Seduced
Page 4
He had faced women in pain. He had faced women in pleasure. He had never, ever, faced a woman as angry at him as Elizabeth Montclair.
And she had a right to be.
He knew it. He admitted it. ’Twas why he stood before her even though he knew marriage to her would be a consignment to Hell. He’d told her he’d wanted to seduce her, only he’d ended up ruining her, and now some long-forgotten sense of chivalry had him rethinking his morals … or lack of them. She hated him. No, she despised him, she had said. And she would be his wife. Just as soon as he calmed her down.
“Lady Elizabeth, please.” He held his hands up. “Can we not discuss this like civilized human beings?”
“Civilized,” she screeched, and suddenly Lucien was held captive by the sight of her. Her hair was drawn back loosely, the style flattering, the angry color in her cheeks even more flattering. Her eyes sparkled, her chest heaved. She was, to his eyes, quite splendid.
“Civilized,” she repeated, chest still heaving. “Is that what you call your behavior?” She changed the expression on her face to one of polite disdain. “Why, I’m here to seduce you,” she mocked his words. “Why, I ask,” she parroted her own words. “Because,” she mimicked again, “you deserve to be seduced.”
“I never said you deserved it,” he interrupted.
Interrupting an irate woman in the middle of a tirade was not, perhaps, the best thing to do. Gone were her tears; in their place was the feistiest, most attractive woman Lucien had ever seen and damned if he could figure out where she’d come from.
“You didn’t have to say it,” she hurled at him. And then, as suddenly as it’d come, her temper fled. “You didn’t have to say it,” she repeated, tears entering her marvelous, beautiful blue eyes again. “Because I know why you chose me. I am the cobbler’s granddaughter, a man who by some miserable streak of misfortune was made into an earl. Yet no one respects that title. Not you. Not society. Not even the populace. As such if you’d succeeded in seducing me, society would have looked the other way. If you’d failed, somehow I would have been made to look like the fool, not you.”
“You make it sound as if I ruined you on purpose.”
“Didn’t you?”
“Good heavens, no. I only wanted to bed you.”
Oddly enough, the words made her stand up straighter, made a combination of pain and wounded pride enter her eyes. “I see,” she said, though it was clear she didn’t.
And suddenly, he realized she was right. He had chosen her for the very reason she claimed. She was an outcast. He was a duke. Society would ultimately turn the other way if he refused to marry her. He had known that. He simply hadn’t cared.
And that made him feel as low as the slugs that wiggled on the bottom of upturned rocks.
Why, he didn’t know. Frankly, he’d thought he’d outgrown any semblance of a conscience. Apparently not.
He stared at her, wondering what to do. Females enjoyed hugs. At least the females of his acquaintance did. So he went to her and pulled her into his arms, holding her for the first time in his life. Wondering why he hadn’t held her before.
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”
But she was like a fence post. She immediately jerked out of his embrace. “Sorry, Your Grace?” she said with a voice gone hoarse. “Well, I am sorry too. Sorry that I ever met you. Sorry that I am forced to say yes to your offer.” She swallowed, wiping at her eyes and leaving flat roads of tears on her face. “Sorry that I will follow in my aunt’s footsteps and be wed to London’s most notorious, black-hearted rake.”
More tears escaped, but she swiped them away, too. “But I promise you this,” she gritted out. “We may become husband and wife, you and I, but you will never, ever have more of me than the finger you place your ring upon.”
She glared up at him. Lucien was torn between saying something sarcastic and admitting he deserved her words. Instead, he found himself bowing. “As you wish,” he replied, surprised at the sharp stab of regret he felt.
Chapter Four
And so it was that the duke of Ravenwood was finally brought up to scratch. One can only imagine the stir such news brought to the ton, many of whom had heard the infamous tale of Lady Elizabeth’s compromise and could scarce believe that he actually offered for the chit. Then, too, there were those matrons who cursed their own luck that it was the countess of Sheffield’s daughter, and not their own, who’d managed to pull off such a trick.
And trick it was, although no one actually believed the infamous duke would walk down the aisle. In fact, White’s had nigh on fifty bets connected to it, bets that ranged from when the duke would flee London, to how long Lady Elizabeth would stand at the altar before admitting that his grace wasn’t going to show. The Gazette carried the story, the general populace then reading about it. Everyone who was anyone wanted to witness the spectacle.
All of this Elizabeth knew, and all of it served to make her quite ready to throw herself out her bedroom window on the eve of her nuptials. Well, not really, but it was an appearing momentary thought.
Instead she sat before her sitting room fireplace, a swarm of embers dancing amongst the chimney’s updraft before shooting away. No one kept her company, her mother purportedly having, “Worked her fingers fair to a nub,” which Elizabeth took to mean that the servants had been run ragged in the three weeks the duke had given them to make the arrangements. Three weeks. And not a word from him since.
And though she told herself not to, Elizabeth studied the gown that hung in the corner of her sitting room, her throat tightening in what could only be described as fear as she did so. There was no doubt it was beautiful. The white lamé was beaded with pearls. The long, tight sleeves embellished with silver-and-blond lace. The train—which reminded Elizabeth of a foresail it was so long—was made of the same lamé. She would look stunning in it tomorrow. That is if the duke made an appearance.
And if he didn’t, what then?
She didn’t want to focus on that too much, for she knew only too well what would happen. Her reputation would be lost, for engagement or no, what she needed was a wedding to remedy her compromise. And yet odds were six to one at White’s that her fiancé would jilt her, odds she privately agreed with since she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him. For all she knew he could be on his way to the Indies, celebrating with a slew of drunken sailors his narrow escape from the parson’s noose.
Shaking her head, she realized if he were on a ship, there was naught she could do about it. She would know on the morrow what her future held. For now she needed to wait. Wait and sleep, if such a thing were possible.
She rose from her chair, turning away from the fireplace and drawing her cotton wrap around her as she left her sitting room. It would be a long night.
“Good evening, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth came off the floor—all ten toes exiting the well-worn carpet as if they’d stepped on glass. A man reclined in a manner of sublime contentment against one of the posts of her bed, a man she only too easily recognized, the scurvy knave.
“You!” she hissed, disbelief making her blink.
“You,” the duke of Ravenwood mimicked, straightening away from the bed, the black jacket he wore falling open.
He looked like he’d been on a drinking binge, for he had stubble upon his chin, his normally tidy black locks in disarray. They hung past his shoulder, Elizabeth realizing that when they weren’t swept back, they were rather long. His white shirt appeared wrinkled, the cravat he’d worn loose around his neck, the ends of it almost dragging on the floor.
“My dear Elizabeth,” he drawled with a smirk, “you must start greeting me with something other than you every time you see me.”
Perhaps not drunk, but certainly having been drunk, for she could smell the faint aroma of brandy that hung on his breath. She tried not to gawk, tried, but couldn’t help herself. “You’re in my bedroom,” she accused.
He looked around. “I am? Funny, I thought this was the drawing
room.” He turned to the blue floral-covered mattress, stroking his chin in thought. “Though I suppose that explains the presence of the bed.”
“You’re in my bedroom,” she repeated, with an edge of anger.
His brows lifted. “Yes, I do believe I gleaned the meaning of your words the first time.”
“My bedroom,” she repeated again.
“Your bedroom,” the duke repeated. “Quite.”
“What are you doing here?”
He lifted a brow again. “Why, I should like to talk to you, of course.”
She felt her brows lift. “Talk to me? Now?”
“Do you always repeat the words spoken to you, or have you suffered a sudden, debilitating loss of hearing I should know about?”
“You needed to talk to me tonight,” she stressed, ignoring his words. “Not three weeks ago when you gave me the ultimatum of preparing for our wedding? Not two weeks ago. Not even this morning? Now?”
“You sound rather peeved.”
“Get out,” she ordered, pointing to the door, suddenly recalling that she wore nothing more than a wrap with lace flounces, the edges of it scratching at her neck. She drew it around her tightly, catching a piece of hair, which she’d yet to braid for the evening. “Get out. Whatever it is you have to say can certainly wait until the morrow.”
“No.”
“No?” she huffed.
“No,” he repeated. “You may not know this, but I went to quite a lot of trouble to get up here. Why, it took me nigh on fifteen minutes, then another ten to find your room. I’m quite exhausted.”
“You’re mad.”
“Am I? How reassuring to know. That explains quite a lot. But my mental state aside, I shan’t leave. And if you’re worried I might compromise you, I shouldn’t fear,” he said with a wicked smile. “It would be rather hard to ruin you a second time, I believe.”
She blushed. “Go away, you insufferable man.”
“No,” he answered firmly. “What I have to say will only take a moment,” he added. “Surely you can give me that?”
She clutched the wrap around her even more tightly. “You may speak with me on the morrow.”
He lifted his brows, pacing a look of horror upon his face. “On our wedding day? But that is bad luck.”
“I wouldn’t worry, Your Grace. You are long overdue for a bolt of lightning.”
He pursed his lips, nodded. “Yes, I know. So I rather thought I might give the good Lord above another reason for striking me down by coming to your room to discuss our impending marriage.”
He was going to call it off, she realized, trying not to panic. For a second she forgot her anger, forgot that she wore a wrap with a gauzy chemise beneath … forgot everything but a sudden, unexpected panic.
He couldn’t call it off. Her family couldn’t weather the shame. As it was, their position in society was precarious. If he were to jilt her on the morrow he would ruin them all, and bankrupt them in the process, for her family needed her to marry well in order to restore their fortunes. Ravenwood had been made to pay for ruining her, and pay dearly. Her father had been overjoyed.
“I have a question for you.”
“A question?” she squeaked, her mind whirling. Perhaps she could conk him over the head. Render him unconscious, then arrange to have his body propped up near the altar in the church somehow?
“You know, Elizabeth, I really am worried about your hearing. Do reassure me that you haven’t suffered a disease in the three weeks since I last saw you.”
“My hearing is quite fine,” she said. “And I wish that if you are going to call off the wedding, that you would do so now.”
“Me call it off?” he asked, his black brows lifting. “I want you to call it off.”
“Me?” she breathed in shock.
He lifted a hand to her chin, touched her as he had on the day of Lady Derby’s ball, that disastrous day that had led to this very moment. Next he leaned close to her, saying very clearly and succinctly, “Yes, you.” Then he straightened, though he didn’t release her. “I thought that since you obviously do not want me as your husband.” He dragged his finger down the side of her jaw. She tried not to shiver. “And I obviously don’t want you as a wife, that you might want to jilt me tomorrow.”
She didn’t move, couldn’t move. “But I cannot jilt you,” she said, her breath drifting back to her.
“Why not?”
Think, Elizabeth. She blinked, stared at his lips. No, no, no. Not there. She looked away, focused on his left ear. There. That was better. He had tiny down hairs growing from the lobe of his ear. How … unexpected.
“My family would not weather the scandal.” She dared to meet his gaze again. Mon dieu, but he was close. And his thumb. For the second time she found herself thinking how coarse it was for a man of leisure. “If I jilt you, I will be deemed an outcast.”
“Women jilt men all the time,” he argued.
“Not a duke. Especially when that woman has been ruined by that duke.”
“A trifling matter,” he said.
“I hardly think so,” she huffed.
“But I will pay you to do so,” he said softly, almost devilishly.
She blinked, hardly trusting her ears.
“I shall pay you, not your father,” he said, a wide, temptation-filled smile upon his face. “Pay you enough money to live on your own, in comfort, somewhere far away, where you could behave and do whatever you like. Having a sullied reputation shall not matter a whit.”
She drew back, though it took a monumental effort on her part to do so. Drew away from his disturbing touch. Drew away from him. His hand fell to his side.
“Surely you jest?”
He straightened. “Indeed I do not, my lady.” His gaze darted down. Only then did she realize that she’d let her hands fall loose. The glint in his eyes returned.
It was that look combined with the contents of his words that made her step away, made her place her hands upon her hips. “Why, you wretch,” she gritted out. “You are trying to pay me off.”
He blinked, met her gaze, then changed his smile to one of happiness. “Yes, I believe that is what I just said.”
She stared at him, wondering how it was possible that she felt the thoroughly unladylike urge to slap him. Again.
He lifted his brows again. “Are you going to strike me again, for if you are, I’d just as soon move out of the way.”
She blushed that he could so easily read her mind. “I cannot believe you would ask such a thing.”
“Why not? It makes more sense than me calling it off. If I jilt you, you will be shunned, considered demoralized, seduced and then abandoned by the wicked duke,” he added with a smirk. “You will not recover.”
She stiffened, knowing he was right, angry because of it. “As if my reputation matters to you.”
He clutched his chest as if wounded, his demeanor turning into that of an adorable scamp. “But it does.”
She didn’t believe him, not for a moment. Like as not he only cared that his jilting of her might result in society’s disfavor of him. Why, he might actually be shunned by society. The man already trod a fine line, what with all the suspicion surrounding his brother’s death.
“But putting that aside,” he continued, “you must see what a brilliant idea it is.”
“Brilliance for someone of your low intellect is not a remarkable thing.”
“Ouch, my lady. You do wound me with your words.”
“One can only hope. And I shall not do it. I have family to think of—”
“A family you will have enough money to visit upon occasion.”
Not if her father was in debtor’s prison. She pressed her lips together before continuing. “Not without causing them great shame,” she said, assuming her father had not told him about their near financial ruin. “And I have friends, too, friends whose husbands would object to my shameful presence should I visit.”
“You can make new friends.”
And tempting.
“You ask too much,” she hissed, angry with him for daring to corner her in her room, to propose such a preposterous thing. And angry at herself for even considering it.
“Why? Surely what I propose is no worse than what you propose. You wish us to bond in matrimony, to become man and wife. We shall be forced to endure each other’s company for the rest of our lives. Frankly, I believe I’d rather tie stones to my ankles and fling myself from Westminster Bridge than endure that.”
She lifted her chin. “I feel quite the same.”
“See. If you were to jilt me on the morrow”—his tone all that was reasonable—“you would be able to seek your own future. Marry a man of your choice, marry nobody if that is what you wish, but you would be releasing us from a marriage neither of us wants.”
He was like Hades, come before her to tempt her with a deal. Even the fireplace cooperated with the image, the flames suddenly flaring to life on a smoke-scented breeze. And she was tempted. Gracious she was startled at how much she had to fight back the urge to agree. But along with a longing to do as he asked came a fear of what would happen if she actually did. Her family would suffer the consequences of her selfishness. They would be penniless, shunned, while she lived her life in comfort. Oh, she could share her wealth with them, but she knew her father well enough to know he would never accept charity from her. And who was to say that her reputation might not follow her? If she agreed, she might have nothing, perhaps not even a husband, for what man would marry a woman with such a sullied reputation? Ruined. Then branded a fool for refusing to restore her reputation. Her father in debtor’s prison.
“No,” she all but groaned. “I cannot.” She met his gaze, his green eyes looking almost black in the light. “What you propose is preposterous. You ask that I give up everything that is dear to me so that you may go on living your life as you please. That I shall not do.”
She was proud of herself, proud of the way she held herself—no matter that he was so near. Proud that she didn’t tremble though the blood rushed through her ears. Proud, most of all, that she’d had the courage to say no.