The Rules of Seduction

by Madeline Hunter

The kisses stopped. Masculine, firm fingers held her face. She opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her. Desire transformed his severity. The hardness itself became seductive.

  He kissed her again, and a battle began in her essence. She had seen too much in his eyes. Calculations burned in them. She had also glimpsed how she appeared to him—a woman submitting to a man she did not like or trust. A lonely spinster accepting any man’s attentions.

  A corner of her mind found its balance, but she did not want to give up the bliss of feeling so alive. She did not want to surrender the human connection. Even as she pressed her hands against his chest, demanding release, too much of her ached to melt into him no matter who he was and what shame awaited.

  She saw and felt every instant of disconnection. The relaxation of his hold, the slow falling away of his arms, the withdrawal of his touch—her body reacted to every loss.

  She walked away quickly to the window. She gazed out, unable to look at him. She tried to steady herself so she would look normal when she left the library. As good sense returned, raw humiliation came with it.

  She hoped he would have the courtesy to leave. He did not. She thought he would at least apologize. No words came. She felt him watching her. That only made it worse. If he left she could curse her own weakness and his ruthlessness. As long as he stayed, she remained shaky and embarrassed, too flustered to compose herself.

  “That was not very honorable of you, Lord Hayden.”

  “No.”

  He did not sound contrite. His tone all but said, Perhaps not, but I do as I please.

  “I know why you did that,” she said. “I know what you must think about me.”

  “You know a lot, then.”

  His voice sounded closer. She realized he had walked over to her. He stood no more than an arm’s span away. To her horror, the excitement, the danger, began bewitching her again. Her heart began a slow, heavy beat.

  “How do I think of you, Miss Welbourne? Since I am not sure myself, your explanation would be helpful.”

  A decent man would apologize and be gone. “Ben and I were not that close. You have misunderstood.”

  “I was not thinking about that at all. My only thought was that you needed kissing.”

  She turned, determined to end the way he toyed with her. Her heart lurched at the sight of him, but she smacked that girlish excitement into its place.

  “Not by you, sir. I am not the servant for the lord’s taking, and I ask you to remember that in the future.”

  He looked at her as directly as ever, only now his gaze reflected those kisses. It always would in the future too. Granting a man liberties created a palpable familiarity that forever undermined social formalities.

  “I did not try to take you. I only kissed you, and not nearly as boldly as you would have permitted.”

  Her face scalded. “Now your speech is insulting.”

  “No, it is honest. I will leave you to pretend otherwise, however.” With a vague bow, he headed toward the door.

  “Lord Hayden, I trust that in the future you will show me the respect that my position with your cousin requires.”

  He stopped at the door and turned back to her.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Then allow me to help you decide. I did not like your kiss and you must not do this again.”

  He opened the door. “You liked it. Do you think a man cannot tell?”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Hayden approached the columned portico of Darfield and Longworth. He barely remembered riding to the City from Mayfair. His thoughts had been so preoccupied by what had occurred in Henrietta’s library that he hardly noticed the fine rain that dampened his clothes.

  He had not behaved honorably. Women in Miss Welbourne’s situation were vulnerable and too often misused. Men who took advantage of them were scoundrels. Nor was he a man who importuned ladies. The understandings he forged with his lovers and mistresses were clearly articulated and mutually beneficial.

  Perhaps with time he would feel appropriately apologetic about Miss Welbourne. Right now nothing could compete with memories of those kisses and her passionate compliance. He was not an impulsive man, so the fact those kisses had happened at all fascinated him as much as her sensual reaction.

  It was the kind of thing he might have done right after his father died. Mourning had been followed by a euphoria of freedom, similar to that experienced by a prisoner released from an underground cell. For a couple of years he had careened through life like a drunk, wallowing in extreme emotions and impetuous acts, indulging in the reckless joys denied for too many years.

  He had been an actor on London’s stage, trying on costumes, hoping one fit better than his own skin. He had been desperate to disprove the truth that hounded him—that he was very much his father’s son and had too much of the old man in him.

  Eventually he accommodated the legacy and tamed its darkness while exploiting its strengths. As he passed through the portico, however, the balance tipped anew. The speculations gathering around the memories of those kisses were more dishonorable than the kisses themselves. The ruthless side of him weighed the complete seduction of Miss Welbourne and the lures required to convince her that one of those mutually beneficial arrangements was in her interest.

  The scene inside the bank wiped those calculations from his mind. A thick knot of about thirty men had gathered, forming a disorganized line in front of the offices.

  Several other men arrived, too much in a hurry. He read the concern on their faces and in their quick steps. He saw the signs of a run beginning.

  No one had noticed him yet. He heard Longworth’s name mentioned. The door to the office opened. Darfield allowed one man to enter, then closed the door again.

  Hayden approached the crowd. A ripple of panic spread.

  A man blocked his path. “You’ll not be going in first, Rothwell. We’ll not be eating crumbs after your family is fed.”

  “My family has no intention of dining here today.”

  “So you said a month ago, but there’s word of strange doings here, what with Longworth—”

  “Mr. Longworth sold his partnership to Darfield for personal reasons. His private finances do not reflect on this bank’s solvency.”

  “Then why are you here?” another man demanded.

  “Not to remove any money, I assure you.”

  He received some skeptical looks for that. Too many banks were failing for anyone to trust overmuch.

  “I have no cause to doubt this bank’s strength.” He spoke loud enough for all to hear. “I have no intention of removing funds or accounts now, nor reason to consider it in the near future. If you gentlemen want yours, Mr. Darfield will comply. The reserves are more than enough to cover all of your demands.”

  His bluntness checked their panic. He might have proven his capacity to be a scoundrel in his physical desires today, but his success in investments did not carry the stain of deceptive strategies.

  The knot loosened. A few men bled away. Others regrouped to debate their course. The path to the office cleared.

  He asked the clerk to announce him, even though Darfield already had a visitor. Darfield appeared in the doorway at once, crisp and serious in his dark coats and high collar, avuncular in his soft face and silvery hair. He slipped out and closed the door behind him.

  Darfield shooed his clerk away. While he smiled confidently at the men circling and watching, he spoke in a low voice. “I regret to say that our examination of the accounts was not thorough enough in ferreting out our friend’s sins.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pushed the door ajar to reveal the visitor waiting inside. Hayden recognized him as Sir Matthew Rolland, a baronet from Cumbria.

  Darfield closed the door again. “He wants to remove the funds that we hold for him. When I checked and explained they had been sold, he insisted he never sold them and had been receiving the income from us all along.”

 
; “We looked into all the sold securities from the last few years. I suppose we might have missed some. Were the income payments made?”

  “I was on my way to ascertain that.”

  “I will wait with him while you do. It would not be a good moment for him to leave this office, angry and full of accusations.”

  Darfield glanced to the knots of men. “No, indeed.” He aimed for another office, where clerks kept the accounts.

  Hayden pushed open the door. Sir Matthew did not appear worried. A blond, round-faced man given to country pursuits, he looked to be calmly biding his time while a bookkeeping mistake was rectified.

  “Rothwell,” he greeted, adding a broad grin. “Come to save Easterbrook’s legacy, have you?”

  “I am not here for that purpose. I am a friend of Mr. Darfield.”

  “Then you can see that he fixes this misunderstanding. Says I sold those consols. Never did.”

  “I am sure he will find the error in his records quickly. How much were they for?”

  “Five thousand.”

  Hayden occupied Sir Matthew with talk of hunts and sport. Darfield did not rejoin them for almost half an hour. When he did, he wore a mask of sobriety.

  “Sir Matthew, I am embarrassed to say that sorting through the situation with your funds is complicated. Rather than keep you waiting, however, we will give you the money now and work out the particulars in the future.”

  Sir Matthew did not appreciate how extraordinary the offer was. Darfield sat at the desk and wrote a draft. Hayden noticed it was from Darfield’s own account.

  With smiles and good wishes, they saw a satisfied Sir Matthew out. As soon as the door closed, Darfield allowed his dismay to show.

  “There is no record of payments to him,” he said. “We show the funds sold, period. It is as with the others. Longworth must have been paying him off, and I am now five thousand the poorer. How many more did we miss, that is my question.”

  “I would not have said we missed any.” A memory of a sensual mouth beckoned Hayden to distraction, but it would be a long while before he could indulge in speculations about that again. “It appears we will have to go through it all once more.”

  “Could it be that someone has revealed Longworth’s game, and Sir Matthew is—no, that is too shocking to consider.”

  “Let us see if Timothy Longworth made income payments to him from his own accounts, as he did with the others. And let us be sure this is the last of it. When do the records say he sold the funds?”

  Darfield sat down and opened a thick ledger. “1822. No, wait.” He peered closely. “The ink is a bit smeared. It could be—but that date is impossible—”

  “What date could it be?”

  Darfield looked up, stunned. “1820.”

  Hayden shared Darfield’s surprise. Timothy Longworth was not yet a partner in this bank back then.

  Benjamin Longworth was, however.

  A penetrating sadness drenched Hayden. It was not only evoked by what this day might reveal about his friend. A repressed suspicion regarding Benjamin’s death suddenly became more plausible.

  “We will need to examine all the records regarding the funds you held. All the way back to when Benjamin Longworth first bought his partnership. If you still have the information from Benjamin’s private accounts, you had better bring that here too.”

  Darfield nodded, his sorrow visible. “I appreciate your aid and discretion. Will you require anything else?”

  “Strong spirits. Whiskey might do it.”

  All three brothers dined at home that evening. Hayden would have welcomed the camaraderie on any other day. Tonight, however, even Elliot’s dry wit could not pull him out of his thoughts. His distraction created long silences at the table. It also sent Christian’s gaze in his direction too often.

  “We are a sober group,” Christian said. “If I had known you would be so boring, Hayden, I would have accepted the invitation to Lady Falrith’s party. At least there the boredom would have had a variety of sources.”

  “I am contemplating a new proof that I am testing.” Normally he did not lie so boldly, but what he truly contemplated could not be revealed.

  He had left the bank today with too many questions. He had also carried away a horrible secret. Timothy Longworth had not invented the scheme of forging names and selling the securities. He had learned the trick from Benjamin, who had been doing it almost since he bought the partnership in Darfield’s bank. After Ben’s death, Timothy had continued sending the income payments to Ben’s victims while he created new victims of his own.

  Memories had filled his head in the hours since. Those of Benjamin as a boy, so reckless and spirited compared to the Rothwell sons. Their father had been a stern man, severe in his honor and dominating in his personality.

  The rational mind is what makes us human. The Greeks knew that, and it is a lesson that a man forgets to his peril. Passion has its place, but the mind must always rule. Emotions lead to impulses that destroy honor, fortune, and happiness.

  He had heard that lesson in one form or another every day of his youth. Worse, he had lived with the evidence of its truth in the misery that emotion and passion had brought to his parents. In the country, however, he could escape both the man and the lesson for hours on end. The boy down the road named Benjamin Longworth became a tonic against the way the lesson made joy and high spirits suspect and shameful.

  “I thought you put strict limits on those mathematical investigations now,” Christian said. “You must learn to do as Elliot does. When you are among the living, breathing world, you must live and breathe too. He is not being boring tonight.”

  Having just thought of their father, Hayden did not like hearing Christian sound too much like him. “It is not my obligation to entertain you, damn it.”

  Christian found the snarling response too interesting.

  Elliot did too. “I do not think it is numbers that distract you, Hayden.”

  “Think whatever you like.” He did not want to talk about it. His brothers knew nothing and could explain nothing. Only one person in London might possess information that bore on Ben and that bank. A woman who hated him but responded with passion to his kisses. A woman who had been in love with Ben and still was.

  “Perhaps he is thinking about a woman,” Christian said to Elliot. It was damned unnerving to have Christian guess correctly. “Although he never is much distracted by them. This would have to be a very special lady, only none of them is ever special to him either. There is no logic to romantic love, no mathematical equation for it, so he knows it does not exist.”

  Elliot shot him a quick glance. They had been allies back in the days when Christian was so damned good. Elliot could sense his moods in ways no one else could. “I do not think it is a woman.”

  He was both right and wrong. A woman strolled through all of his thoughts about Ben. What did she know? How would she react to discovering Ben’s crimes? Would she blame Hayden Rothwell if it all came out and Ben’s good name was ruined?

  Darfield had promised silence again, to protect his own fortune and reputation. Hayden had pledged his own funds to cover any loss to the bank’s clients. His debt to his old friend had just gotten very expensive.

  With ruthless clarity, he saw it all unfold. Ben fit his role in the drama too well. Even the drunkenness on the ship home, his resistance to returning to the staid life of a banker—all that was the Ben he knew. What else besides boredom might have been waiting in London, however, and how had that affected his soul?

  Was he despondent because he anticipated the discovery of his crimes? He had built a house of cards with those thefts. He had to know that eventually it would fall. Had he jumped off that ship? It had always been a possibility, considering Ben’s mood those last days. A possibility Hayden had avoided contemplating, because if Ben had jumped, Hayden had permitted it.

  A sick hollow had opened in his gut today and refused to leave. He had always harbored guilt about that night.
Now he wondered if his own pride had made him blind to the depths of his friend’s despair.

  “Well, it should be a woman that distracts him. One of you needs to marry soon,” Christian said. “I would like to have a nephew.”

  Elliot laughed. “We never have to marry, Christian. We do not have to curtail our eccentricities to please a wife. You are the one with that duty.” He lounged back and examined Christian. “You might start by cutting your hair. I have heard the ladies use the word ‘barbaric’ to describe it.”

  Christian ignored the comment. He did not like others meddling in his life. Being intrusive and incisive was a right he reserved for himself.

  “In the least you could both use mistresses,” Christian muttered. “Hayden has become irritable of late, and that is why. And you rarely leave those libraries, Elliot.”

  “And you rarely leave this house,” Hayden said. On the best of days his brother’s presumptions annoyed him, and he was not in the mood to tolerate them tonight. “You shirk your duties to the title and have the brass to say we have to give you an heir. See to your own obligations and your own woman and your own habits, Easterbrook. When all that is in order, you can turn your attention to me.”

  Elliot sipped his wine with a little smile. Christian’s eyes turned cold.

  “I know exactly what I owe to my title and family,” he said. “I know because I made clear choices regarding what it will be. It is possible to do it that way, Hayden. One need not accept the world’s or a religion’s or a father’s dictates on these things. We can choose what we owe to an idea or to a person.”

  Benjamin’s ghost loomed then, smiling and happy, as if Christian had called him forth. The image changed quickly, though. Hayden saw Benjamin on that ship’s deck, cradling a bottle, refusing to come below.

  Why had Ben really left Britain, and why did returning make him despondent? And if he had stolen over forty thousand pounds, where the hell was it?

  * * *

  Alexia eyed the hat perched on Lady Wallingford’s head. One could not find serious fault with its design. It would look more elegant if the ribbons were a tad narrower and the satin flowers a bit smaller, but Mrs. Bramble, the milliner, knew her craft.