by Merry Farmer
April Seduction
Merry Farmer
APRIL SEDUCTION
Copyright ©2018 by Merry Farmer
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)
ASIN: B07H6P8CQD
Paperback ISBN: 9781790211630
Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.
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Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
London – Spring, 1881
Katya Marlowe, the Countess of Stanhope, was excessively proud of three things in her life: that she had raised three children to be intelligent, useful adults—or rather, soon-to-be adult in the case of her youngest daughter, Natalia—that she understood and had as much influence in the politics of the nation as most men, and that, on the cusp of turning forty-one, she still had the figure and complexion of a woman half her age.
All three points of pride were on display as she sat in the Strangers’ Gallery overlooking the House of Commons Chamber as debate wrapped up for the day. She leaned slightly over the edge of the balcony—enough so that the men below would be able to see she was paying damn close attention—and so that they could see the way her new gown highlighted her impressive bosom—her older daughter, Bianca, on one side and Natalia on the other.
“I move that this session be adjourned,” Sir Henry Brand called on the floor below.
The usual flurry of agreement that followed an adjournment motion rose up from the men, the motion was moved, and the chamber burst into disgruntled noise as the members of Commons rose from their seats.
“But it’s only half nine,” Bianca complained. “Usually sessions like this run past midnight.”
“And they didn’t bring up the rights of women once,” Natalia added as she stood and stretched in a thoroughly unladylike way. She was only just sixteen, after all, and couldn’t be expected to behave with decorum all the time.
Katya rose with far more grace. She stared at the men milling around in the chamber and caught the eye of her friend Alexander Croydon. One sharp lift of her eyebrow and Alex sighed and shrugged. Katya tried to keep her irritation from showing on her face. Alex was trying, truly he was. But there were forces in Parliament—both in Commons and Lords—that were intent on keeping the issue of increased rights for women from being raised.
“He’s going to see that the bill they’ve all been working on is brought up for proper debate soon,” Marigold Croydon, Alex’s wife, who had been sitting with them, told Katya as they made their way to the end of the row. Marigold and her friend, Lady Lavinia Pearson, had missed few parliamentary sessions since they’d all arrived in London in January for the post-Christmas opening of parliament.
“Armand says they’re no closer to bringing it up in Lords,” Lavinia added with a sigh, pressing a hand to her stomach. She hadn’t said anything to the rest of them yet, but Katya was willing to bet Armand would have an heir by the end of the year.
“It’s because of the Irish Question,” Natalia said, full of youthful enthusiasm and the same sort of pride in her intelligence that Katya had felt when she was her age. “Irish Home Rule is all anyone wants to talk about these days.”
“I’m not saying Ireland isn’t important,” Bianca said with the same sort of confidence that accompanied youth, “but I do wish they’d hurry up and give us the rights we deserve.”
The corner of Katya’s mouth twitched with equal parts humor and pride at the interest and intelligence her daughters showed. Robert, their father and the long-dead former Earl of Stanhope, would have been appalled. Which, of course, only made Katya prouder.
“Oh, no. Papa appears to be in high dudgeon again,” Cecelia Campbell said, a note of dread in her voice. She followed at the back of Katya’s group and usually took everything in without making a sound. The fact that she felt the need to point out that her father was there and unhappy didn’t bode well at all.
Katya stepped to the side, letting the others pass by her as she turned to seek out Malcolm Campbell. He stood talking to his closest friend, Lord Peter deVere, at the other end of the Strangers’ Gallery, where women were forbidden to sit. Her heart thumped harder against her ribs at the sight of his glowering frown. Malcolm looked tired. The lines on his face seemed more pronounced, even at a distance. He was frustrated, which made her heart ache all the more for him.
As if sensing her stare, he glanced away from Peter and met her eyes. It didn’t matter how long they’d known each other, how frequently their paths crossed, or how heated those crossings were. In an instant, it was as though electricity had filled the room. Every nerve in her body responded to him. Her breath caught in her throat. Butterflies filled her stomach, and a smoldering fire infused her core.
“I suppose we’re going to get an earful once we get down to the hall,” Marigold said with a combination of dread and humor.
Katya shook herself out of her visceral reaction, grinning at Malcolm and arching one brow at him in challenge. The man needed something to distract him from the grinding disappointment of not effecting instant change or else he’d drive himself mad. He took the bait, narrowing his eyes at her with a look that could melt iron. Eyes still locked on hers, he said something to Peter. Peter glanced in her direction, then said something to Malcolm that looked like an admonishment.
“Are you coming?” Marigold asked from the exit door at the top of the gallery.
“I will be soon,” Katya murmured, too quiet to be heard. She schooled her expression to cool indifference, then picked up her skirts and made her way to Marigold’s side. “I don’t know which is worse, men who constantly get their way or men who are constantly denied something they want.”
Marigold laughed, the sound echoing in the narrow, stone stairway as they descended. “They’re both equally insufferable,” she said. “I’ll probably be up half the night listening to Alex rant about the way Mr. Beach kept interrupting him when he tried to steer the conversation to women.”
“Beach is an ass,” Katya said as they rounded the corner and stepped out into St. Stephen’s Hall. “Always has been, always will be.”
“He’s not the only one,” Marigo
ld said with a grin before excusing herself to cross the hall to wait for Alex.
Katya marched ahead to where Lavinia, Cecelia, Bianca, and Natalia were waiting farther down the hall. They made a pretty picture. Lavinia was newly married, but the other three were arguably some of the most eligible women in London, though Bianca and Natalia wouldn’t be on the market for another year or two, thank heavens. Cecelia, on the other hand, was to be presented at court with that year’s crop of debutantes in just a week’s time. Several gentlemen who passed the group on their way out seemed to know it as well and took a long, second look. Katya smiled. Her son, Rupert, the current Earl of Stanhope at the ripe age of twenty, had been in love with Cecelia for more than a year—he hadn’t yet admitted it to Katya, but some things were obvious to a mother’s eye—but he would have to step lively if he wanted to win Cece’s attentions.
Not that she was eager for her son to become involved with Malcolm’s daughter. What a ridiculous tangle that would be.
“Perhaps if they phrased the issue in terms of Irish women deserving their rights, then Mr. Croydon’s bill could be brought up for debate sooner,” Bianca was in the middle of saying as Katya joined them.
“Irish women deserve rights too,” Natalia agreed with a nod.
Katya did her best to hide her smile as her heart swelled with maternal affection. Her daughters were beautiful fools, but so were all people, women and men, before they reached thirty at least. Heaven only knew the kind of foolishness she’d gotten into when she was her girls’ ages.
“Men will always find a way to push women to the fringes, especially in politics, unless we stand up for ourselves and demand the changes we want to see,” she said.
“You’re quite right, Lady Stanhope,” Lavinia agreed.
Katya’s smile widened. Lavinia had become a dear friend in the last year, and as such, especially considering her new rank as Vicountess Helm, she had a right to address Katya by name, but she still hadn’t dared to do it.
“She’s only half right, as usual,” Malcolm growled as he and Peter approached them from the gallery stairs.
Katya snapped straighter, turning to him with fire in her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
Malcolm swaggered his way up to her side, striking what she was sure he thought was a fierce pose. “Men and women have to fight together if women are going to get their due in this world.”
Katya’s eyes widened, and she turned to him, feeling her heat rising in more ways than one. “And how much have men accomplished on our behalf thus far?” she demanded.
“Plenty.” Malcolm shrugged. “You’re allowed to watch parliamentary proceedings, aren’t you?”
“Watch, yes,” Katya said, her jaw and words tight. “But can we participate?”
“Through your husbands, yes, of course,” Malcolm said, then threw in a deliberate pause. “Oh. That is, if you have a husband, Lady Stanhope.” An impish spark filled his eyes.
Katya crossed her arms, glaring at him. “It’s amusing how you make a point completely opposite of the one you intend to make every time you open your mouth, Lord Malcolm.”
“And is my point wrong?” he continued to goad her. “Can you have any real, lasting effect on the policies of this government without a husband?”
“Well then, I shall just have to find myself one,” she replied, the excitement of the skirmish invigorating her.
Malcolm burst into a grin that was both self-satisfied and painfully hopeful, but Katya looked right past him to a tall, awkward gentleman who walked through the hall with uncertain steps, looking lost.
“Sir Christopher,” Katya called to him, stepping away from Malcolm.
Malcolm’s grin vanished, replaced by a dark scowl.
Sir Christopher blinked and glanced over his shoulder as though there were another, worthier Sir Christopher behind him whom Katya intended to address. His eyes grew wide when he realized she was talking to him. “Lady Stanhope,” he said in awe.
“Sir Christopher, I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on your election yet.” Katya strode to up to him, hips swaying and figure presented to perfection. All intended to poke Malcolm in his pride, of course. She took Christopher’s arm and turned him toward her group. “I don’t believe you’ve met my daughters or Lady Cecelia Campbell yet.” She deliberately didn’t refer to Cece as Malcolm’s daughter.
“Um, why, no, I don’t believe I have.” Christopher put on a smile as Katya presented him to the younger women. His smile made him look like even more of a dolt than his look of confusion, especially when he made awkward, hesitant bows to each of the younger ladies. It was an unfortunate product of the way the man was constructed that he looked like a buffoon most of the time. Katya had been paying close attention to his voting record, his speeches, and the articles he wrote for political journals, though. Sir Christopher Dowland was far more intelligent than anyone gave him credit for.
“Malcolm, you’ve met Sir Christopher, haven’t you?” Katya asked in a purr, sending Malcolm a teasing look. She continued to hold Christopher’s arm as she did.
Malcolm scowled, a flush rising to his face. “I believe we met once,” he said, his voice hoarse, holding out his hand. It was a clever gambit. Christopher was forced to relinquish Katya’s arm in order to shake Malcolm’s hand. “We met a few years ago, at Penrose House,” Malcolm went on. He paused, then added, “I was sorry to hear of your father’s death.”
“Thank you,” Christopher replied with a grave nod.
“How unfortunate that you should inherit the barony just as you are elected to Parliament,” Katya added, sending a knowing look to her daughters. She never would have dreamed she’d be one of the scheming mother types, intent on finding a wealthy, titled husband for her girls—and truly, she didn’t want them to be shackled in marriage at a tender age, as she had been—but it wasn’t too soon to learn how to spot a catch when he was standing in front of you.
“Thank you, Lady Stanhope. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind, but I have a competent land steward at Penrose, my father’s affairs were all in order, and things are about as settled as could be expected,” Christopher replied. His smile suddenly turned into a frown that made him look like a baby goat lost in the middle of a field. “Good Lord, that’s not the right thing to say around ladies. Do forgive me. I never know how to address the fairer sex.” He stopped, his face turning bright red.
Bianca and Natalia were having as hard a time not laughing as Katya was, but Cece was far more gracious. “Are you planning to attend the Spencer’s ball next week?” she asked with a kind and open smile—something she had most certainly inherited from her late mother and not Malcolm.
“I was thinking of it, yes,” Christopher replied, relaxing a bit. “It’s where all the new debutantes will be after their presentation at court, right?” As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he blushed furiously. “Bollocks, that’s not the right thing to say either.”
“Neither is ‘bollocks’,” Bianca muttered to Natalia. The two girls burst into giggles.
“Never you mind, Sir Christopher,” Katya said, taking the man’s arm once more when Malcolm started to gloat at Christopher’s awkwardness. “It is where the newly-presented young ladies will be after their audience with the queen. But if you need practice, there are many, fine women with more experience who will be on hand to guide you through the hazards of a society ball.” She shot a wicked look at Malcolm as she made her thinly-veiled offer.
Sure enough, Malcolm was livid. It served him right for trying to tweak her earlier. Granted, she didn’t have a shred of interest in seducing Christopher, but Malcolm didn’t know that, and what he didn’t know kept him on his toes.
“Oh.” Christopher blinked at Katya as though he’d slowly caught her meaning. His face turned bright red. “I say. Um…that is…interesting.”
“Don’t mind Mama,” Bianca said with a laugh. “Baiting men is her favorite sport. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
; Katya’s brow shot up. She was too shocked by the cleverness of her daughter’s reply to be angry with her at the jab. Bianca wasn’t even out yet—they’d made the decision to have her wait until the following year for her presentation, even though she was on the verge of turning eighteen, so that she could gain a bit more refinement—and she was a firecracker. The very idea made Katya beam with pride.
“I’ll save a dance for you,” Katya said to Christopher instead. “And if there is any other assistance I can give you in navigating London society, do ask.”
Malcolm barked out a sound that was something between a laugh and a snort. “Lady Stanhope is quite well-versed at navigating London society,” he said, piling his words with disdain.
“I enjoy the spectacle that people present is all,” she said, fixing Malcolm with a sly grin. Let him take whatever meaning he wanted from that. It was his own fault if his mind went straight to the gutter.
“You enjoy it thoroughly,” Malcolm agreed, eyes narrowing.
“We all enjoy what we’re good at.” Katya met his comment by arching one brow. She knew exactly the picture that look presented. She’d lived in her skin long enough to know how to convey heat with an eyebrow and sensuality with a twitch of her mouth. And she knew better than anyone else exactly what would cause Malcolm’s blood to boil, in both senses of the word.
“Though it is possible to have too much of a good thing,” Malcolm said, lowering his tone.
“Is it?” Katya feigned innocence. “I’ve never found that to be true. Have you, Sir Christopher?”
