The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

by Jillian Hunter

  “Oh, really, Sedgecroft. No one would believe that you—that I—well.”

  “Why not?” he asked so earnestly that she almost melted.

  He took her chin in his hand, and Jane felt her heart quicken in anticipation. She might not have any of the practical experience he’d had, but it wasn’t hard to imagine a woman secretly wishing to be wooed by this man. And all of the pleasure and heartbreak it would entail.

  “Sedgecroft, you silly thing, you’re holding my face.”

  “I’m waiting for you to thank me.”

  “Oh . . . thank you.”

  “Not nearly convincing enough.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “Try thanking me with a little more enthusiasm. I happen to be a generous suitor. The flowers are only the prelude to the pearls that will be delivered to you tonight. Let the ton talk about that.”

  Pearls, and what would come afterward? she wondered. She amazed herself by standing on tiptoe to press a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, blushing hotly at the contact with his warm clean skin. What on earth had she just done? Kissing him after all the fuss she made only minutes ago.

  His eyes sparkled down at her. “That was very nice, Jane, but somehow it lacked . . . enthusiasm.”

  She gave him a stiff artificial smile, the posies crushed to her chest. “Oh! Oh, Sedgecroft!” she cried in a theatrical voice. “What a surprise! Pearls! And flowers! For me?”

  He winced, giving an embarrassed cough before he steered her back toward the carriage. “I think you need a little more practice. I’ve seen the ducks in my pond give a better performance.”

  She buried her face in the profusion of nosegays to smother a chuckle. “First a pigeon, then an owl. Now I am a duck. What bird shall I remind you of next?”

  “A goose, I think.” They settled back into their seats, Simon flat on his back with his arms clasped across his chest. Grayson’s blue eyes traveled over her in lazy appreciation, bringing another blush to her cheeks. He really was a shameless man. “What do I remind you of?”

  She spilled the posies onto the seat, filling the carriage with the delicate fragrance of gillyflowers. “A lion, I think. A lordly beast.”

  “A beast?” he echoed, lifting his brow. “You are brave to call me that to my face. Sit closer to me.”

  “Closer?” she said with a catch of laughter in her voice. “This is Brook Street, Sedgecroft, not a brothel.”

  “I like the feel of you next to me,” he said quietly. “Besides, I am not known to be a saint, Jane.”

  “Does that mean you’re a devil?”

  He took a daisy from the seat and propped it between Simon’s hands. “You shall have to find that out for yourself.” He looked up slowly into her eyes. “And if I am, I shall be your devil, Jane. At least for as long as it takes to put this situation right. Good or evil, I will fight on your side.”

  They turned right at David Street to pull up before a Georgian mansion on Berkeley Square with row upon row of glistening sash windows. Gay strains of music wafted from the sloping gardens that lay sheltered within a grove of plane trees. Beyond rose fertile strawberry fields, clusters of red fruit ripening in the sun. The coachman veered toward the wrought-iron porte cochere.

  A group of young bucks stood idly on the entrance steps, stopping their conversation to stare as the elegant black carriage and team of snowy white horses approached.

  “That’s Sedgecroft,” one of them shouted.

  “There’s a woman with him,” another observed, stretching his neck for a better look.

  “Of course there is,” said his friend, groping for his quizzing glass.

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s wearing pink, that’s all I can tell.”

  “My brother saw Sedgecroft’s secretary on Ludgate Hill choosing pearls this morning.”

  “Ah, then it must be serious. I wonder if they’re in negotiations.”

  “Didn’t read about it in the papers. All the talk was of the Belshire bride left standing at the altar yesterday by Nigel Boscastle.”

  “Who the devil is Nigel Boscastle?”

  “Sedgecroft’s bore of a cousin. Do you think . . .”

  The group flowed as one down the steps for a closer inspection of the mystery woman in the carriage window. The Marquess of Sedgecroft had set a standard to which many potential scoundrels aspired. It was considered a coup to be seen at a party conversing with one of his former mistresses.

  As a whole, this elite circle of women remained notoriously loyal to their noble paramour, tight-lipped about their past relationships. The whys of this devotion provided a constant subject of delicious speculation.

  Did Sedgecroft pay them for their silence? Was he such a skilled lover that the besotted mistresses hoped he would resume their arrangements? Or had he already done so, in secrecy? Was the man juggling three or four hot-blooded beauties at once in his bed?

  His sexual successes, whether fact or fantasy, stirred the admiration of the younger set.

  “Why do you think he has a passion for pink?” asked a brash gentleman. “Because it resembles a female’s naked flesh?”

  His brother snickered rudely. “No, because it reminds him of carnations, you idiot.”

  From inside the carriage Jane blushed furiously, able to pick out only a few words of this conversation. “You do realize,” she said in a resigned undertone to Grayson, “that those young men are discussing me, and not in flattering terms.” Although, after the scheme she and Nigel had pulled off yesterday, she supposed she had better become accustomed to such gossip. But, goodness, she had never thought herself the least bit interesting to the beau monde. Poor Nigel had absolutely bored Society silly with his love of dogs and ancient French literature.

  Grayson glanced out the window, narrowing his eyes at the group of onlookers. “Leave this to me, Jane. I shall soon set them straight.”

  She swallowed over the knot of nervousness in her throat. “I’ve just decided I shall not budge from this carriage.”

  He smiled at her, the slow easy smile of a man who’d never had to lift a finger in his life to attract a woman, the smile of a man who did not give a damn how many scandals he ignited. “Shall I have breakfast brought to our carriage then? A string quartet to play while we eat?”

  Jane’s mouth curved in an answering smile; the dark amusement in his eyes sent waves of giddy heat washing through her. Anticipation prickled down her spine as he took her gloved hand in his, stroking her palm through the buttery soft kidskin. “I have never attracted a crowd in my entire life,” she grumbled.

  “Are you ready to attract one now?” he asked, his voice challenging her.

  “Ready? Ready to face scandal and smirks of sympathy, you mean?” She turned her shoulder to the door, blowing out a sigh. “If I have to. You are a taskmaster, aren’t you?”

  “Come on, Jane. Let’s have a bit of fun with them today. We’ll drive them half mad wondering what we mean to each other.”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself.”

  His hand slid up to her elbow, held her fast, drawing her practically into his lap. His heart began to beat harder, and he was taken aback again at the force of his reaction. What had he gotten himself into? He probably didn’t want to know. It was too late to withdraw now, even if the path to hell was paved with good intentions. “Wait,” he ordered her, not certain why. Perhaps to buy time, or simply because he took pleasure in talking with her.

  “But they’re all watching us. They’re going to think that we’re . . . kissing or something even worse.”

  He flicked his forefinger against the mother-of-pearl button at her elbow. “That isn’t a bad idea, now that you suggest it. Unfortunately I cannot indulge their prurient interests. Or yours.”

  “I didn’t suggest it, you—you irresistible fiend.”

  “Irresistible fiend.” He looked pleased, widening his eyes to mock her. “That sounded almost like a compliment.”
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br />   She smiled reluctantly. “I suppose in your own way, you’re only trying to help.”

  “That’s right.” As unbelievable as he himself found the notion. “Now do as I ask. I shall set the rascals straight on your status.”

  “A rake with a conscience,” she went on in a thoughtful voice. “A rake with a streak of kindness running through his rotten heart.”

  He gave a laugh. He was not comfortable with this role. “Well, don’t let it become common knowledge. I have a well-earned reputation for rottenness to resume once I have put your life back in order.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and sat back to examine him. “Seriously, Sedgecroft, haven’t you ever considered marriage yourself?”

  He gave her an exaggerated frown. “Seriously, Jane, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I?” he asked mildly.

  “One cannot remain a rogue forever. Not with your obligations.”

  “I can certainly try,” he retorted, although the same damning thought had haunted him lately. “In the olden days my male forebears had the good sense not to submit to wedlock until they were maimed within an inch of their lives on the battlefield, and good for nothing else.”

  “Their wives must have been beside themselves with gratitude,” Jane said in a wry voice. “What an honor to care for an incapacitated Boscastle.”

  His grin was devilish. For a moment he was disconcerted by the realization that he was already revealing more about himself to Jane than he ever had to any of his mistresses or old friends. “The point, my impudent lady, was to breed another line of ill-behaved Boscastles when all other options for adventure were exhausted. My ancestors proved themselves quite capable of fulfilling this pleasant duty until their dying breaths.”

  “Did they indeed?” she asked faintly.

  “Yes, Jane,” he said, enjoying her reaction. “And their wives never complained. They performed.”

  “Performed?”

  “Their wifely duties. Which—”

  “Further explanation is not necessary.”

  He paused, wondering how far he dare go and why he liked provoking her so much. “Forgive me. I thought you might be curious.”

  She felt a telltale flush of pink warm her cheeks. The thought of breeding a Boscastle heir brought some unspeakably earthy images to her mind. How in the world had this conversation evolved?

  “My brother is probably listening,” she whispered admonishingly.

  “In all his corpselike attentiveness.”

  She wiggled around to give Simon a firm shaking. Grayson watched, grinning, as she virtually pummeled her brother back to life. She had a delightfully sharp bite under all that reserve.

  “Wake up, you wastrel,” she said sternly. “Make yourself of use to the world.”

  Simon stirred, opening his bloodshot eyes to examine his surroundings in disbelief. “Sedgecroft. Jane. And all these flowers.” He levered up on one elbow. “Has someone died? Was it—God, has Nigel been found? Don’t tell me we’re on the way to his funeral.”

  Jane examined his rumpled clothing in chagrin as he blinked painfully against the daylight. “No one has died, Simon,” she said in a very precise voice. “You are here as my chaperone, as useless as you appear to be in that capacity.”

  He ran his hand through his tousled brown hair. “I wouldn’t talk about appearances. That dress is rather revealing for—” The warning look Sedgecroft gave him stopped him cold. “Has anyone heard from Nigel?”

  “Not a word,” Grayson replied, his jaw hardening at the reminder. “I’m still making inquiries, of course, but it appears he’s left London without a trace.”

  Simon released a sigh. “Where are we going anyway?”

  “To the Duke of Wenderfield’s breakfast party,” Grayson replied.

  Jane leaned forward to remove a white silk stocking from her brother’s vest pocket. “Dear God, Simon, where did you go last night?”

  He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t remember. I don’t even know how I got here.”

  “You attended a midnight masquerade,” Grayson said dryly as he extended his hand to help Jane rise. “Your coachman found you half conscious between a nun and Cleopatra’s handmaiden.”

  “Were the three of us—”

  Grayson cleared his throat. The amused glitter in his eye spoke volumes. “I think we can finish this conversation in private, Simon.”

  Jane dropped the stocking to the floor in distaste. “And I think the answer to his question is disgracefully obvious.”

  Grayson did not bother to acknowledge the greetings of the young bucks who had gathered on the steps. The avid curiosity in their eyes as they spotted Jane infuriated him. One of them had finally recognized her.

  “Sedgecroft,” she said, her voice steady but underlaid with trepidation.

  “It’s all right, Jane,” he said in a steely tone. “Smile but do not stop. They will take the hint soon enough.”

  They shouted to him, posturing like overdressed monkeys, fighting for even a crumb of his attention. Damn them, Grayson thought, his gaze completely impassive. Damn their impudence for daring to stare at her as if she had suddenly become a demirep. The muscles from his shoulders to his fingers tightened in the fierce urge to punch every last sly look from their faces.

  “I told you,” she said, staring straight ahead.

  He glanced down at her. Despite the quiver in her voice, she looked perfectly composed. He was so accustomed to ignoring public opinion that he probably would not have minded the notoriety had he been with another woman. Mrs. Parks would have cheerfully responded to all the fuss with a crude finger gesture.

  “It might do you a world of good, Jane,” he murmured, “to let your reserve slip just once.”

  “I don’t think the world is ready for the sort of slip I am capable of,” she said enigmatically.

  One of the bucks raised his quizzing glass to examine her, then dropped it immediately at the deadly look Grayson shot him.

  For a moment he considered taking action, dragging the impudent pup down the steps to make an example of him. But another scandal would hardly help Jane, and for the first time since Grayson could remember, he forced himself to swallow his anger and consider the consequences of his behavior.

  It would take effort, he thought, to guide her through these narrow straits of Society to safety. He would have to be on his guard to protect her from insults and inappropriate advances. He had understood that when he offered to help her.

  What he hadn’t realized was how easily he could lure her astray himself.

  “What are you thinking, Jane?” he asked in an undertone.

  “I shan’t tell you, Sedgecroft. You would be shocked.”

  “Not me, darling.” Ludicrous, after the life he led. As if a proper young lady like Jane had anything on his past. “Nothing you would do could shock me.”

  Chapter 8

  Their host and hostess escorted them through the gardens, introducing them to the foreign guests of distinction who graced the party. Simon found a glass of champagne and disappeared into the crowd with Lady Damaris Hill, whose whispered comment about a missing stocking explained the mystery of the nun’s identity at the previous night’s midnight masquerade.

  An orchestra played on the grass beside a classical pavilion set at the end of the parkland’s sloping lawns. A platform had been constructed for dancing; several younger people had spilled onto the east lawn. The pastel gowns of the ladies swayed like butterfly wings as they moved in graceful flutters.

  “Are you hungry?” Grayson asked Jane, keeping his hand on her shoulder in a light but proprietary way.

  “I am ravenous.” She hesitated. “It does take nerves of steel to eat when everyone is staring at us though.”

  “I have forgotten them.”

  “How could you?”

  “Perhaps because I don’t care,” he said with conviction.

  “Well, then, neither shall I.”

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p; He stopped, studying her with a faint knowing smile. “Of course you care. All women do.”

  “Only those who are husband hunting,” she said with a sigh.

  “Which we might be.”

  “No, we’re—” She bit the tip of her tongue, remembering how she must appear. “I am not ready to be put back on the market.” Not now, and probably not ever again, she felt like adding.

  “Remount, Jane,” he said with an unmerciful smile. “One fall from the horse does not spinsterhood make.”

  She could have pinched him, reducing the complications of her life to such simple terms. “I wish you would stop equating my situation to equestrienne activity.”

  He gave her an apologetic look. “I keep forgetting how sensitive you are on the subject.”

  “Sedgecroft!” A woman’s cry of delight interrupted Jane’s response, not that she knew how to respond to his remark without lying through her teeth.

  She and Grayson turned simultaneously to see a petite figure in brown silk bearing down on them, a flute of champagne held gracefully in hand. Jane stared. Surely that was not Mrs. Audrey Watson, the popular courtesan and former actress whose intellectual buffet suppers had made her a celebrity in the demimonde and the ton. Rumor had it that the Duke of Wenderfield desired her for his mistress.

  “Audrey,” Grayson said warmly, a little too warmly in Jane’s opinion as the pair exchanged a brief embrace.

  “Sedgecroft, it’s been centuries since—” Audrey caught herself and gave Jane such a genuinely friendly smile that she could not help softening toward her.

  “Belshire’s beautiful daughter, the eldest, isn’t it?” Audrey asked in puzzlement. “What is she doing with the likes of you, Sedgecroft?”

  Grayson gave Jane a long burning look that brought a blush to the ends of her hair. If she hadn’t known better, she would have believed he was truly infatuated with her—oh, he excelled at this, the devil. She felt as if she ought to applaud his performance.

  He drew Jane forward. “Have you ever had the honor of an introduction, Audrey?”

  “No.” Audrey studied the younger woman in concern; there was no pretense about her, no striving to impress. Her earthiness had earned her loyal supporters from politicians to struggling poets; her bluntness often offended. “But, my dear lady, aren’t you brave to be out so soon, after yesterday? And you, Sedgecroft, you did not waste a single second before going on the pounce, did you?”