A Dangerous Seduction

by Jillian Eaton

  His gaze flicked down her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts before returning to her face. “Yes, go make yourself presentable. Devil knows it’s the one thing you are actually good at. And do something with your hair,” he added before he released her chin and stepped back. “It’s bloody hideous.”

  Resisting the urge to spit in his face – barely – she offered a thin smile instead. “Anything else, my dear? You know how I so love to please you.”

  He gave her a withering glance. “You haven’t pleased me in years.”

  Scarlett watched him as he left the parlor and waited until his footsteps had receded down the hall before she allowed herself to sit down in front of the fire. Hugging her legs to her chest as a young child might, she rested her head on her knees, closed her eyes, and wept.

  Chapter Two

  On the short carriage ride over to Lord and Lady Manheim’s the Sherwood’s were wrapped in warm cloaks and cold silence.

  Scarlett did not look at Rodger. Rodger did not look at Scarlett. They were together but separate; two bodies occupying the same space while their minds wandered elsewhere. Scarlett had no idea what wayward thoughts were occupying her husband’s head. His expression was unusually pensive, his stony gaze directed out the window at the passing townhouses. She sat across from him looking in the opposite direction, a faint line marring her brow as she tried her hardest not to think of Owen.

  Despite her best efforts he had been on her mind all day; sneaking in through cracks and crevices like light spilling into a dark forest. It still hurt to think of him. Even after so much time, it still hurt. Which was why she usually kept all of their memories tucked neatly away inside a box and the box tied tight with a ribbon. But the ends of the ribbon were beginning to fray and Scarlett knew better than anyone that once a ribbon began to unravel there was no fixing it. The best she could hope for was a distraction and the Manheim’s dinner party provided the perfect opportunity to do just that.

  In preparation for an evening of light gossip and lively conversation she had changed into a gown of pale green with pink stripes running down the snug bodice and voluminous bell skirt. It was a little too fancy for a quiet dinner party, but no one would expect anything less of her. She was, after all, the woman all of the other women looked to when they were trying to discover the next tendance del la mode.

  No matter what Scarlett wore she would always see it replicated in some form or another at the next social function she attended. Every once in a while she toyed with wearing something completely outlandish – bright orange slippers, green gloves, a bird on her head instead of a hat – just to see what would happen, but thus far she had managed to resist the urge.

  “We’re here.” Rodger spoke without looking at her.

  Giving her hat a quick pat to ensure it was still properly in place, Scarlett gathered her skirts and followed her husband out of the carriage. In front of them other guests were alighting from their conveyances as well. If she squinted Scarlett could just make out the familiar silhouette of Lord Livingston, a rather portly earl whose waistband was exceeded only by his ego.

  “Be careful darling,” Rodger said once she had both feet on the ground. “It is quite slippery. I would not want you to have an untimely fall.”

  “No,” she said sweetly as she tucked her gloved hand inside the crook of his elbow. “We wouldn’t want that.”

  And so their act began.

  They’d decided long ago it would be in both of their best interests to avoid gossip and pretend they were happy in public, then do what they wished in private. For Rodger it meant spending his nights with his mistress, and for Scarlett it meant spending her nights without Rodger.

  She could not remember the last time he had touched her in an intimate manner… Four years? Five? They had kept separate bed chambers from the very beginning, but he used to visit her at least once per week.

  At first their relations had not been horrible. Certainly they had never been very good, but then she’d been warned by her mother to not expect anything spectacular.

  ‘Lay there quietly and let your husband do what he will’ Lady Edgecombe had advised on the eve of Scarlett’s wedding, the corners of her eyes pinching together like they always did when she was discussing a subject she found particularly distasteful.

  For the first few months Scarlett had heeded her mother’s words. Until the night Rodger came staggering into her bedchamber foxed to the high heavens. He had taken her roughly and without compassion, thrusting into her squirming body long after she had pleaded with him to stop. After that she’d begun locking her door and admitting him only once she was convinced of his sobriety, which was not very often.

  Gradually his visits had begun to dwindle until they’d subsided all together. Part of her had known he’d taken a mistress – Rodger was not a man to deny himself pleasure – but she’d never imagined that mistress would end up being her dearest friend Felicity Ashburn.

  Rodger’s betrayal had been expected. But Felicity’s…

  To this day it still hurt her to think about it. She and Felicity had been friends since childhood. More than friends, they’d been sisters. They had shared everything from secrets to clothes, but she had never thought in a million years they would share the same husband.

  What made the pain all the worse was that Felicity had known how badly she and Rodger were struggling… and she’d taken advantage in the most callous way possible.

  Scarlett knew at some point Rodger would have to start knocking on her bedchamber door again. His mistresses may have brought him pleasure, but only his wife could give him an heir. And even though she would prefer he not be the father, she wanted a child.

  Maybe when she had a tiny babe at her breast she would finally find some semblance of happiness. She could retire to their country estate in Surrey, far away from the ostentatiousness of the ton that she’d once found so appealing. Far away from the glittering balls and the fancy dinner parties. Far away from the catty gossip of women and the lascivious stares of men. Far away from everything she used to think she wanted… but never truly needed. For the only thing she needed – the only thing that really mattered – had been squandered away a long time ago.

  And the irony of it still stung to this day.

  She and Rodger were greeted in the foyer by the Manheim’s butler, a rather stern-faced man who took their cloaks and hats and directed them into the receiving parlor where some of the other guests had already gathered.

  For the first part of the evening Rodger stayed right by his wife’s side, the perfect picture of a doting husband. He fetched her a glass of elderberry wine. She laughed lightly at his jokes. They gazed lovingly at one another. No one watching would ever guess the secret loathing hidden behind their calculated smiles.

  When it came time for dinner to be served everyone was ushered into the dining room where a long table covered in ivory linens and gold filigreed chinaware was set for eight. Scarlett found herself sitting to the left of their hostess while Rodger was placed at the far end of the table beside their host. She was glad they were sitting so far apart for there were only so many times she could stomach looking up at him with a warm smile.

  “You simply must tell me who your seamstress is.” Lady Manheim’s high-pitched voice cut through the dark fog of Scarlett’s thoughts. “That color combination is simply to die for. Whoever would have thought of pink and green? Genius,” she declared. “Positively genius.”

  Scarlett smiled demurely at her hostess. A slender brunette who would have been quite pretty save her protruding front teeth and that atrocious voice, Lady Eleanor Manheim had recently risen through the ranks of London’s beau monde by marrying an earl of considerable wealth. She was Lord Manheim’s second wife (his first had died tragically in childbirth) and she was far more ruthless and self-serving than the first Lady Manheim had been.

  Suffice it to say Scarlett did not like her – truth be told she was not overly fond of anyone sitting at the tab
le – but she played along for what was high society but one large, intricate game? A game where it was always better to the cat than the mouse.

  Courtesy of her sharp wit, elegant beauty, and renowned fashion Scarlett was regarded as one of the ton’s Originals; a title she had earned during her debut nearly a decade ago. Over the years she had managed to retain the coveted moniker through hard work, sheer will, and a bit of dumb luck. It was not easy being an Original, but it was far better than not being an Original.

  Or so she kept telling herself.

  “Now you know I cannot reveal their name.” The identity of the person who created Scarlett’s dresses and gowns was one of the best kept secrets in the entire ton. Everyone wanted to know who she – or he – was. Because it amused her to do so, she kept it a secret. The only one who knew was Ruth and she would never dream of telling anyone. Not when her loyalty to Scarlett was absolute. “But I shall make sure to extend your compliments. They will be quite pleased.”

  The quick flash of irritation in Eleanor’s brown gaze was almost instantly replaced with a smile so sweet it made Scarlett want to grind her teeth. “You will have to tell me soon, for we are going to be the best of friends.”

  “Are we?” Scarlett said lightly. Only a close acquaintance would recognize the sarcastic undertone in her voice. Unfortunately for Eleanor, she did not know Scarlett nearly as well as she was pretending to for the benefit of her guests.

  “Oh yes.” Lord Manheim’s wife spoke with the utmost confidence. “I can feel it. Can’t you?”

  The only thing Scarlett felt was hungry. So far only two of the traditional four courses had been carried out and they’d consisted of nothing more than a small bowl of turtle soup and a plate filled with an assortment of bitter greens.

  Thankfully, after only a few more minutes of idle discussion centered around one of Eleanor’s new gowns, the main course was finally served. It consisted of roasted partridge, lamb cutlets drizzled in balsamic sauce, sweetbread au jus (one of Scarlett’s personal favorites), and peas soaked in heavy cream.

  She ate everything on her plate and were it socially acceptable she would have asked for seconds. Scarlett may have been tiny in stature, but she’d always possessed a ravenous appetite. Her father used to jest that it was a good thing he was an earl or else she surely would have eaten them out of house and home.

  After dessert – miniature chocolate cakes decorated in gold foil and topped with strawberries – the men retired to the study for brandy and cigars while the women retreated into the drawing room for gossip and a game of whist.

  Sipping from a glass of dark red claret, Scarlett studied her cards with a critical eye. Her naturally competitive nature did not take very kindly to losing. So far her team – consisting of herself and Lord Livingston’s wife, a shy girl twelve years his junior – was winning handily by seven points. A rather easy feat given that no one else was playing whist to win; they were playing whist to gossip.

  “Did you hear that Lord Buxton has taken another mistress?” Eleanor said with an arched brow.

  “But he has been with the Widow Granville for nearly five years.” This came from Lady Prudence, one of Eleanor’s closest friends. They had made their debut together – three years after Scarlett – and had both managed to catch a husband during their first season; no small feat given the number of debutantes that descended upon London every year like a flock of birds.

  “I know. It is quite the scandal. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  Scarlett managed – barely – not to roll her eyes. Once upon a time she would have eagerly added to the gossip, but recently she’d found that dragging another’s name through the mud held little appeal.

  “Whose draw is it?” she asked, attempting to lure the women’s attention back to the game at hand.

  They were having none of it.

  “I wonder if he will go back to her,” Prudence mused after only the most cursory of glances at her cards. “The Widow Granville, that is. Although I suppose she is getting rather old. Do you think that is why Lord Buxton shifted his interest elsewhere?”

  Eleanor laid her cards face down on the table and leaned back in her chair, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I suppose. No man wants a mistress who is over the hill. I am sure she will land on her feet, however. Her kind always does.”

  The irony, of course, was that the husband of every single woman sitting around the table kept a mistress of their own.

  Including Eleanor’s.

  She knew it. Scarlett knew it. Prudence knew it. Even Francis Livingston knew it and she was barely out of the schoolroom. It was both a universally accepted and ignored truth that one’s husband was not expected to be faithful.

  Wealthy, yes. Titled, but of course. Handsome, if one was lucky. But loyal?

  No.

  Not that.

  Suddenly Eleanor’s gaze flicked over Scarlett’s left shoulder. Her mouth curving in a catlike smile – the sort of smile a cat wore right before it devoured the proverbial canary – she cried out, “Lady Ashburn! I was wondering when you would join us. Please, have a seat.”

  What name did she say?

  The cards Scarlett had been so carefully guarding spilled onto the floor as she spun around in her seat. When she saw who was standing silhouetted in the doorway all of the blood rushed from her face, leaving her cheeks as pale as the white lilies sitting in a glass vase on the windowsill.

  “Good evening,” Felicity said softly. “I am sorry I am so very late. Our horse lost his shoe on the way over and we were forced to stop.”

  While Prudence and Francis chirped their greetings, Scarlett only stared. More than a year had passed since the last time she’d seen Felicity, but her friend – or rather, her ex-friend – looked exactly as she remembered.

  Dark brown hair swept up in a neat chiffon. High cheekbones and a narrow chin. Violet eyes that were tilted slightly in the corners. Was it any wonder Rodger had wanted her for his bed? He was only a man, after all, and one whose morals were so low as to be completely nonexistent. Scarlett had expected it of him. But she had never expected, never even dreamed, that Felicity would be capable of plunging a knife into her back right above her husband’s.

  Wrenching her gaze away from Felicity, she met Eleanor’s smug stare across the table. “A word,” she bit out between her teeth before she stood up, grabbed Eleanor’s arm, and more or less dragged her across the drawing room to the fireplace.

  “You did this on purpose,” she accused the second they were out of earshot. Her eyes flashed a dangerous shade of gray in the dancing light, betraying the fury that bubbled beneath her skin like lava smoldering within the dark, deep depths of a volcano.

  Eleanor did not bother to deny it.

  “I did,” she said with a haughty toss of her head.

  The snap and crackle of burning logs muffled their voices, but Scarlett could feel the heavy weight of four pairs of eyes watching their every movement. Her hands curled into tiny fists and the muscles in her back knotted as she struggled to contain her anger. She didn’t need to ask Eleanor why she had invited Felicity tonight. The answer was so painfully obvious and so beneath a woman of Eleanor’s station that it made her wonder what the devil Lord Manheim had ever seen in the woman to make him like her enough to propose marriage.

  “You shouldn’t have.” It was well known that since their falling out Scarlett and Felicity had gone to great lengths to avoid being trapped on the same estate together, let alone caught in the same room. The last time they’d inadvertently crossed paths they had nearly come to blows and probably would have if their respective husbands had not been there to separate them. Something Eleanor surely knew, and why she had made certain both of their names were on her invitation list.

  What should have been a quiet game of whist was now an Event that would be talked about for days – if not weeks – to come. And while most of the gossip would surround Scarlett and Felicity, some of it would spill over to include Eleanor, m
aking certain she’d have people clambering over themselves to attend her next dinner party.

  It was an utterly selfish thing to do. It was also quite cunning, making Scarlett realize she had done herself a disservice by underestimating the lengths to which Eleanor would go to secure herself a higher rung on the social ladder.

  “Lady Ashburn and I met at Hyde Park just the other day.” Eleanor’s head canted to the side as her mouth twisted into a knowing smirk. “She is so very lovely and kind. It would have been quite rude of me not to invite her. I do realize there is a bit of a history between the two of you, but surely it is high time to let bygones be bygones. Do you not concur, Lady Sherwood?”

  The only thing Scarlett concurred was that Eleanor deserved to have that horrible smirk slapped right off her face. While doing so would have been immensely satisfying, it would have also given Eleanor precisely what she wanted: a scandal.

  The best thing Scarlett could do – the only thing she could do – was temper her emotions and pretend, just for one evening, that she did not loathe the very air Felicity breathed.

  Her eyes closed as she took a second to gather her thoughts, pale lashes spilling across cheeks that were flushed bright pink. She was so very weary of pretending. It seemed as though that was all she did anymore.

  Pretend she was happy.

  Pretend she loved Rodger.

  Pretend she had forgotten about Owen.

  How much pretending could one person do before they cracked like the cornerstone of the Wellesley Church had last winter after a bad storm?

  She supposed she was about to find out.

  Chapter Three

  “Felicity, what are you doing here?”

  That was what Scarlett had asked her friend when she’d entered her foyer that fateful day six years ago and saw Felicity creeping down the staircase. Her dark brown hair, usually so neatly tended, had been in disarray around her flushed cheeks and her pelisse had been slightly askew as if she’d put it on in a great hurry.