A Dangerous Seduction

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  “Come now, sweet torment. Tell me, if you can, that you do not want me.

  “Tell me you wish to leave me. Tell me that while I take your breath away, while I make you moan. Come, make me believe it.”

  He pulled her into his arms, bruising her lips under his. She collapsed against him, and Morgan thought the victory won.

  But suddenly she pulled back, holding him off with her palms, her eyes the ominous gray of a lowering storm. She spoke quietly at first, but her voice rose steadily with growing emotion. “You say I want you. And I do.” She wiped angrily at her eyes. “You know it. And you are taking advantage of it, and…” She was shouting now, tears trailing down her face.

  “I will not be your whore!”

  Praise for Patricia Frances Rowell’s debut

  A PERILOUS ATTRACTION

  “…promising Regency-era debut…

  a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing

  the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning

  likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”

  —Romantic Times

  “…a promising first romance.”

  —The Romance Reader

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

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  #667 BLACKSTONE’S BRIDE

  Bronwyn Williams

  #669 A MOMENT’S MADNESS

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  A DANGEROUS SEDUCTION

  PATRICIA FRANCES ROWELL

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  PATRICIA FRANCES ROWELL

  A Perilous Attraction #621

  A Dangerous Seduction #668

  In memory of my young friend Morgan Mitchell,

  who left us at the age of nine

  And for my grandchildren,

  who are, happily, still with us—

  Zachary Nathaniel, Eric Dean, Joseph Richmond,

  Amber Nicole, Camille Elise, Joy Anna, Jillian Paige

  and Andrew Houghton

  And, of course, for Johnny

  Acknowledgment

  I would like to thank my friend Maria Budzenski

  for her help with this story. She sent me literally

  boxes of information in addition to her personal

  observations of Cornwall. Thank you, Maria.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  London, England, 1808

  Pain. Gripping, grinding, paralyzing pain. He lay on the grass in the pool of blood that leaked through his fingers. But how could he…?

  Five, six, seven—three more steps and he would kill the bastard. But there had been no more steps. Eight… A flash of light, a blast, and he was falling. Falling forward, propelled by a blow that knocked him off his feet and onto his face.

  Laughter. Shouts. Running feet. Shots. The blood stained his coat and dripped over the hand he pressed in vain against his chest.

  The scurvy dog shot before the count! Shot you in the back.

  And he laughed.

  The laughter echoed through the darkness that was closing around him.

  The bastard laughed!

  Hoofbeats. The laughter trailing away.

  He had thought he hated the man. Now he knew better.

  In that moment was conceived a hatred as deep as his soul.

  He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to lift the pistol still clutched in his hand. Too heavy. Too dark. Hands taking the pistol. Voices calling his name. The darkness wrapping around him in a smothering cloud. Gasping. Choking.

  Breathe, damn you, breathe. A breath. Another breath. One more. Another. You can’t die. Not now. The dog must pay.

  He will pay. He will pay with everything.

  Everything.

  Chapter One

  Cornwall, England, 1816

  There it lay.

  Morgan Pendaris, Earl of Carrick, drew rein at the top of the knoll, bringing the curricle to a stop. Before him over the rolling hills spread the woods, fields and meadows of his home, lush and green, neatly divided and stitched across by ancient hedges.

  Nineteen years. Nineteen long years. Nineteen years dark with blood and hate. But, at last, Merdinn again belonged to him. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction, the words that had been his polestar ringing in his head, the words of Genghis Khan.

  The greatest joy a man can have is to see his enemy in chains, to deprive him of his possessions, to ride his horses, to see tears on the faces of his loved ones, and to crush in your arms his wives and daughters.

  He had at last deprived Cordell Hayne of every possession, including the estate that Hayne’s father had stolen from his. Chains were not far behind. The cur was firmly under the hatches, his only choice debtors prison or the transport ships.

  “Why are we stopping, Uncle Morgan?”

  “Because we have reached the Merdinn lands, Jeremy.” Morgan raked his dark curls out of his face with impatient fingers, a gesture that was the despair of Dagenham, his long-suffering valet. He smiled down at the boy seated beside him. “It has been a very long time since I have seen them.”

  “But you lived here when you were my age?” Without waiting for an answer he already knew, Jeremy rushed on. “When will we see the castle?”

  “Soon now.” Morgan flicked his reins and the curricle started down the hill. “It stands behind that bit of woods there.” He pointed with his whip.

  The road wound between the fields, the summer sun of Cornwall hot on their heads and necks. A sliver of silver on their left marked the sea, placid at the moment, only the tiniest waves visible. As they neared the castle, the bridge across the old ditch rang hollow beneath the hooves of the horses and they plunged into the cool shade and dank greenery of the small forest that now covered the motte. The way rose steeply as they climbed the man-made hill, flickering through the shadows cast by the twisted trunks of the trees.

  Jeremy bounced in his seat. “And there are real towers and real battlements?”

  “Yes, as I have told you many times, there are two towers on the seaside wall.”

  “But there is no drawbridge and it looks more like a big house now.” The boy’s voice clearly reflected his disapproval of another fact he had often been told.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jeremy.” Morgan chuckled. He remembered how much, as a seven-year-old boy, he himself had wished that the crumbling walls still stood, that the bridges still lifted, that he might charge across them on a fiery steed. But alas, those deeds belonged to ages past. The towers, however, remained satisfyingly intact—or at least, mostly so. They shared with the rest of the manor the deterioration of two generations of neglect, the neglect that he intended to wipe away.

  And when all had again been restored to stateliness and comfort, he would bring his mother home, back to her rightful place as mistress of Merdinn.

  Suddenly the trees parted and Morgan’s heart swelled as his
boyhood home stood before his eyes—somewhat battered perhaps, as he himself was, but still proud and strong.

  Across the level ground of the bailey that had once lain inside a curtain wall, lay the gray stone of the manor itself, with the twin towers on the wall behind it standing proudly against the azure sky. Behind them, he knew, the cliff fell away over jagged rocks into the sea.

  He heard beside him a small sigh of satisfaction. “There really are towers.”

  “Did you doubt my word?” Morgan lifted one eyebrow as he guided his blacks around the curving drive.

  “Oh, no!” A touch of dismay sounded in the boy’s voice. “I wouldn’t question your honor, Uncle Morgan.” He glanced speculatively up at his uncle. “You aren’t going to call me out, are you?”

  “No. Not today.”

  A sigh. “I thought not.”

  Morgan couldn’t decide whether he heard relief or disappointment. “Are you so eager to engage in an affair of honor?”

  “Well,” Jeremy pondered, “not with you. But I think it would be famous to have a duel.”

  “Believe me, it is not.” Morgan pulled his horses in before the double doors of the house. “I hope you never have occasion to find that out for yourself.”

  As he waited for a groom to come take his horses, a surge of excitement coursed through Morgan. The success of another of his goals would be achieved within minutes. He did not expect to find Hayne at Merdinn. The bastard would be in London, trying desperately to find a way to recoup. But his wife… Ah. Hayne’s mysterious, never-seen wife, the usurper of his mother’s place, the cause of his sister’s disgrace. She would be there.

  Within minutes he would put her out of his house.

  Let her go to her rotten husband. Let her go with him to whatever hole claimed him. Let her beg on the streets, for all he cared. No longer would she be a barrier to decent women, to the women he loved. Enough time had elapsed. She should already be preparing for departure.

  Several minutes passed without the appearance of a groom. Hmm. Had Hayne already dismissed his staff? Was the place deserted? No. The windows were open on the second floor. “Well, then, Jeremy. It seems that we will have to take the horses to the stable ourselves.”

  “I can take them, Uncle Morgan, while you go inside.” Jeremy looked hopefully at his uncle.

  Morgan tousled his nephew’s hair as he once again gave his mettlesome horses the office to start. “All in good time, ambitious one.”

  Another heavy sigh. Shaking his head in amusement, Morgan directed his team through the stable door and climbed down. Jeremy scrambled down after him and dashed past him to the back door of the building. Morgan sauntered after him, his critical eye appraising the lone riding mount and the sturdy cob that appeared to be the only occupants of the stalls. Hardly an impressive selection.

  Perhaps Hayne had contrived to depose of his stable before Morgan could take possession of it. He scowled. Much good it would do him. Morgan now owned the paper on every debt that Hayne had incurred in a long and profligate career. Even the sale of his horses would not save him. Morgan rubbed at his chest absently. Nothing would save the cad now.

  He followed Jeremy out into the sunshine behind the dark stable. At the rear of the stable and the kitchen wing of the house, a large kitchen garden tumbled down the motte. Morgan frowned thoughtfully. It looked to be a great deal larger than he remembered. And now that he thought about it, there were more flower beds in the lawn of the bailey. He wouldn’t have thought that Hayne would have spent money on gardens. Perhaps it was the wife.

  Two women, their hair covered with kerchiefs, worked far down the slope. They apparently did not hear him, or perhaps considered the arrival of guests none of their concern. One of them stepped with the slow movements of age, and gray hair peeped from under her scarf. The other looked young and possibly shapely under her heavy skirts. A midnight-black braid of hair as thick as her wrist dropped from beneath her head covering to her hips. It shone lustrously in the sun.

  At the sound of footsteps Morgan reluctantly tore his gaze from the shining hair and the hips beneath it. Jeremy rounded the far corner of the stable, a tall, thin man in his wake. “Look, Uncle Morgan, I found someone.”

  “James!” Morgan hurried forward, his hand extended. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Lord Morgan? Is it really you?” The old man grasped his hand and pumped it vigorously. “It’s a sight for sore eyes you are! What brings you here?”

  “I’m home to stay, James. Merdinn is no longer in the hands of the Haynes.”

  “Him!” James spat on the ground. “I’ll be glad to see the back of his head. He had his way he’d have turned me off long ago. Said I can’t do the work no more.” He patted his silvery locks. “Just because there’s a little snow on the roof… But the missus keeps me on. I handle everything just fine by myself.” He jerked his head toward the two resident horses. “Ain’t all that much to do. But let me see to your team. Beautiful bits of bone and blood they are, too. You and the little fellow go on up to the house. I’ll take care of ’em.”

  Murmuring his thanks, Morgan herded Jeremy out into the bailey. As they strolled toward the main door of the house he glanced at the beds of plants that dotted the lawn. To his surprise he noted that they contained as many vegetables as flowers. The effect was odd, but strangely pleasing.

  Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and Jeremy darted inside. They found themselves in a vaulted hall, before them a wide set of stairs leading up. “Where do they go, Uncle Morgan?”

  “To the upper levels. Hold your horses but a little longer, Jeremy, and I will take you over the whole place. For now, come into the library and let us see if anyone is about.” He turned to a door on his left and led the way into a large room lined with books. He gave the bellpull an authoritative tug and sat down in the chair behind the desk. Jeremy immediately climbed the book ladder to the top and sat surveying his new domain.

  While he waited, Morgan glanced at the papers on the desk. They seemed to be household books, but there were not enough of them to account for the running of the castle. He was going through the drawers when a frail young girl timidly opened the library door and poked her dull blond head into the room. When she saw him sitting at the desk and Jeremy perched like a gargoyle on the ladder, she squeaked and hastily withdrew.

  “Wait!” Morgan sprang out of the chair and through the door barely in time to grasp her arm before she could disappear into the kitchen wing. Jeremy scampered down the ladder and peered around the door. “Here now. What’s the matter with you? Where is everyone?” The girl cringed away from him and hung her head, giving every evidence of terror. Morgan snorted in frustration. “Is your mistress at home?”

  The girl nodded. At last! A response. “Then kindly tell her that the Earl of Carrick would like a moment of her time. I’ll be in the library.” She scurried away and disappeared. “Am I mad or is it everyone else?” Morgan stalked back into the library and sprawled into a chair. “One pensioner in the stable and one half-wit in the house. Perhaps Mrs. Hayne is almost ready to leave.”

  At least she had ordered a good cleaning before going. The books looked dusted and the leather chair smelled of lemon oil. The stone floor was well polished, although the carpet was distinctly worn. It had been worn the last time Morgan had seen it. Too impatient to sit longer, he paced around the room. Where was the woman? He had been waiting for at least twenty minutes. Was she showing her disdain for him? His lip curled. If so, let her enjoy it while she may. If the curst woman would but show herself…

  After another half hour his anger had grown to the point of explosion. Jeremy prudently busied himself with looking at the pictures in an old book, careful to avoid the avuncular displeasure. Morgan had almost decided to scour the castle for its soon-to-be-former mistress himself when the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. He recognized her immediately as the younger woman he had seen in the garden.

  “Who the hell are you,
and where the hell is Mrs. Hayne? I sent for her an hour ago. She has not yet done me the courtesy of responding.” He glared at the gardener. Her gown had green stains from the plants and there was a smudge of dirt on her nose. There was also a puzzled expression in her eyes—eyes, he noted, that were the calm, transparent aquamarine of the shallows on a sunny day.

  “I’m sorry you had to wait, my lord.” She crossed the room to the chair opposite Morgan and sank into it gracefully. “Peggy did not tell me until a moment ago that you were here.”

  Morgan stared in astonishment. This woman certainly had a lot of brass for a gardener. His scowl deepened. “What’s wrong with Peggy? Is she half-witted?”

  “No, just fearful.” She wiped at the dirt on her face, smearing it and making matters worse.

  “What the devil is she so afraid of?” Morgan’s eyes went to the streaked face and then to the skin beneath the dirt. It appeared to be flawless—as luminescent as a pearl. The tendrils of raven-black hair escaping from the kerchief framed softly rounded cheeks that glowed a slightly deeper rose. When she spoke he discovered that, for a moment, he had forgotten his own question. He jerked his attention back to her answer.

  “Everything. Of you. Of me. Of making a mistake.”

  Morgan shook his head, not completely understanding. If that were the case, the young girl deserved his pity, not his scorn. In fact, it came to his attention that the woman in the chair across from him did not deserve the anger he had generated toward the elusive Mrs. Hayne. He should not have cursed in her presence, whoever she was.

  He moderated his tone. “You have still not told me who you are.”