Seduced at Midnight

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  Indeed, if her father spoke to Gideon, he'd make that opinion known. God knows Gideon already held her in little enough esteem. To have her own father confirm her general uselessness to the one man she wished regarded her highly was a humiliation she wasn't certain she could bear.

  Of course, the prospect of telling Gideon the truth-that she'd followed him into the garden with the hopes of catching a glimpse of him, of talking to him-about anything-was mortifying enough to cramp her stomach. He'd think her an absolute idiot and would no doubt never wish to speak to her again. And she couldn't blame him. But at least she'd be an honest absolute idiot. And since nothing could ever come of their acquaintance, it was for the best. She'd always have the memory of their unforgettable kiss. The most wondrous adventure she'd ever had.

  Her inner voice coughed to life. It was the only adventure you've ever had.

  She pursed her lips. Fine. It was her only adventure. But Kadvigh what an adventure it had been. And maybe, perhaps, Gideon wouldn't hate her after she told him the truth. Perhaps he'd be flattered and admire her honesty and they could be-

  She cut off the thought with a violent shake of her head. Could be what? Friends? Hardly. Not only would her parents forbid such an association with a man they'd view as nothing more than an ill-bred, common nobody, but why would Gideon want to be friends with a woman he believed to be nothing more than a foolish, spoiled princess?

  Nor could they ever be anything else. Certainly not acquaintances who met in dark gardens for stolen kisses. She was fortunate no one had come upon them. Mother had noted her absence from the party and had scolded Julianne, even after she'd offered the excuse that she'd felt unwell and had merely found a quiet alcove to rest for several minutes. No, to find herself alone again with Gideon would prove too much of a temptation. It was one thing to want him in the solitary privacy of her own thoughts, where they were not only friends but lovers. It was quite another to try to control her desires when she was with him. Close enough to touch. Especially now that she knew how he tasted. How he felt. How he kissed.

  Drawing a resolute breath, she exited her bedchamber. She'd force down some breakfast then position herself in the morning room window seat where she'd see Gideon arrive at the house. She'd tell him the truth and be done with her deceit. And carry the memory of their heated kiss in her heart.

  When Julianne approached the dining room, her steps slowed, and she frowned at the muffled sound of her parents' voices coming from within. Botheration. Mother rarely awoke this early, and Father usually took a tray in his private study on those occasions when Mother did come to breakfast early. It was unusual for them to eat together in the morning-a fact that piqued her curiosity, especially after she heard her father say her name.

  Angling herself to remain out of sight, she approached the oak door, which stood slightly ajar.

  "-have appointments today with Beechmore, Penniwick, Haverly, and Walston," came her father's gruff voice.

  "What about Eastling?" Mother asked.

  "I spoke to him last night. He's scheduled to arrive directly between the others."

  "Excellent. Good for them all to be aware of the competition. But of course you're favoring Eastling."

  Julianne held her breath, waiting for her father's reply. When it came, her stomach clenched.

  "Naturally," Father said. "The duke's holdings and influence are far more vast than the others'. If we can reach an agreement, the marriage could take place very quickly."

  "Not for at least several months. There's a wedding to plan, the banns to post-"

  "Eastling made mention of a special license. Said he'd have neither the time nor desire for a fancy affair before returning to Cornwall-with a bride-in two weeks' time. I'll know more after our meeting today, but you'd best prepare yourself to do whatever it is women do in such circumstances-arranging for a wedding dress, et cetera. And do it quickly."

  The clink of silverware against china, followed by the scraping of a chair against the floor jerked Julianne from the stunned state into which she'd fallen and spurred her to action. She sprinted across the corridor and had just secreted herself in the small alcove there, when her father emerged from the dining room. Shrinking into the shadows, she willed herself to be invisible. He strode past. Seconds later she heard a door close firmly, indicating he'd entered his private study, as was his habit after breakfast.

  For the space of several erratic heartbeats, Julianne remained frozen in place, her ears ringing like a death knell with the echo of her father's words. She pressed her palms against her cramping midsection, but the pressure did nothing to calm her inner tumult.

  Dear God, this was worse than she'd thought. If Father's plans fell into place, she'd find herself married to the duke and shipped off to the wilds of Cornwall, all within a fortnight.

  A silent scream reverberated through her, shaking her insides until they roiled in protest. Surely she shouldn't be so distraught, suffer such a violent reaction, to news that was hardly shocking; she'd always known she would marry, and in accordance with her father's wishes. Known full well the time was approaching for a husband to soon be chosen.

  Yes, but she hadn't known soon would be quite so soon. Or that she'd find her prospective groom so unappealing. Or that she'd be forced to live in Cornwall, so far away from her beloved friends and everything she'd ever known.

  A calm, inner voice of reasoning tried to insert itself into the panic threatening to overtake her. What difference did it make if her wedding took place in two weeks or two months? As for His Grace, given his wealth and position, he was one of the most eligible bachelors in the kingdom. And although he was past the first bloom of youth, he was far less decrepit than most men of his exalted rank. As for his dour, frosty demeanor, perhaps a young wife could coax him into better humor. She'd be a duchess. The toast of the ton. Mistress of a magnificent estate. She should be ecstatic.

  Yet the thought of pledging her life to the duke, of being a wife to him… in word and deed… she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands tighter against her protesting stomach. The thought of him touching her, kissing her, of sharing intimacies with him…a shudder ran through her. When he'd held her during their waltz last night, she hadn't experienced the slightest spark of desire-a fact that was made even more painfully obvious after her passionate interlude with Gideon.

  Still, the thought of marrying any of the other prospective suitors scheduled to call today left her equally bereft and empty. None of them were the sort of man she longed for, not only because she didn't find any of them attractive, but mostly because none of them cared a jot about her. Only her money. That and the fact that she looked decorative sitting on a settee.

  She could see her life as the Duchess of Eastling stretched before her… years and years of a lonely, passionless existence with a cold, indifferent husband. No adventures, no jolts, no excitement…just day after lonely day.

  An image of Gideon rose in her mind, and she had to press her lips together to quell the cry of longing that rose in her throat. A litany of if onlys raced through her mind. If only Gideon were a nobleman. If only she weren't an earl's daughter. If only she were free to follow her heart. If only she were brave enough to take what she wanted, to have the sort of adventure she craved. She wasn't foolish enough to believe Gideon cared for her, but neither was he immune to her, at least physically. And certainly she was attracted to him. Painfully so. In a way she'd never been to any other man. And she'd never describe him as boring. He wasn't tainted with the jaded ennui of the gentleman of the ton. And while he wasn't a nobleman, she knew, in her heart, that he was a noble man.

  She forced her eyes open and pulled in several slow, calming breaths. Her future would be decided by the end of the day or very soon thereafter, and the Duke of Eastling loomed on her horizon like a gloomy, frosty, dark cloud. Time was short, urging her, compelling her, to do… something. Take some action. Grab what little happiness she could before she was shackled by unbreakable vows and
an existence far away.

  But how? What could she do? A humorless laugh escaped her. If only she had a ghostly lover like Maxwell from The Ghost of Devonshire Manor to assist her. He'd helped Lady Elaine in numerous ways, both in and out of the bedchamber-

  She stilled, struck immobile by the idea that sprang to life in her mind. She shook her head, trying to jar the thought loose, but it refused to budge. Rather, it took root and grew at an alarming rate. She mulled it over for several minutes, frowning even as a sense of purpose and excitement snaked through her. The plan was so outrageous she doubted even Emily would dare it. It would require more courage than Julianne had ever exhibited in her entire life, for she risked a great deal. Indeed, she risked everything.

  But if I don't, I'll have… nothing. No memories to hold dear in the long, lonely years ahead. None save those she'd made last night with Gideon. And those wouldn't be enough. She needed more. She wanted… nay, she craved more.

  For years she'd envied Emily's daring. Sarah's cleverness. Carolyn's calm determination. Now was her chance. Her last chance. Her only chance. With only a fortnight of freedom left, she couldn't waste a single day.

  Her better judgment and conscience shouted warnings, but she shoved them aside with a ruthless force she hadn't previously known she possessed. After all, what were a few more lies at this point?

  After running her plan through her mind once again to make certain all the pieces were in place, she drew a resolute breath and stepped from the alcove. And headed toward her father's study.

  Chapter 6

  Gideon sat in an obscure corner of Lord Gatesbourne's foyer and seriously contemplated kicking the elegant arse of the next man who walked through the oak double doors. Yes, kicking him-perhaps tossing in a punch or two for good measure-then flinging him on his bruised posterior into the privet hedges. Headfirst. He'd been waiting on this damned uncomfortable mahogany bench that was probably worth more than all his own furniture combined for over an hour. If he had any sense, he'd get up and leave rather than suffering the humiliation of-

  Of what?his inner voice jeered. Waiting on a titled gentleman's schedule?

  Hardly. He'd been doing that for years. Any man foolish enough to work among the rich knew the world revolved around their agenda.

  Yet what had his every muscle tensed and his entire body on edge wasn't the lowly bench he'd been relegated to, leaving him with nothing to occupy his time save watching haughty gentlemen come and go, being escorted down the long corridor by the earl's perfectly proper butler, Winslow. No, it was the parade of nose-in-the-air aristocrats themselves that had him ready to commit mayhem. Because he knew exactly why they were here. Every one of the bastards was vying for Julianne's hand.

  Lords Haverly and Beechmore had come and gone, as had Lords Penniwick and Walston, although none of them were granted the amount of time bestowed on the Duke of Eastling.

  None of them had spared Gideon so much as a glance.

  While watching His Grace accept his walking stick and top hat from Winslow, Gideon had noted the shadows beneath the duke's frigid pale blue eyes. The slightly gray cast to his complexion. The man didn't look well rested. Of course, one didn't get much sleep when one was busy lifting the skirts of the fine ladies of the ton.

  Just then another man entered the foyer, and Gideon inwardly frowned as but yet another flash of jealousy burned through him-this one more intense than the others. What the bloody hell was Logan Jennsen doing here? Other than gobs of money, what made the American more suitable for Julianne than Gideon himself? Jennsen held no title, nor did blue blood run through his veins.

  Gideon had first met Jennsen when he'd interviewed the American, along with dozens of others, in relation to the same murder investigation two months ago during which he'd first met Julianne. He'd instantly known that Jennsen had secrets. The sort of secrets a man didn't share. With anyone. Easy for Gideon to recognize that look in Jennsen's eyes-the same way he recognized it in his own, every time he looked in the mirror. Yet it seemed gobs of money-something Gideon certainly didn't have-could buy an audience with Julianne's father. Bloody hell.

  "His lordship will see you now," the dour-faced butler said to the wealthy American.

  "Thank you, Winslow," Jennsen replied.

  Tucked away on his bench, Gideon watched Winslow lead Jennsen down the corridor. The butler returned to his post a moment later, not offering Gideon anything more than a frown-but one only tossed in his general direction. Normally Gideon would have been mildly amused by this obvious display of someone who worked for the haughty upper echelons behaving equally as haughty as his employer when faced with someone not of the peerage or great wealth. But not today. Not when he had to force himself to remain seated rather than stalk down the corridor, grab Jennsen by his fancy cravat, and demand to know his intentions toward Julianne.

  Bloody hell, he felt as if steam were about to erupt from his pores. Had he thought that merely tossing these bastards on their arses was enough? Ha! What he needed was a sword. With a very sharp point. To hasten their retreat. Toward the Thames. Perhaps a dip in the cold water would cool their ardor. In that case, you'd best jump in with them, his inner voice murmured.

  Damn bloody pesky inner voice.

  But at least it had kept him, for several seconds, from thinking about her.

  Julianne.

  Her name wound through his mind, coiling around his brain. Indeed, he'd thought of nothing else but her all night. All morning. Every minute until he'd left his Bow Street office, during the long walk to Grosvenor Square-one he'd hoped would clear his head but had not. Her scent, her taste, the feel of her in his arms were tattooed upon his senses, etched so deeply he despaired of ever exorcising them. Bloody hell, how long would it take before he forgot that kiss?

  Never, his inner voice whispered. You'll never forget it.

  Stupid inner voice. He would forget it. He had to forget it. He knew damn well there was no point in hungering for things he couldn't have. And Lady Julianne was most definitely one of those things.

  Still, his heart had beat ridiculously and annoyingly fast as he'd approached the mansion. Would she be at home? Would he see her?

  He hadn't, and he firmly told himself he was glad. Yet that hadn't stopped him from listening for her voice, her footsteps, hoping for a glimpse of her every second he'd sat on this damned uncomfortable bench. Had Julianne visited with the gentlemen callers? Gideon clasped his hands between his spread knees, and with his forearms resting on his thighs, he leaned forward and stared at the glossy black-and-white marble tiled floor, as if it held the answer. In his mind's eye he imagined her, perched gracefully on some priceless antique settee, dazzling each man with her beauty. He visualized each man ogling her, looking into her extraordinary eyes, wanting her, touching her. His fingers tightened, and his jaw clenched. Bloody hell, he felt like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

  Those extraordinary eyes…did she have any idea how expressive they were? The instant the thought filtered through his mind, sanity returned. Of course she knew. Women always knew that sort of thing and used their wiles to their advantage. Yet something told him she was different, screamed she was, especially after last night. Her eyes reflected a sadness, a vulnerability that in spite of his best efforts to ignore, reached inside him. There was nothing calculated in her demeanor, and God knows he'd known women whose every word, every gesture struck him as a devious move in some stealthy chess game. But not Julianne. No, she had an innocence about her that fascinated him. And scared him-because that fascination ran so very deep.

  The sound of footfalls broke through his reverie, and he looked up to see Logan Jennsen stride into the foyer. To Gideon's surprise, rather than ignore him as had all the previous callers, the American made his way to the uncomfortable bench.

  Gideon rose and accepted the hand Jennsen extended. "Mayne," Jennsen said, his gaze sharp but unreadable. "What brings you here? Another investigation? The murdering ghost robber perhaps?"
>
  "As a matter of fact, yes. And you? Are you another suitor?" Gideon inwardly slapped himself. Damn it, he hadn't meant to ask, and certainly not so abruptly. Or in a tone that resembled a growl.

  But Jennsen merely laughed. "God, no. I've no desire to take one of these overly delicate society maidens to wife."

  An annoying, ridiculous, and completely inappropriate wave of relief washed over Gideon. Jennsen's gaze grew speculative, and he continued, "Although, now that you mention it, I must admit there is something about Lady Julianne. She is undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And there's a sweetness about her yet also a determination."

  Gideon's gut tightened in an unpleasant way that resembled a cramp. "Actually, I didn't mention it."

  "I understand the Duke of Eastling's in the running. Along with a number of others." Jennsen lifted a brow. "Are you one of them?"

  For several seconds, Gideon could only stare, nonplussed. "Hardly. A Runner could never aspire to an earl's daughter."

  Jennsen shook his head. "Damn ridiculous, all these society rules and titles you Brits encumber yourselves with. Can't imagine being a slave to a pile-of-bricks estate and some foolish name." He flashed a grin. "Part of my American charm."

  Gideon didn't bother to point out that Jennsen's "American charm" rendered him the only man to come through the foyer who'd deemed to talk to him. Although he sensed Jennsen had his own reasons for doing so. He doubted the man ever did anything without a good reason. But what could that reason be?

  "There's no pile of bricks I'm enslaved to," Gideon said, "but a man's name is important-as is his honor-whether there's a title attached to it or not."

  Something flickered in Jennsen's eyes, gone so fast Gideon wondered if he'd imagined it. "Agreed," Jennsen said. "So, how goes your investigation? Have you captured the culprit?"