A Dangerous Seduction

by Jillian Eaton

  Elegant and old-fashioned, Edgecombe Manor had sat behind a curtain of silver birch trees. Owen recalled being stunned by the sheer size of it. Why, the front veranda alone could have easily fit the one bedroom flat he shared with his parents three times over.

  He had an older sister as well, but she was living with their aunt in Woodshire until her baby was born. A baby that had been conceived out of wedlock; the father a highborn lord who had a well-deserved reputation for dallying with his household staff. He’d tossed Lydia out on her ear after he discovered she was carrying his child and Owen, overcome with rage, had made it halfway to London to demand a duel before his father had managed to drag him back home.

  ‘I know ye are angry,’ he’d said, his native Scottish brogue rolling off his tongue as he took his son by the shoulder. ‘As am I. But losing your life won’t prove anything, my boy.’

  ‘How do you know I’ll lose?’ Owen demanded, his body shaking with the force of his anger.

  His father had just sighed and shook his head. ‘Because when it comes to the nobility, we always do.’

  No truer words had ever been spoken, and they’d resonated inside of Owen as he had stared up at Edgecombe Manor with its grand columns and wide balconies and fancy terraces.

  Why, he wondered silently, were some people born with so much and others so very little?

  Lydia’s only crime had been succumbing to the seductive charms of a man who should have known better, and for that she’d been thrown out like a piece of trash, her reputation torn asunder and her life irrevocably ruined. Yet the one who had done the tearing and the ruining, the one who should have been held responsible, was in all likelihood sitting in a manor just like this one, sipping his bloody tea and staring up the skirts of another helpless maid.

  The injustice of it all rankled. More than that it burned, lighting a fire inside of Owen that grew larger and larger with every passing day.

  He wouldn’t be the poor son of a baker forever. There would come a time when he’d have the strength and the power to make the guilty pay, no matter how wealthy they were or how many titles they had in front of their name.

  But until that day came, he had scones to deliver.

  Pushing back his wool cap Owen slanted a hand across his brow to block out the afternoon sun and searched for the servant’s entrance. The quicker he could deliver the scones and be gone the happier he’d be. The last thing he wanted was to run into Scarlett again.

  He still did not know what to make of her, or why she’d taken such a special interest in him. A bit of boredom, if he had to guess. The rich were always bored. Why else would they set their attentions on a shy serving girl or demand three dozen blueberry scones to be delivered on a bloody Tuesday, of all days?

  It didn’t make a damn bit of sense.

  Spying a narrow wooden door around the side of the house he struck off across the manicured lawn, skirting the edge of a large stone fountain spitting out a steady stream of water. Fat goldfish swam in lazy circles inside the stone basin, their orange scales shimmering in the sun.

  A flicker of motion in the corner of his eye captured his attention. The sack of scones he carried over his right shoulder swung high in the air as he turned and then stood frozen with his mouth agape at the sight that awaited him.

  Lady Scarlett was marching towards him waving an oversized net in one hand and a silver pail in the other.

  For a moment Owen was convinced he was hallucinating. He’d never had cause to hallucinate before, but surely what he thought he was seeing wasn’t really what he was seeing. But when he blinked and knocked his fist against the side of his head Scarlett was still there, albeit several paces closer.

  “Hello!” she called out cheerfully. “Wonderful day, isn’t it?”

  Try as he might, Owen could not summon anything more than a croaking, “Aye.”

  Scarlett grinned, showing off the dimple that had first caught Owen’s eye at the market. He may have hated the aristocracy and everything they stood for, but he wasn’t blind. He knew beauty when he saw it and Scarlett, with her blond hair and round cheeks and flashing dimple was easily the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

  And the craziest, he added silently as he watched her skip the rest of the way to the fountain. Setting the silver pail down at her feet, she braced her hand on her hip and cocked one hip out, the subtle movement made all the more noticeable by her low cut bodice. Her chest may have been as flat as a French crepe but the rest of her nimble young body was well on its way to womanhood. And her backside–

  Is none of your bloody concern!

  She was so far above him she might as well have been the stars that shone outside his window every night. If he had any ounce of common sense rattling around inside of his head he would deliver the scones, collect the money, and run back to town as fast as his legs could carry him. He had enough to worry about without inviting another problem into his life, and Scarlett was a problem just waiting to happen.

  Owen’s experience with females may have been limited – he was too busy with work to do much more than eat, sleep, and sell bread – but he knew enough about the opposite sex to know the one standing in front of him was nothing but trouble. She had it written all over her face, from the sparkling twinkle in her gray eyes to the mischievous little smile she couldn’t quite manage to hide.

  “I brought your three dozen scones,” he said shortly, swinging the sack off his shoulder and holding it out. “Ten shillings and I’ll be on my way.”

  Scarlett spared the scones only the most cursory of glances. “Would you care to earn a bit more?”

  “More?” If there was one thing that could halt Owen in his tracks, it was money. Money meant food and clothes and new boots Lydia desperately needed before winter arrived. “How much more?”

  Her mischievous smile grew bigger. “Double.”

  Twenty shillings.

  A mere pittance for Scarlett; a small fortune for his family…

  “Can we move the body now, Cap’n?”

  Owen blinked and shook his head as the past collided sharply with the present. When his eyes opened it was Felix standing before him, not Scarlett. Ruthlessly shoving any wayward thoughts of her aside, he forced himself to refocus on the task at hand.

  “Yes,” he said shortly. “Get it out of here.”

  He watched in stony silence as Felix and two other runners dragged Sherwood’s lifeless corpse across the cobblestones and lifted it into a cart. From here it would be delivered to the undertaker who would do his best to clean up the blood and prepare the body for burial. Given how Sherwood had died it would not be an easy job, nor a pleasant one.

  “Felix?” Owen said mildly when he noticed the runner about to climb into the wagon.

  “Yes, Cap’n?”

  “Take the damn gold button out of your pocket.”

  Unable to shake the feeling of unease that had weighed on her shoulders since she’d woken that morning, Scarlett stared out the window at the falling rain and wondered when Rodger would return.

  Normally she wouldn’t have cared he was spending the day with his mistress – at least, that is where she assumed he was – but this afternoon they were expected at the opening of a new art exhibit at Montagu House. Were it up to her she would have skipped the event entirely. It was Rodger who had insisted they attend.

  So where the devil was he?

  Biting down on her bottom lip she resumed pacing the length of the drawing room, her soft-soled shoes sinking into the thick carpet. She was already dressed for the event in a flowing muslin gown of sea green, her newly shorn hair swept back from her face by two amethyst combs. A matching necklace glittered on her throat and a bracelet of diamonds flashed on her wrist. Save the line of irritation darkening her brow she looked every inch the well-bred lady wife of a highborn English lord.

  The line deepened when the door creaked open and she turned, ready to berate her husband for his tardiness, but instead of Rodger standing in the doorway sh
e found Ruth.

  “What is it?” she asked at once, noting the paleness of Ruth’s face and the way her hands were twisted together. “Is something wrong?”

  “There – there is someone here to see you,” the maid said haltingly.

  “Is it my mother? Please tell me it is not my mother.” Scarlett groaned at the thought. While they were always civil to one another – often painfully so – she and her mother had absolutely nothing in common. Lady Edgecombe may have given birth to Scarlett, but she’d left the raising of her only child to nannies and governesses. Their visits were always stilted and awkward with long gaps of silence between idle remarks about the weather.

  “It is not your mother.”

  Scarlett breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh thank heavens.”

  “It is someone worse.”

  “Someone worse than my mother?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Do tell.”

  “It is… well, that is to say… um…”

  “Out with it,” Scarlett said with an impatient wave of her arm. Ruth was a dear, but she did have a rather delicate constitution. Although to her credit it must not have been very easy serving in a household that was constantly fraught with tension.

  While most noble family’s retained their staff for years, if not generations, the Sherwood’s always had a revolving door of maids, cooks, and footmen. The only servant who had managed to stay in their employee for a respectable amount of time – aside from Ruth – was their butler, Givens. But he was loyal only to the master of the house, just as Ruth was loyal to its mistress, and Scarlett had never placed much trust in him.

  “Perhaps ‘worse’ was the wrong word. I suppose ‘unexpected’ would be a better fit.”

  An unexpected guest? Scarlett’s nose wrinkled. She could think of no one who would come calling without an invitation, especially in such deplorable weather. Unless…

  “Is it Lady Ashburn?” She took a step forward. “Is Felicity here? Because if she is–”

  “No, no, it isn’t Lady Ashburn,” Ruth said hurriedly.

  “Then for heaven sakes, who is it?”

  Ruth’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Captain Steel,” she mumbled. “Captain Owen Steel.”

  Chapter Six

  All of the color drained out of Scarlett’s face.

  Owen couldn’t be here.

  It was impossible.

  Except it wasn’t. Ruth would never lie to her, especially about something so important.

  “Where is he?” Her gaze flew to the door but it was partially closed, obscuring her view of the hallway. “How long has he been here? Did he request me specifically?”

  “Mr. Givens admitted him into the front parlor ten minutes ago.” Ruth shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “And yes, he made a point of requesting you specifically, my lady.”

  “Of course he did,” Scarlett muttered under her breath before she drew back her shoulders. Part of her was tempted to simply send Owen away. He never should have come here in the first place. What if Rodger had been at home? It would have been nothing short of a disaster. Yet there was no denying that she desperately wanted to see him again. How many times had she practiced what she would say if they were to ever come face to face? A thousand? Ten thousand? She’d lost track years ago.

  “Tell Captain Steel…” She hesitated as she struggled to control her conflicting emotions. “Tell Captain Steel I will be with him shortly.”

  Ruth’s eyes widened. “Are you certain that is a good idea? Perhaps you should wait until Lord Sherwood returns home. It would not be seemly for you to visit with a man when your husband is away.”

  The irony of Ruth’s statement coaxed the tiniest of smiles from Scarlett’s lips. “It is not seemly that my husband is out carousing with his mistress when he should be here with me.” One pale brow lifted a notch. “I am entertaining an old friend, Ruth. And that is precisely what you will say should anyone ask. Do you understand?”

  “Yes my lady,” the maid murmured as she stepped to the side, giving Scarlett room to pass. After pinching her cheeks to bring some color back into them, she lifted her chin, murmured a quick prayer, and glided into the parlor.

  Her gaze was immediately drawn to a broad set of shoulders encased in a dark jacket. Owen – could it really be him? – was standing in front of the mantle with his back to the room. As if he sensed her presence those broad shoulders suddenly stiffened, his entire body coiling like a panther ready to spring as he slowly turned to face her.

  “Lady Scarlett.” His voice was deeper than she remembered. He was taller as well, his body lean and well-muscled, evidence of his physical prowess found in the width of his shoulders and the definition of his thighs. His hair was still just as dark, but it was a touch longer than the last time she’d seen him, curling low over his brow and brushing against the collar of his jacket. And his eyes… She caught her breath. His eyes were as cold as the sleeting rain lashing at the windows. “Or should I say Lady Sherwood now?”

  “Scarlett is fine.” Not trusting herself to go any closer than absolutely necessary she remained by the door, one hand curled tightly around the brass knob. Her heart was beating so fast she feared Owen would hear it, but if he did he gave no indication. His countenance was completely devoid of expression, giving away none of what he was feeling.

  If he was even feeling anything at all.

  Owen shrugged as if it did not matter to him one way or the other. Then his eyes narrowed as his gaze came to rest on the exposed curve of her collarbone where a blonde tendril brushed against ivory skin. “You’ve cut your hair.”

  “Yes.” Self-consciously her hand drifted to where he was looking, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her bodice before she forced her arm to drop. “A few days ago. I found long hair no longer suited me.”

  “You were always good at getting rid of things that no longer suited you.”

  Scarlett drew a sharp breath. She had wondered how long it would be before he fired the first shot. The tiny barb hurt her more than she’d thought it would, drawing blood before it buried beneath her skin. “What – what are you doing here, Owen? What do you want?”

  What was he doing in London, a place he had always despised? And why was he dressed so formally in a gray tailcoat, stark white neck cloth, and beige breeches that clung to his muscular legs like a second skin? The last time she’d seen him he had been wearing his father’s hand-me-downs that were two sizes too big and worn so thin as to nearly be see-through. Now every stich of his wardrobe looked as though it had been tailor-made. If she did not know any better she would have thought him at least a baron, mayhap even a viscount or an earl.

  There were other things she’d wanted to say. Other words she’d wanted to use. But the mere sight of him had washed all of those words away, leaving her with nothing but a long list of questions she desperately wanted answered.

  Where have you been all these years?

  Are you married?

  Do you have a family?

  Do you hate me for what I did?

  She did not have to ask the last question. The answer was already written across every inch of his cold, formidable countenance. Yes, Owen hated her… and the worst part was she couldn’t even blame him for it. Not after what she had done. To him. To them. To the future they should have had.

  “I have come to inform you of your husband’s passing.”

  He spoke so bluntly that for a moment his words and the meaning behind them did not sink in. When they did Scarlett brought both of her hands to her mouth with a gasp and reeled back against the door, her skull striking the wood with a heavy thud.

  “What?” she managed to croak between her fingers. “Rodger is d-dead? How…”

  “He fell from his horse and broke his neck,” Owen stated matter-of-factly. “His body was recovered early this morning in the theatre district. Do you know why he would have been there?”

  Scarlett stared at Owen with eyes awash in tears, unable to believe not only what he was say
ing but how he was saying it. For all the emotion in his voice he might as well have been talking about the dreary weather or the recent appointment of a new Speaker of the House in Parliament.

  “You must be mistaken.” Her own voice was shrill and filled with incredulity. Rodger was dead? Impossible. She’d seen him just last night in the library! What were the last words she had spoken to him? Had they been cruel? Kind? Indifferent? Suddenly it was imperative that she remember. She squeezed her eyes shut, searching the vestiges of her memory. He had insinuated she join him in his bed and she… she had asked if he still had his mistress.

  His mistress who lived in the theater district.

  Scarlett’s eyes flew open.

  “Where did you say the body was found?”

  “The theater district.” Owen watched her closely, studying every wayward emotion that rippled across her expressive face as she flew through the stages of shock, denial, and finally grief.

  Scarlett may not have loved Rodger, but that did not mean she ever wished for him to die. Well, perhaps in a moment of anger… but this was different. This was permanent. Her husband was dead. And the man she’d spurned so she could marry him had delivered the news.

  “What did you do?” Without thinking she flew at Owen with her hands raised and managed to rake her nails across the shadow of scruff clinging to his jaw before he captured her wrists and pinned them against his chest.

  “Nothing,” he snarled, restraining her easily as she continued to claw and kick and scratch. “I did not kill him. You are going to hurt yourself. Stop it. Scarlett, I said stop it.”

  It was the sound of her name spilling from his lips that finally pierced the thick fog of furious grief. She froze, her chest rising and falling on a gasping breath as she dragged air into her lungs. When the hazy mist rolled away she realized Owen had both of his arms banded around her body. She felt the burn of his touch through the layers of fabric that separated them, the scorching heat of it as achingly familiar as it was painful.