How To Seduce A Sinner

by Adrienne Basso

  A SINNER’S KISS

  “Why is it, Miss Ellingham, that nearly every time I see you out of doors, you are with a different gentleman? Locked in an embrace.”

  “You exaggerate, my lord.”

  “Not really. First it was Pengrove, then Rosen, and now Roddington. Is this some sort of contest? Do you hope to kiss every unwed man in London this Season?”

  “Do not presume to judge me, my lord,” she said hotly. “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know that you have a fondness for kissing.”

  “Who I kiss and where I kiss them is none of your concern.”

  “What if I decided that it should be?”

  “Ha!” She tossed her head, revealing the slender column of her throat. Lord, what he wouldn’t do for the right to nibble at that delicate nape.

  Carter reached out and placed his palm beneath her chin, bringing her face around so their eyes met. Then he slowly, gently brushed his thumb across her lips. As if reading his thoughts, she suddenly moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. They glistened in the moonlight, so soft, so plump, so tempting.

  “Ah, to hell with it,” Carter muttered as he reached for her…

  Books by Adrienne Basso

  HIS WICKED EMBRACE

  HIS NOBLE PROMISE

  TO WED A VISCOUNT

  TO PROTECT AN HEIRESS

  TO TEMPT A ROGUE

  THE WEDDING DECEPTION

  THE CHRISTMAS HEIRESS

  HIGHLAND VAMPIRE

  HOW TO ENJOY A SCANDAL

  NATURE OF THE BEAST

  THE CHRISTMAS COUNTESS

  HOW TO SEDUCE A SINNER

  Published by Zebra Books

  How To SEDUCE A SINNER

  Adrienne Basso

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To Dad & Linda.

  Your love, encouragement, and unending support

  mean more to me than I can ever say.

  Thank you—

  for everything.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  London, Spring, 1818

  Dorothea’s heart leapt with excitement as Mr. Arthur Pengrove shifted his position on the marble bench and moved close to her, perilously close. A gentle spring breeze blew the sweet scent of the exotic flowers from the garden into their secluded hideaway; the night sky glowed with dozens of twinkling stars; the muffled strains of music from the ballroom drifted near. It was a picture-perfect night, tailor-made for romance.

  “Your eyes are the most enchanting shade of blue, Miss Ellingham. They remind me of a summer sky after dawn has struck, alight with the promise of a glorious day,” he whispered as his eyes dropped to her mouth.

  “Oh, Mr. Pengrove.”

  Dorothea’s eyes fluttered shut as she leaned forward in subtle encouragement. Finally, he was going to kiss her! She had given Arthur Pengrove her exclusive attention for the past two weeks and now she was about to discover if he was the man she would marry, the partner with whom she would spend the rest of her life. It was a momentous, life-altering moment and her heart beat with excitement.

  His breath wafted across her cheek. Valiantly, Dorothea tried to still her racing heart, tried to remain calm and in control. Hesitantly, timidly, Mr. Pengrove’s lips at last touched hers. They felt soft, almost babyish, as they grazed her own. Her initial instinct was to recoil, but she squashed it, hoping the kiss would improve.

  Alas, it did not.

  How dreadfully disappointing! This was nothing at all like the tantalizing yearning she had longed to feel, the heady desire she so desperately sought.

  Dorothea made a small, low sound in the back of her throat, thinking it would stimulate her reticent beau. But the noise succeeded only in startling him. Mr. Pengrove’s limp, moist lips scuttled across hers a second time, then abruptly pulled away.

  Dorothea’s shoulders slumped. The stab of disappointment was a physical pain, deflating her body as well as her spirits. She honestly believed he could have been the one. He was the third man who had courted her this Season, the third man she had allowed to kiss her. Yet apparently her aunt Mildred’s favorite adage of saying the third time was the charm was soundly flawed.

  With effort, Dorothea resisted the strong need to lower her face into her palms and sigh heavily with frustration. It would be unforgivably rude to act so insensitively. Instead, she pressed her fingers hard against her temple, trying to ease the sudden pounding in her head.

  Her despondency so overtook her awareness that she was barely conscious of Mr. Pengrove’s actions until out of the corner of her eye she saw him sink down on one knee.

  Oh, heavens! Now on top of her vast disappointment she was going to have to refuse his marriage proposal. The evening, which had started out with such promise and optimism, was fast turning into an unmitigated disaster.

  Mr. Pengrove took her hand, placing it between his cold, damp palms. Dorothea’s head snapped up, her mind racing to formulate a response that would firmly discourage him while at the same time spare his feelings.

  “Miss Ellingham.” His voice was a high-pitched squeak. He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Dearest Miss Ellingham. Dorothea. These past few weeks we have spent together have been a joy. More than anything, I wish to formalize our attachment, to make permanent our relationship and legalize our union. However, before I make a formal declaration to you, I must speak with your guardian. If you are agreeable?”

  Dorothea stared down at him, unsure where to begin. He looked unfailingly earnest in the moonlight and terribly young. “My uncle, Mr. Fletcher Ellingham, is my legal guardian, but as you well know he has not journeyed to London for the Season,” she replied.

  “Then I suppose that role is now relegated to your sister,” Mr. Pengrove said slowly. “Or rather her husband, Mr. Jason Barrington. I believe I must apply to him with my request.”

  Mr. Pengrove blanched slightly as he spoke, and Dorothea could not fault his reluctance. Her brother-in-law was something of a ton legend, known for his wild, scandalous behavior, his daring feats and dangerous exploits. He was hardly the sort of man Arthur Pengrove usually came in contact with, let alone knew.

  “Actually, Gwendolyn and Jason are also not in Town. They are at home, awaiting the birth of their first child,” Dorothea reported, seizing on what she thought would be the best way to extricate herself from this sticky situation. “As you no doubt remember, Jason’s sister kindly agreed to be my sponsor for the Season. It therefore has fallen to her husband to act as my guardian.”

  Mr. Pengrove blinked. “The Marquess of Dardington?”

  “Yes. And I do confess he has taken his role as my protector most seriously.”

  The remaining bit of color on Mr. Pengrove’s earnest face drained away. Jason Barrington might be an intimidating presence, but the Marquess of Dardington was positively lethal. She did not blame Mr. Pengrove one iota for feeling ill at the prospect of facing that haughty, powerful aristocrat.

  “I am certain he will require a formal request for a meeting.” Mr. Pengrove removed his white l
inen handkerchief and wiped at the sweat forming on his brow. “It will take me several days to properly compose a letter that will adequately convey the seriousness of my intentions.”

  “Mr. Pengrove…Arthur.” Dorothea gentled the tone of her voice. “I think it better for both of us if you do not rush to make an appointment to see the marquess. The household has been in an uproar lately as things have not been going as he wishes in the House of Lords. I daresay, he has been in the very blackest of tempers for the past week, far worse than usual.”

  “Egad!” Arthur’s eyes widened.

  Dorothea patted his arm solicitously. She genuinely liked Mr. Pengrove. He was but a few years older than her own age of twenty-one, possessed a pleasant face, a tall, lanky frame, and friendly, uncomplicated eyes. He had an agreeable temperament and a kind nature. Many in society labeled him dull, but Dorothea found his unsophisticated, straightforward manner soothing. He had a comfortable fortune and a lovely estate in Kent that he studiously and successfully managed.

  She had been more than willing to overlook his close attachment to his overbearing mother, his somber style of dressing, and his enthusiastic passion for collecting insects. But the emotionless, soulless kiss they had just shared could not be overlooked. She shuddered, imagining herself spending the rest of her life trying to endure those kisses.

  “I suppose it would be prudent to wait before approaching the marquess,” Mr. Pengrove muttered, more to himself than to her. “So as to be sure I do everything correctly, properly, and most importantly in a manner that will not offend him.”

  Dorothea shook her head slowly. “I think ’tis even more prudent to reconsider our future.”

  “Reconsider?”

  “Yes. I am honored beyond words to receive such marked attention from you, yet I must speak frankly. I think you are too young to wed, Mr. Pengrove. And I am certain that is what the marquess will say to you.” She cleared her throat. “Among other things.”

  Mr. Pengrove shifted his weight off his bent knee, then slowly stood. He seated himself beside her, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps a very long engagement would be best. If that is what you truly desire.”

  “Alas, I cannot afford that luxury.” Dorothea stared at his profile. His chin was a tad weak, his hairline receding, his nose boasted a sharp hook. He was far from handsome, yet he truly was a nice young man. With time and maturity he would make some woman a good husband. She felt another stab of disappointment as she acknowledged that woman would most definitely not be her.

  “As you well know, marriage is different for a woman,” she continued. “My brother-in-law’s family has been exceedingly generous in their support of me, but I cannot trespass on their hospitality for more than a Season. I therefore feel it is my duty to do everything possible to make a match this year. And since we both agree that you should wait several years before taking a wife, well…”

  Dorothea’s voice trailed away. She had given him a chance for a graceful, dignified exit. He pondered it for a moment, hesitated, then wisely took it.

  “If that is what you truly wish, then I must of course honor your decision.”

  “I fear, ’tis our only option.” Dorothea lowered her eyes, hoping she looked despondent. “However, I do expect us to remain the very best of friends,” she said with a sincerity that was heartily felt.

  “Nothing would please me more.”

  Dorothea smiled. She had not entirely misjudged him. His affections were not so deeply engaged if he could so quickly relent on his desire to make her his bride. And his intelligence had aided him admirably in making the correct choice. Though it was a bit troubling to see how easily he could be manipulated. Sighing, Dorothea admitted it was all for the best. Obviously, it was not just his inadequate kisses that made him a poor choice for her husband.

  “Goodness, I have distressed you,” Mr. Pengrove said, misunderstanding her sigh. “Please, forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Dorothea replied firmly.

  “Well, if you are certain.” Mr. Pengrove’s brow creased in a worried frown. He shook it off, then stood and held out his hand. “We must not stay out here alone any longer. I am worried that Mother will notice our absence and remark upon it to someone.”

  Dorothea hesitated. She was not ready to return. She needed a few moments alone to collect her thoughts and harness the remaining bits of her disappointment, for when she had left the ballroom earlier, she had firmly believed she would be reentering it as an engaged woman.

  “You go ahead without me,” Dorothea said. “I should like to enjoy a few more minutes in solitude, taking in the fresh air before returning to the crush of the party.”

  Mr. Pengrove’s face darkened in distress. “I would never be so ungallant as to leave a lady unattended in such a secluded area of the garden. Who knows what might happen?”

  “I’m sure it is perfectly safe,” Dorothea countered, not believing any harm could possibly befall her. This was a private party, given by the Earl of Wessex. Only invited guests would dare to enter his garden.

  Mr. Pengrove scuffed the toe of his shoe against the gravel path. “I really must insist, Miss Ellingham. Lord Dardington would have my head on a platter if anything happened to you. I am certain he would not approve of your being here alone.”

  “Ah, so you believe he would be happier if he discovered us here together?”

  “Oh, gracious. We should leave at once!”

  Dorothea opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of the idea. Mr. Pengrove’s lips were set in a mulish frown. He was agitated, nervous, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly, almost as if he expected the marquess to jump out from behind the thick hedgerow and demand to know what they were doing.

  She caught Mr. Pengrove’s eye and gave him a hard stare. He sent her a fleeting look of apology, yet his stiff posture let her know he would not quickly abandon his position.

  Dorothea knew if she pressed the matter she would eventually win the argument, but it would take more effort than it was worth, and do nothing but increase her already worsening headache. So instead she rose gracefully, automatically brushing away the few wrinkles that had formed on the skirt of her golden silk gown.

  Dorothea placed her hand on his elbow. “Since you are so very insistent, Mr. Pengrove, I find that I am forced to agree. For I must confess, your predictions concerning my guardian’s reaction are correct. And I will admit, I much prefer seeing your head on your shoulders, than on a platter.”

  Carter Grayson, Marquess of Atwood, strolled along the garden path, enjoying the spring breeze, the twinkling stars, and the peace and quiet. He really ought to be used to attending society affairs where five hundred guests were invited to fill a ballroom that could accommodate half that number, but the truth was that it usually annoyed him.

  Tonight was no exception. He had arrived late at the earl’s ball and planned to leave early, but he could not yet make good his escape. He had promised his father, the Duke of Hansborough, that he would see him this evening, and his father had not yet arrived. Hence, Carter was trapped.

  He turned a corner and followed the hedgerow down a gravel path. No lanterns had been lit in this section of the garden and the darkness seemed to creep in, erasing all sense of time and place. But Carter did not mind. The eerie stillness and inky blackness fit his solitary mood.

  He paused beside a fountain, the tinkling sounds of running water soothing his spirit. Fifteen more minutes and he would return to the ballroom. Another hour and he would leave, his father be damned.

  The merest trace of a smile broke the grim line of his lips as Carter speculated as to why his father was unaccustomedly late to the ball, knowing there had to be a specific reason. The Duke of Hansborough never did anything without calculated thought, and Carter had several theories about his father’s behavior tonight. Each of them pertaining to marriage.

  To Carter’s great annoyance, marriage was very much on his father’s mind these days. And when his
father got his mind wrapped around something, he was more tenacious than a dog with a bone, refusing to drop it until he was satisfied with the result.

  Carter admired his father, respected his father, loved his father. Yet he often did not agree with the duke, and on this matter they were very much at odds. Carter did not oppose the idea of marriage. He knew it was his duty to take a wife and beget an heir, and he fully intended to do it. He had actually made up his mind to find himself a wife this Season, but this would be done on his own terms. A concept his father had a great difficulty understanding.

  Carter resumed his walk about the garden, his footsteps echoing through the balmy spring air. As he rounded another corner, a muffled sound brought his head up. He spied a man and woman locked in an embrace, their lips fused together. He turned his head away, but a louder noise brought it back around.

  He squinted a little, then arched an eyebrow as the couple ended the embrace and the man sank to one knee, prostrating himself before the woman perched so elegantly on the garden bench.

  Bloody hell! He had stumbled upon a marriage proposal. The sight made Carter’s gut clench. The night clouds shifted and a shaft of moonlight fell upon the pair, revealing the slight frame and somber profile of the gentleman. It was Arthur Pengrove.

  Good Lord, what was the world coming to when a young, inexperienced pup like Pengrove took on the responsibilities of a wife? Carter continued to stare at the couple, suddenly feeling very old.

  The future Mrs. Pengrove turned her head and he caught a glimpse of her features in the moonlight. She was very pretty. Delicate and refined. He thought he might have danced with her a few weeks ago, but was not entirely certain.