Sweet Seduction
by Patricia Pellicane
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 475 Park Avenue South New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 1992 by Patricia Pellicane
First printing: May, 1992
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
"Oh my God," Meg groaned, holding to the bed post as Betsy, her maid, pulled the corset tightly together around her waist and midriff. "I'd like to get my hands on the fool who thought up this absurd contraption." Her words came in a soft breathless hush as if she hadn't the power to speak any louder.
Lena stood a few feet to her sister's right, fiddling with her hair in front of the floor-length mirror. She laughed at Meg's moanings. "You've said that almost every day since we've arrived in England."
"I've said that every day," Meg corrected gently. "And I'll continue saying it each time I'm tied into this godawful thing." Meg tried to take a deep breath, an impossibility. "No wonder the women in this country simper and coo like fools. They can't get enough breath to talk in a normal voice."
"Stop whining. It's not going to do you any good" Lena said as Betsy secured the sturdy cord into a tight bow.
Meg groaned again. "Actually, it does me a world of good. If I'm forced to wear it, at least grant me the liberty to complain."
Lena grinned at her sister. "You've worn them before."
"Not every day. And never this tight." She rubbed her hand over the left side of her midriff. "Goodness, I think I've cracked a rib."
Lena laughed at her sister's dramatics. "All this moaning and groaning and you know you can't fit into any of your new dresses without it."
Meg sighed in despair. "I know." A grin suddenly split her wide mouth, exposing white even teeth, while a devilish glint lit up eyes blacker than night. "Let's forget the tea and go riding."
"Meggie, you're hopeless." Lena shook her head. "We can't. You know we can't. Father has accepted for us. We're expected at Lord and Lady Bettingham's in less than an hour. Hurry and finish dressing."
"Oh pooh. Who cares about another boring tea? How many does this make? Two dozen since we've arrived? Is taking tea all these people know how to do?"
"It's what polite people do."
"Well, I'm sick of being polite."
Lena shot her sister a knowing grin. "One would think a person should try it at least once before complaining that he or she is sick of it."
Meg chuckled. "I am being a monster, aren't I?" She gave a woeful sigh. "I'm sorry about that, but it's hard to be nice when you can't breathe. Besides, I don't like tea. And drinking cup after cup of the brew is—"
"Don't exaggerate" Lena interrupted as she turned again to the mirror and tried in vain to straighten a corkscrew curl at her temple. "Surely you can manage one cup."
Meg spied her sister preening just as her dress slid over her head. "There's no sense playing with it; it's not going to do anything but what it wants." She knew that for a fact since her hair was just as curly and black as her sister's, and she hadn't as yet found the means to straighten a lock.
Lena sighed. "I know. It doesn't matter how I try to straighten it, the curl comes right back."
"Some would kill for 'air like yours, miss," remarked Betsy, who was securing the dozen buttons at the back of Meg's dress.
Meg laughed. "Women are indeed a shallow sort, don't you think, Betsy?"
"I don't know, miss," Betsy said, obviously puzzled by the remark.
"We care nothing of the state of the world, but sigh over our curls, or the lack thereof."
Lena shot her sister a look of annoyance. "Don't start, Meg. Just for once act like the lady you're supposed to be." Lena smoothed the soft folds of her skirt over her hips, admiring the way the cut of this particular dress emphasized her tiny waist.
"By acting like a lady, you mean to pretend that I'm witless."
"I mean nothing of the sort. I won't have you embarrassing us today. Lord Bettingham is a business associate of Father's. What would he think?"
Meg sighed. "Supposing I cared what the man thought, you mean?"
"Meggie! For God's sake!"
Meg shook her head. "Lena, every day you become less like my younger sister and more like a boring and oh-so-proper maiden aunt."
"Are you telling me that because I prefer doing things in a proper fashion, I am boring?"
"Well, perhaps you've lost just a bit of your sense of adventure." Meg had difficulty not grinning at her outrageous statement. From as far back as either could remember, the two of them were always in some sort of difficulty.
Lena laughed, knowing well her sister's devious methods. "If you mean to goad me into doing something foolhardy, you're wasting your time. I'm putting my sense of adventure on hold for this entire trip. And if you don't want to suffer Father's wrath, you'd better do as much."
"Not likely," Meg returned. Still she was wise enough to mutter the words beneath her breath.
Tristan Hall, captain of the Baltimore, guided his merchant ship smoothly into port! The American trader slid with nary a jolt against the rope-covered pilings. The instant it touched the dock, four of its crew jumped to the wooden dock and, with muscles bulging, secured the ship with thick, heavy ropes.
Tristan smiled with satisfaction and a sense of real relief. Caught in a hurricane five days out of Jamaica, his ship had been tossed about like a piece of driftwood, spinning and dipping into waves that dwarfed the craft. Walls of water so high that each appeared to reach the blackened sky towered over the ship, only to crash upon its decks with a force that had threatened to rip the vessel asunder. Brave men, men who feared nothing but nature gone mad, worked in ceaseless fury to save the ship. They tied themselves to masts and rails to protect their lives against a wind so vicious it buckled knees and carried men of fifteen stone and more like spit into the black, seething cauldron of water. And if one or two found a moment in quivering fear to offer a plea to the Almighty, they never admitted to the weakness but offered instead their own silent word of thanks to find the ship intact.
Though the ship remained in one piece, it had suffered some real damage. The storm had splintered yard arms and masts as if the wood were no thicker than a finger in width, and the wind had blown the vessel far off course. They had been more than a week late in arriving. Tristan hadn't encountered weather as severe as this since his first years as a seaman, and he was happy to put this particular voyage behind him.
Standing at the wheel, his feet spread as always for balance, his dark gaze moved over his men. A slow, knowing grin teased the corners of his mouth. White teeth, emphasized by darkly tanned skin, flashed as his men hurried with their tasks, anxious to be off and about their business. Tristan hadn't seen this much energy in weeks.
A woman, a lady of the night to be more accurate, stopped to boldly look over his crew, no doubt hoping to drum up business. She wore a red, low-cut gown that left little to the imagination. Her hair, amazingly enough, almost matched the dress in color, and her face was heavily made up with black kohl around her eyes and the brightest lip rouge Tristan had ever seen. His men whistled and called out encouragingly upon realizing they'd caught her attention. To their delight, she curtsied low before them, allowing all to view an amount of breast that went far beyond the realm of decency. That she enjoyed the attention was a given, but it was the captain's eye she tried to catch. Her mouth widened in a smile, and a pink tongue ran suggestively over her painted lips.
Tristan held no false modesty about his looks. He knew himself to be fairly attractive. He was, however, far more than that. He was a man who could turn a woman's head twice and then once again for good measure. Now as he stood
watching the whore, he easily outshone every man aboard his ship. His dark hair glistened in the light, his skin weathered brown from years spent under the sun's perpetual glare. Deep lines bracketed a mouth that was quick to smile while warm brown eyes crinkled with lively humor.
He was taller than most, a bit over six feet, but carried the extra inches well. He did not slump as some tall men are prone to do. His back was straight, his shoulders broad in a loose-fitting, white shirt. Buttoned only to mid-chest, it caught the warm summer breeze and billowed out in the back. Tight black trousers, encased in high shining boots, proved his stomach to be flat and his hips narrow.
The whore looked long and hard in Tristan's direction, but upon gaining no real attention and realizing his men wouldn't be free for some time, she moved on.
Tristan sighed as he watched her walk away. There had been a time in his life when he would have made plans to see her later. Even though he'd been months without a woman, oddly enough this creature brought no longings to the surface. Tristan shrugged. Perhaps at thirty-three, he'd simply grown more discriminating in his tastes. Upon further thought he realized the truth of it: he preferred his women less gaudy and a hell of a lot less used. Aye, the days were long gone when he would chance the pox by catering to women who walked the docks.
He thought about Linda back home. Now she was a woman worth any man's time. She was pleasant and agreeable, always ready for his attentions and never complaining of the long months they were forced to spend apart. She never nagged. She was clean and not so pretty that he worried she'd find another in his absence.
She was open and giving, a delight in bed. Tristan felt his body stir just thinking of the things she could do to him. But, best of all, she was his and his alone. If he marrying kind, she would have made him the perfect wife. He knew he wasn't likely to find a sweeter more agreeable companion.
He was anxious to return home. Anxious to know Linda's sweet ministrations. She knew what a man wanted.
Tristan gave an impatient scowl. What the hell was the matter with him? Thoughts of Linda should have brought about a sense of contentment. Instead, he knew the all too familiar nagging restlessness.
Nothing of late seemed to satisfy him for long, not thoughts of Linda or Linda herself, not even his much-loved ship and the oceans it sailed upon. No one had loved the sea as had he. But after ten years spent at the helm, he was beginning to know a distinct dissatisfaction, a hunger. What the hell did he want? Tristan only wished he could answer his own question. Whatever it was that troubled him, it was getting worse with every passing day.
Perhaps he was simply tired, he reasoned. Tired of the loneliness, the company of only men. Still, that didn't account for the loss he suffered. Standing at his helm, guiding his ship through huge expanses of water no longer brought a thrill to his heart. He didn't understand why but knew only that thoughts of continuing on in this vein brought no joy.
Tristan pushed his dark, uneasy thoughts to the back of his mind. Now wasn't the time for soul-searching or making decisions about his future. He was looking forward to a few days of relaxation while overseeing the repairs of his. ship. He scowled as his gaze moved over the vessel. Well, perhaps to expect the work completed in days was pushing things a bit. It would no doubt take a good week or more to see his ship put to rights.
But he wasn't going to worry about it now. The work wouldn't start until tomorrow. His crew needed a few hours of drinking and whoring before they'd be ready for the task of repairing his ship.
News of his arrival had already been sent to Edward. If he knew his friend, and he did, Edward had already made arrangements for his welcome. He smiled again as he imagined the nightlife London had to offer. But even that would have to wait. His ship couldn't be left abandoned. As captain his chance for festivities would have to wait till tomorrow.
"Go ahead, Captain."
Tristan shook his head. "Tomorrow will be soon enough, Crain. Enjoy yourself."
"That's just it, sir. I can't enjoy myself without Lottie." John Crain sighed at the thought of his new wife back home. He felt his chest twist with aching hunger as he remembered her waving goodbye at the docks. Waving until she was but a speck of color on the docks, and then the docks and all had disappeared over the horizon. He'd been obliged to fulfill his obligations, but as of this trip, he was a free man. He wouldn't be leaving home again, not any time in the near future.
Tristan grinned at his lovesick first mate. "Are you going to stay on board and moon over the girl every night?"
John Crain grinned. "I expect when you fall in love, you'll be doing your share, Captain."
Tristan grinned at the man's knowing expression. He didn't bother to profess that day would never come. That he was wiser than most. That no woman would ever hold him under her spell. That he'd never become so intrigued by the gentle sway of a skirt, a come-hither look, or a sweet smile as to lose his sense of self. He'd seen what love could do to a man. Hadn't he seen it render his own father closer to a blithering idiot as any man was likely to come? Nay, the idea of allowing a shrewd, conniving woman that kind of power did not appeal. The truth of the matter was not love, in any case. It was desire. It was lust. A man would do much to bed certain women. But not Tristan Hall. Never Tristan Hall. Still, if his first mate believed himself happy, held in the clutches of some female, who was he to say nay? "I wish you and your bride years of happiness, Crain."
"Thank you, sir"
Tristan spotted his friend Edward bounding from a coach and four, running along the dock toward his ship. "If you're sure about tonight . . . ?"
"I'm sure, Captain."
"Lord," Meg groaned as they entered the closed carriage that would take them back to their rented lodgings, "that was the worst yet."
"It wasn't so bad," Lena insisted. "Lord Bettingham was charming."
Meg gave an unladylike snort in lieu of an actual response.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm sick to death of charm. It's a fact: the longer a man's nose, the more charming he becomes."
Lena giggled. "He did have a long nose, didn't he?"
Meg grinned. "Almost as long as his wife's. Lord, what a sorry-looking group of people."
The sisters grinned.
"But neither could compare to Lady Anne. Her nose was longest of all.
"It was to be expected, I suppose," Meg said, imitating perfectly the nasal inflections of their English hosts. "Look at the poor girl's mother and father. You know, I almost slipped twice and called her Lady Nose."
Lena's laughter grew in volume until the small carriage was filled with the sweet sound. "You're awful."
"I know." Meg grinned with relish, obviously enjoying the fact that she was.
The carriage came to a stop before their lodgings. Within seconds the two exited the carriage with exuberance and without the aid of Rogers who had come to the door the moment he heard the carriage stop. The aging butler's brow furrowed in dismay as he admonished with dark looks of disapproval the young ladies he'd known since birth. And again he bemoaned the fact that these two, ages seventeen and twenty-four, would never act like the ladies of quality he knew them to be. They showed far to much energy and enthusiasm. They were never sedate, almost never calm. He'd prayed long and hard during their growing years for their adulthood to come, while patiently withstanding innumerable childhood pranks, only to realize upon their maturity that their pranks had matured as well.
Rogers had long since given up hope. He never knew what to expect next. These two little ruffians, disguised in lady's clothes, would act as they pleased. It mattered little what he said. And if there was a more unseemly, mischievous pair in all of England, he'd so far been blessed not to have made their acquaintance.
"Hello, Rogers," the two said almost in unison.
"Afternoon, ladies," Rogers responded. He groaned as they, as usual, raced each other up the steps and into the house. A second later the door slammed in his face. The man only sighed in defeat, k
nowing the door to lock upon closing.
Rogers silently bemoaned the fact that he was getting on in years. He wasn't as fast as he'd once been. Ten years ago, neither girl could have locked him out. Not that they hadn't tried.
The keys were in the kitchen. He breathed a greater sigh as he wondered if he should walk around back or knock until someone heard the sound. Knowing he'd have to pound before the cook, who was very nearly deaf, could hear, his thin shoulders slumped in acceptance. He walked to the back of the large house.
"Well have to hurry, or we'll be late for the ball tonight."
"I'm not going."
"Meggie, don't start that again," Lena groaned, as her brown eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "We've been here a little more than a week, and we haven't yet gone to an affair without arguing. Can't we, just this once?"
"I'm not arguing. I'm simply not going."
"But what will I tell Father?"
"Tell him I've had enough noses for one day."
Meg shook her head. "He'll know if you're not ill. You know we could never fool him."
Meg grinned. "I have no intentions of trying to fool him. I'm going to Nanna's."
"Alone?" Lena asked, aghast at the very thought.
"No, I'll ask Rogers to accompany me."
"But-"
"She's family, Lena," Meg interrupted. "There's no need to act like I'm committing some great crime."
"But-"
"Don't say it," she snapped as she watched Lena's eyes cloud over. "Don't say one word against them. They're Gypsies and so are we."
"Only part."
"The best part," Meg countered, smiling, while a dark, mischievous light entered her eyes. "You can keep our blue-blood relatives. I've no use for them." She shrugged a shoulder. "They didn't think much of our grandparents for intermarrying. And I don't think much of them. As a matter of fact, if Father wasn't the successful man he is, I doubt they'd accept us in their homes."
Lena shook her head in helpless despair. It wasn't that she disliked her Gypsy relatives. They seemed a nice enough sort. But Lena couldn't understand why anyone would choose Gypsies over lords and ladies to associate with. When would either of them get another chance to enjoy the spectacle of watching high society at play? "What should I tell Father when he gets back?"
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