t found another name, have you?”

  She held the dog out to study him. “Everything about her says Daisy to me.”

  Daisy’s tail wagged, and his tongue lolled happily as he panted. Eliza righted one of the silky ears that had gone amiss.

  Who was Jeremy to say that the dog wasn’t a Daisy? The little brown-and-white creature didn’t seem distressed by the name. Nor by the incorrect pronoun, either.

  “If he doesn’t mind, who am I to mind for him?”

  A smile tugged on Eliza’s lips. “There. You see, Daisy? He might not understand, but he isn’t unreasonable. What a good man your papa is.”

  The word jolted Jeremy down to the tips of his toes. Daisy, however, was looking at Jeremy as if he…she…he were phenomenally underwhelmed by the prospect of having Jeremy for anything.

  Papa. Lord in heaven, Jeremy wanted an heir, sure enough, but he’d always thought of himself as Father. Stern and distant, and, most importantly, uninvolved. Papa, though, threw a whole slew of images before his eyes—children in his arms. Laughter. Eliza by his side, glowing with love and pride in their offspring.

  His body was quite ready to begin making that scenario a reality immediately.

  The part of him that still held firm in the court of rational thinking fought against the notion of impregnating Eliza too early. He’d have to share her with a child soon enough. For now, she was his. Maybe they could have a couple of—no, a trio of daughters before they had a boy. That would necessitate keeping her close.

  “What’s this?” Jeremy picked up the book left open on the bedside table, eyes going over words he hadn’t thought about since Oxford. It was the New Testament. But not in English. “You read Greek?”

  “Mmm.” She nodded. “My mother wanted me to read Scripture every day. After I’d gone through once, I didn’t want to go through again. My father helped us strike a compromise to reengage me with the material. He had some trouble finding a tutor who would agree to teach me, but he did. Now I continue, so I can keep in practice. I’m not very good, I must own. I only muddle through, but it amuses me. I prefer the original words to translations.”

  He took his wife’s hands, pressing her fingers to his lips. In his semiaroused state, he had to tread carefully. Lovemaking in the early evening hours might shock her. She wasn’t like the ready and willing women he’d taken to bed before he married. Eliza was a lady.

  Lord help him, she’d turned him into a bumbling fool. Their marriage was supposed to have been about convenience—in so far as he and she were ever supposed to have been married to begin with. That aside, he would like to enjoy the intimate side of their relationship. He’d like her to enjoy it just as much.

  Whatever had happened at the ball the other night and then at Lord Corbeau’s—there would be time enough to delve into that later. Heedless of anything else, he pulled her closer and pressed his lips against hers. The scent of crushed rose petals made his blood run all the hotter.

  Against him, Eliza froze.

  He stood back, looking away and stinging with shame for being unable to control himself. “Forgive me, my lady.”

  She turned away.
Head bent, she occupied herself by neatening the arrangement of the items atop the dressing table. Her cheeks had bloomed with a dark-red stain. “There’s nothing to forgive, I’m sure.”

  “Around you I—well, I can’t make excuses for myself, so I won’t.”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t mind knowing what you think.”

  “It’s not about what I think.” He ran his fingers through his hair. His voice was gravelly—full of need enough to betray him to any woman slightly more experienced in worldly matters than his wife. “It’s how I feel around you.”

  “And how is that, pray tell?” She still wasn’t looking at him.

  “Please don’t make me tell you.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  Afraid? What sort of man would he be to admit to such a feeling? Then again, what sort of man would he be if he didn’t?

  “I am rather. Yes.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of frightening you, my lady.”

  She slid her gaze to him then. Their eyes met. Heat rushed downward, tightening his lower belly. “It’s just…well, we’re still dressed and…”

  Then the door opened. Margaret’s eyes went as big as two hardboiled eggs.

  “Oh…” Eliza waved offhandedly. “I don’t think it will be necessary tonight. I can manage for myself.”

  Margaret’s gaze remained fixed on her young mistress, but Jeremy would have sworn he caught a flicker of understanding go through her features.

  Eliza couldn’t have missed it, either, for her whole face went red. “That will do, Margaret, thank you.”

  The maid held out a box. “This came for you just now, my lady. Messenger said it was urgent.”

  The rustle of Eliza’s skirts seemed abnormally loud as she crossed the room.

  A tremor of jealousy upset Jeremy’s equilibrium. “From an admirer?”

  She took the parcel from her maid and turned to shrug at him. “I haven’t the first idea. Margaret, was there a note?”

  “None, my lady.”

  Jeremy found a penknife in his pocket and offered it to Eliza. At the dressing table, she slipped the blade under the twine and the string fell away. Inside the box was a basket of some of the most beautiful cherries Jeremy had ever seen.

  Eliza stepped backward with a gasp, hand to her throat. The penknife clattered on the floor. She’d gone pale.

  Before he could ask what could be so upsetting about a basket of cherries, she’d thrust the box into Margaret’s waiting arms. “I need you to find pigs.”

  The maid blinked at her mistress. “Pigs, my lady?”

  “What the devil is this about, Eliza?”

  She ignored him. “Yes, Margaret, pigs. I want you to pour these into the pen and watch them devour every last one. Can you do that?”

  The little woman nodded, expression fraught with concern. “Of course, my lady.”

  “Oh, I know, it seems a terrible waste. But don’t eat a single one. I’ll buy you all the fruit you could possibly wish for. Just make sure that you don’t eat a single one of these. Do you understand?”

  The maid gave her promise and disappeared, shutting the door behind her. Silence fell over the room.

  Eliza pressed her hand to her head. She still hadn’t looked at him.

  “I think it’s time you told me exactly what is going on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The time had come. Eliza could hide no longer.

  They couldn’t put off consummating the union forever. He wanted an heir. She was his wife. That’s what lords and ladies did. They brought new people into the world to act as stewards to money and property. It was an odd thing, when one thought about it.

  Not that it mattered now. She was about to lay herself bare. The small measure of something between them that seemed to have taken root would be obliterated forever. He’d hate her. She’d be more exposed than ever, but completely alone.

  Lord Bennington’s expression was dark. “What is so distressing about a basket of cherries that you direct your maid to feed them to pigs?”

  “I hate cherries.” Her voice emerged far more wobbly than she’d have liked. It was difficult to keep the onslaught of emotions from spilling over. “But I didn’t always.”

  He stepped closer.

  Part of her wished she could throw herself in his arms and let him stroke her while she cried tears she hadn’t let fall for more than a decade. Another part of her wished he’d locked the door before kissing her and that she had melted against him instead of turning to stone. If only telling him about her lack of virginity wasn’t the right thing to do.

  He’d despise her forever.

  She took Daisy into her arms and stroked the silky ears. At least she had her dog.

  “If your former fiancé used you and tossed you aside…” He spoke gently, though it seemed he had to exert great effort to do so. His tone would be so different when he knew.

  Eliza shook her head. “It’s worse, I’m afraid.”

  His mouth set, and he looked grim. His eyes darkened as he sighed, as if she was about to delve into the unthinkable. “I’m already imagining the worst.”

  “I don’t think you are. Because when I tell you, you’ll be shocked. I’m sorry for trapping you with me. For behaving so dishonorably—”

  “And you think this is worse, do you?”

  Her face stung, and her stomach was hollow. “About the worst thing possible.”

  “The worst thing possible is betrayal. I don’t think we’ve been married long enough for you to have had any indiscretions.”

  “Please, my lord. Stop talking. This is terribly difficult. I know I must tell you, and you’re not making it any easier.”

  His mouth set in a resigned line. “Very well. If you’re ready.”

  She’d never be ready.

  With a deep breath, she began. At the beginning. The last place she ever wanted her memories to return. “The summer I was fourteen, my parents were fighting. They almost completely ignored me. I thought I’d become invisible to them, and I hated them for the animosity and hostility and for not hiding it well enough in front of the servants and for forgetting about me. We were in the country, and I was left almost entirely to my own devices. And I met a man. An older man…who, well, he was—that is, I thought he was kind. I thought he liked me.”

  “He forced himself—”

  “No.” The memory tore at her insides. “It was nothing like that. It was worse. I wanted to…well, he treated me in this way that…I can’t describe it. I felt like I was the center of his world and he told me…” The story wasn’t coming together. She could only hang her head, burning with the hellfire of her acute shame. “I was lonely. I thought I loved him, and I thought that’s what people who loved each other did.”

  Maybe what she’d done—what she’d allowed herself to do—had been in no small part because she’d wanted to hurt her parents.

  What a price she’d had to pay for her rank stupidity.

  There was a silent interlude in which it appeared for all the world as if Lord Bennington would turn and leave. Which would make everything so much worse.

  “He was that man with Lady Tutsby at Lord Corbeau’s house, wasn’t he? And you saw him that night—at the ball—didn’t you?”

  She gave a small nod. “Yes.”

  “And the cherries? A present to win you back?”

  “No. I’m far too old for him now.” She shook her head. “It was a warning.”

  “A warning?”

  “To keep silent. And to stay away. That if I try to tell anyone, he’ll ruin me all over again.”

  Lord Bennington’s face finally flushed with the anger she’d been expecting. She braced herself for the ugly words to come.

  When he did speak, it was from between clenched teeth. The jeweled depths of his eyes burned with blue fire. “I’ll gut the rutting bastard.”

  …

  Jeremy shook with unspent rage. It was the closest he’d ever felt to being read
y to commit murder. That place in the center of his chest that he preferred to be completely numb instead wept with anguish for the girl who’d been hurt by a monster.

  A thousand years of burning in the fiery pits of hell wouldn’t begin to punish the bastard for what he’d done to her. The thought of that man holding power over Eliza any longer—no matter how tenuous—made Jeremy want to take the man by the throat and squeeze until he heard the bones of his neck crack. It should have frightened him, the force of just how much he wanted another human being to suffer.

  Back in his school days, Jeremy had been disgusted with that old Greek hero Achilles, for black anger Jeremy couldn’t comprehend. He’d hated The Iliad and had annoyed tutors and Oxford dons alike with his outspoken disdain. The man ought to have controlled himself better. So Jeremy had always thought.

  What a fool he’d been. He’d been too young, too inexperienced to comprehend. Finally, he understood what it was to feel real anger.

  In the bloodred haze of fury, he wanted to demand every last detail from her. What had happened? Would she ever be able to—well, not love again, for that was foolish. He wouldn’t wish that upon her, not when he could never return the feeling. Love meant loss of control. That he could never risk. His uncle’s compulsion to return to the card table night after night, gambling away everything, loving and hating what he did while wanting to stop and never having the strength to do so—that was lesson enough.

  Jeremy was awash with helplessness, which only complicated and intensified the tempest of emotions in which he’d been caught.

  In the mix with everything else was the vague awareness that the sin of her deception had diminished. Overtaken him was the sensation that she was his wife. His. Wife. And someone had hurt her in one of the most heinous ways possible.

  His stomach dropped. That night at the ball—he’d behaved horribly. “It’s not all right.”

  She paled, and her gaze fell to the floor. Her voice came out soft and shaky. “I know, my lord. I know. And I’m so sorry that—”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing.”