After the Abduction

by Sabrina Jeffries

  It could be, he thought, but didn’t say it. He mustn’t scare her off before he’d even begun courting her.

  “Besides,” she added, “I wouldn’t know how.”

  “I sincerely doubt that. For one thing, you understand women better than I do.”

  “You could understand them better, too, if you’d invite some to visit once in a while. Even bachelors have house parties. I’m surprised you don’t.”

  “No one wants to traipse all the way from London to Shropshire for that.”

  No one he wanted, anyway. After seeing so-called proper society women leap into bed with his father at the drop of a handkerchief, he’d had no interest in ladies of quality. Or in the other sort either. His determination to avoid his father’s shameful behavior had kept him from taking a mistress locally. In London, he’d had a few discreet encounters with light skirts, but here he lived a monkish life, pouring his passions into gun design.

  But perhaps he’d been too hasty in cutting himself off from society. With Juliet flitting about, tormenting him…exciting him…he felt the absence of gently bred women in his life most acutely. He could use a wife, and Charnwood Hall a mistress.

  Especially if it was Juliet. Her very presence brightened the hall, softened its edges. And considering what he owed her, the least he could do was marry her.

  As if she could read his mind, she tilted her head up suddenly and flashed him a mischievous look. “We’ve wandered far afield, my lord. I thought you were supposed to be giving me a lesson.”

  “Ah, yes.” He smiled. “Although I’m not sure you need it. Judging from the conversation at lunch, I’d say you were quite adept at recognizing scoundrels. It sounds as if you had perfectly good reasons for rejecting your suitors.”

  “That was only five of them,” she remarked.

  “How many have you refused?”

  Her brow furrowed in thought. “Let me see…there was Mr. Rowland, the banker’s son from York. And Lord Ferguson and Sir Patrick Welch, although I suspect both of them were only interested in my dowry. Then there was that count from Italy…whatever was his name…”

  “I get the point.” How many blasted men had courted her, anyway? Not that it surprised him. Who could blame any marriage-minded gentleman for wanting an angel like her gracing his table and sharing his bed? “Were they all as bad as your brother-in-law said?”

  “They all had some characteristic I disliked, but whether they were truly bad is anybody’s guess. Rosalind says no; Griff says yes. I have no idea. Which is why I need you, isn’t it?”

  He wanted her needing him for something else entirely, but this was a start. “Perhaps you should begin by telling me what aspects of their courtships gave you the most trouble.” That would enable him to avoid his predecessors’ mistakes.

  She tipped up her chin and stared at him with her new, unnervingly direct gaze. “Well, there are the compliments, for one thing. Men always give me compliments, but I never know when they’re sincere.”

  “What does it matter? If a man shades the truth in his compliments to a woman, that doesn’t mean he’s insincere in his interest. It only means he’s aiming to win, and he’ll say what he must to achieve that goal. One might almost call it admirable.”

  She arched her delicate eyebrows. “You’re quite the cynic.” She leaned back against the settee, an impish smile curving up her lips. “Or is that what you do when you’re trying to win a woman—shade the truth? Use subterfuge?”

  By thunder, when had naive Juliet become a flirt? There was some hidden meaning in her question, yet all he could focus on was that lovely, kissable mouth. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Aren’t we?” She ran her finger along the settee cushion, and he felt it as clearly as if she’d stroked his thigh. “Very well, consider it mere curiosity. Tell me what you’d say to gain a woman, Sebastian. If you wanted to court me, for example, how would you ‘shade the truth’?”

  He stared hard at her. Had she guessed that courtship was his aim? Or was she merely toying with him? “I wouldn’t shade the truth with you. There’d be no need.”

  “Thank you very much,” she said in mock reproof. “You must be quite sure of yourself if you think I’d be such an easy conquest.”

  He hid a smile. “Not at all. I only meant it would be impossible to praise you falsely. You exceed every standard by which a man would measure a woman.”

  She laughed. “Now that, my lord, is a compliment to end all compliments. And most assuredly a shading of the truth.”

  He laughed, too, relishing her pleasure. That was one thing he remembered very well about her—the genuineness of her laugh. How softly feminine it was and lacking the affectation that some ladies possessed. Juliet might chuckle, but she’d never titter.

  “You’ve caught me out, madam. I was testing you—to see if you could detect the most obvious flattery.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “And did I pass?”

  “Certainly. But that’s only the beginning of the lesson. We should move on to more subtle compliments.” He rounded the chair and went to sit beside her on the settee.

  “Such as?” Her gaze followed him warily.

  “There’s always the catalogue of a woman’s pleasing attributes. That was my father’s favorite approach.” He reached up to twine a silky blond curl about his gloved finger. “For example, a man might compare the color of your pretty hair to that of honey. Or say it’s soft as swansdown.”

  “Those aren’t subtle compliments, sir.” She moved her head just enough to tug her lock free. “Besides, honey and swansdown are a messy combination. Spun gold and swansdown would work better together, don’t you think?”

  “Or honey and whipped cream. Men are good with food metaphors, because half the time they’re thinking with their stomachs.”

  That prompted a tiny smile. “And the other half of the time?”

  They’re thinking with their cods. This was one time he should most certainly shade the truth. “They’re using their minds, of course.”

  “Ah, but I thought men in love lost their minds completely.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been in love, and I hope to avoid it entirely.” Though when she looked up at him, all wide-eyed and coy, he feared he was perilously close to losing his mind.

  “Why would you avoid love?” She sounded vaguely disappointed.

  He stumbled on, despite his nagging feeling that he’d just said something wrong. “It’s too impetuous an emotion. As you’ve pointed out countless times, I’m not made for such wildness. Besides, most people use it as an excuse for doing as they please and shirking their responsibilities. ‘I’m in love,’ they protest, and they think that makes it all acceptable. But it doesn’t.”

  She cast him an arch look. “I suppose you consider me one of those shirkers.” When he shot her a quizzical glance, she added, “Since I ran off with your brother without regard for the consequences.”

  “Oh, that. Actually, I wasn’t thinking of you. But now that you mention it, you must admit that your elopement proves my point. If your judgment hadn’t been clouded by your ‘love’ for ‘Morgan’ two years ago, you might have stopped to question the wisdom of running away with him. You might have noticed he wasn’t what he seemed.”

  “Perhaps.” She eyed him with curiosity. “So who were you thinking of?”

  He started to change the subject, then thought better of it. If he intended to marry her, she had a right to know about his family.

  With a hard swallow, he glanced away. “My parents. Love rarely ended well in my house. My mother loved my father, according to Uncle Lew, but she seemed to get none of his love. And in the end, she gave ‘love’ as her reason for abandoning her husband and eldest son, for neglecting her duties as a wife and mother to—”

  He couldn’t bring himself to tell her why his mother had left. Bad enough that Juliet knew the rest. She needn’t hear his most painful secret.

  “Then there was my father, the rogue
,” he went on. “He was in love several hundred times, I believe. He fell in love on the hour.” An ancient bitterness seeped into his voice. “And each new love posed new demands.” Demands that always came before those of his lonely son.

  When he caught her staring at him with pity in her eyes, he stiffened. “You see, for a rogue, love takes a great deal of energy and planning. It’s all about winning the game and gaining the woman’s virtue without cost to himself.”

  The pity in her face deepened, and he swore inwardly. Possessed by an urgent need to blot it out of her face, he caught her hand and unfastened the two buttons of her glove at the wrist. When she let him do it, he took advantage of her willingness to tug off her glove one finger at a time. “Every move of the rogue is calculated. If he praises your delicate hands, it’s only so he can bare them to his lascivious eye.”

  Dropping the glove in her lap, he held her hand and stroked her fingers with his thumb, outlining each crease, fondling each knuckle. “If he praises your soft skin, it’s only so you’ll let him near enough to caress it.” When a shuddering breath escaped her, he instantly forgot his parents’ troubles as need exploded in him. “And if he praises your lips…” he whispered, lowering his head toward hers.

  With a sudden look of panic, she jerked her hand from his, caught up her glove, and rose from the settee in one fluid movement. “I think I’ve grasped this part of the lesson, my lord.”

  She hastened to the opposite end of the room, tugging her glove back on with great urgency. To his immense satisfaction, her cheeks were flushed and her motions shaky. Perhaps she wasn’t so immune to his attentions after all.

  Although when she met his gaze again, she seemed to have regained her control. “All you’ve mentioned so far are compliments to a woman’s appearance. Doesn’t a scoundrel ever compliment a woman’s character?”

  “Certainly. If he thinks it will get him something.” He had to forcibly restrain himself from leaping across the room and dragging her into his embrace. What would she do if he did?

  Probably give him another lowering assessment of his performance.

  “Then you must provide me with examples of that sort of insincere compliment,” she ordered. “So I can recognize them when I hear them, you understand.”

  Pretending to be thinking about it, he watched as she ambled about the room, centering a porcelain box here, adjusting the pieces on the marble chess table there. She was so utterly feminine, such a symphony of grace and beauty, that he couldn’t drag his gaze from her. Had his mother moved through Charnwood like that?

  No, probably not, given how she’d left. By all accounts, his mother had eventually come to hate this house and everyone in it.

  But Juliet wouldn’t. Somehow he knew, merely from her comments about his servants, that she would cherish Charnwood as he did. She’d fuss over it and tend it and bear him children to fill its halls with laughter.

  By thunder, how had he ever left Juliet behind the first time? Perhaps his uncle was right. If he’d stayed and faced the consequences, married her to make amends…

  He rolled his eyes. Oh, certainly. As if Knighton would have let her marry her kidnapper. Sebastian would have been hanging from the nearest gallows within a week. Then what would have become of Charnwood? Especially if his death had left Morgan, the only heir to the estate, without a champion in England.

  No, he’d done what he had to. But in the process, he’d handed her back to all those blasted men in London who’d tried to court her. How many had there truly been? How many had she captivated with that charming stroll, that delicate sweep of skirts that barely hinted at legs sure to be as finely wrought as the rest of her? How many men’s hopes had she dashed?

  Well, she wouldn’t dash his. He would convince her to marry him somehow. He owed it to her to redress his wrongs, and he owed it to his family and estate to marry and sire an heir. So they would marry, because it was the sensible, responsible thing to do. Because she would preside over his table with winsome grace, would handle his household competently…would be the perfect companion in his cold, lonely bed.

  He sucked in a breath as tantalizing images sprang to mind, of her sighing and moaning beneath him, arching up to meet his hands and mouth and thrusts—

  Swearing inwardly, he picked her needlework up from the side table, desperate for something to distract him from thoughts of how she’d look stripped down to nothing but her smile. It took him a long moment to focus on the intricate, accomplished handiwork.

  “My lord?” she prodded. “Compliments to a woman’s character?”

  He scrambled to collect his thoughts and thrash his urges into respectability. “You have a fine hand with a needle,” he rasped.

  She laughed, oblivious to his struggle. “That’s far too obvious an insincere compliment. How could a man know whether I was good with a needle or not? Besides, men don’t care about such things.”

  “That’s not true. An intelligent man recognizes and respects good workmanship when he sees it, whether it’s in the design of a pistol or the plying of a needle. And the truth is…” He managed a grin. “That was my own compliment to you. Your skill so dazzled me that I made an honest observation.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “Then you’re more adept at this compliment business than I expected, sir. But you’re supposed to help me ascertain when a man is not sincere.”

  Recovering, he leaned back against the settee. “Very well—let’s attack this from another angle. Give me examples of compliments you found insincere in the past.”

  A mischievous smile touched her lips. “What an excellent idea. How about this one? ‘You’re not shy, my lady, just circumspect. There’s nothing wrong with being cautious about whom you allow into your life.’”

  That sounded familiar, though it didn’t seem like the common run of flatteries. “I’m not sure why that would be—”

  “Or this one: ‘Your gentle nature makes it impossible for you to think ill of someone. That’s a virtue, not a defect, no matter what your sisters may say.’”

  His smile vanished.

  Strolling nearer, she gazed coolly into his face. “Or my favorite: ‘You are every man’s dream, the perfect woman.’ A variation of ‘You exceed every standard by which a man would measure a woman.’”

  A knot formed in his gut. He forced himself to ask the question she would expect, the one he already knew the answer to. “Why do you find those compliments insincere?”

  She halted a foot away to glower down at him. “They were spoken by your brother while he was trying to seduce me away from my family.”

  Of course. A pity he didn’t have her excellent memory. But why had she chosen his own compliments? Why did her stance imply a challenge? If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d reverted to her earlier suspicions of him.

  That couldn’t be. He hadn’t let anything slip, not once. And she’d professed to be convinced of his truthfulness last night.

  All the same…“Just because my brother used them deceitfully doesn’t mean they were insincere. Indeed, they seem apt assessments of your character.”

  She lifted one delicate brow. “Oh? So he truly thought me the ‘perfect woman’? How odd then that he left me behind so easily after helping me escape Crouch.”

  Her words stunned him. Last night, she’d implied that she’d been happy to be free of a man who wasn’t suitable husband material. He rose abruptly from the settee to approach her. Startled, she backed up a step.

  “Did you really want Morgan to take you with him? After what he’d done? After the danger he’d put you and your family in?”

  She colored, then dropped her gaze from his. “No, indeed. Don’t be absurd.”

  But devil take it, she had. He could see it in her face. Which meant Lady Rosalind had been right about her after all. The young Juliet had apparently nursed romantic notions even after she’d learned that he wasn’t what he seemed.

  That thought tightened the knot of guilt in his gut. “
I’m sure he didn’t mean to wound your feelings by leaving you, Juliet. He probably thought you better off without him. No doubt you’d made it clear that you found him despicable for his betrayal of you.”

  Her head came up, eyes blazing. “He did not wound my feelings. I was merely explaining why his compliments were insincere.”

  “Even if he didn’t marry you, that doesn’t mean his time with you was all a lie.”

  “Doesn’t it?” She looked at him a long moment, and then a mask came down over her generally open features. “Oh, you wouldn’t understand. Not an honest man like you.”

  He could swear he heard sarcasm in her voice.

  She went on quickly. “Compliments that sound perfectly natural and unstudied don’t trip off your tongue as they did off your brother’s.”

  “I thought my compliments tripped off my tongue very well just now,” he snapped.

  “Yes, but not when compared to your brother. You’re too honest to comprehend how a deceitful man can flatter so sincerely that a woman can’t help but trust him. You rely on stock phrases like ‘your hair is the color of spun gold’ and ‘your skin is soft as swansdown,’ which is natural for a man whose experience with women is so limited.”

  By thunder, the woman knew how to prick a man’s pride. Stock phrases, indeed. “See here, those weren’t my compliments—they were examples of what other men might say. And ‘limited experience’ doesn’t mean I’ve spent the past thirty years in a monastery, for God’s sake. It merely means I haven’t run after every woman in petticoats.”

  “Of course,” she said with a dainty wave of her hand. “And I’m sure the women you meet out here don’t mind if your compliments aren’t smooth or clever—”

  “So now I’m an imbecile, am I?” he growled.

  She whirled away, but just before she did, he could have sworn she smiled. “I’m merely saying you’re not adept at deceiving women with flattery the way your brother was. It takes a certain sort of man to manage that—”