Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  “Will you give me an heir, Elizabeth?”

  The blood drained from her face like liquid from an upturned cup.

  “Will you?” he asked.

  He moved toward her again, only a scant inch, but it felt like he all but pressed himself against her. “Will you mind me doing this?”

  He leaned toward her and, before she gleaned what he intended to do, covered her lips with his own. Shock made her drop the lapel of her wrap, made her place her hands against his hard chest. He angled his head. “Are you ready for this every night, Elizabeth? For that is exactly what I will ask,” he murmured against her, his hot breath fanning a heat inside her, a heat she hadn’t even known could exist.

  She tried to move her head away, but quick as lightning, he moved to cup her face. Spots danced before her eyes as he forced her against a wall she hadn’t even known she’d retreated to. Spots of anger, she told herself, but, no, what his kiss stirred in her was not anger. And for the first time she admitted that she’d always wanted to be kissed thus by a man, wanted to have him up against her, to have him take his taste of her. A part of her had wondered, however briefly, what it would be like to be kissed by him.

  Wicked. Wicked. Wicked thought.

  And it horrified her so much she used all her strength to push him away. Only he didn’t move, just drew back, saying, “Perhaps you won’t mind giving me an heir after all?” with a gleam in his eyes.

  “Bastard,” she hissed the unladylike word, then slipped away, her lips buzzing from the pressure of his mouth. She swiped at them, turned back to face him, shoulders square, hands clenched. “You shall beget no heir off of me.” She looked into enigmatic green eyes. “But why do I have the feeling that you do not truly care about an heir?”

  Something flickered in his gaze, something like surprise, followed by anger. Gone was the charming rascal. In his place stood a man who appeared as sinister as many claimed him to be.

  “Do not expect me to be faithful,” he growled.

  “Do not expect me to be faithful,” she hurled right back.

  Silence descended.

  “Very well,” he said, stepping back from her. “As long as we understand each other.”

  “We do,” she snapped. “You shall have your lovers, and I shall have mine.”

  “As you wish,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “Then I shall see you on the morrow?”

  “Will I see you?” she asked.

  For a second she thought he might deny it—her heart actually stilled as she waited for his reply—but he didn’t deny it. He didn’t say anything. Without another word he turned and left her room as soundlessly as he’d come. Elizabeth collapsed into a chair.

  “Good heavens,” she murmured. How can I be so base as to enjoy his unwanted touch?

  And how can I marry him tomorrow?

  And across town, far away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears, two gentlemen discussed the coming marriage, too.

  “Should we warn the family?” the Attorney General asked, his arms relaxed as he reclined in a plush red armchair in a secluded corner of White’s. It always struck people as odd that the man should have the looks of a kind puppy, with his brown eyes and equally brown hair, when, in fact, he was something of a bull terrier when it came to convicting criminals.

  “Warn them of what?” The Lord Chancellor shook his head, his gray hair meticulously styled, as was the rest of his toilette. He took a deep sip of brandy before saying, “That new evidence might be presented confirming that the duke might have killed his brother? ’Tis no more than what has been flying about society for years.”

  Brown eyes narrowed. “Yes, but this is the first time we might actually be able to prove the matter.”

  A frown, and then another shake of the chancellor’s head. “Even so, I do not think it would change the earl’s and countess’s minds. They want too badly for their daughter to become a duchess. Do not forget, the earldom is new, and from what I hear, the family is near penniless, what with giving their daughter nearly three seasons. No. I’m sure the earl negotiated a bride-price in exchange for the scandal he caused them. They will not want to give that up.”

  The magistrate’s brows lifted. “But it is preposterous that they would allow their daughter to wed such a man.”

  “Quite the contrary,” his lordship contradicted with a wry smile. “With the scandal of his brother’s death having faded, the duke is looked upon with near favor by many members of the ton.”

  “Not for long.”

  “Indeed,” he said with a wave of his elegant hand. “But rest assured, I have already warned the earl as best I could. To say more might cause him to go to the duke, or do you not care that his grace might flee the country before you bring him to trial?”

  The Attorney General released a breath, knowing his lordship had a point. “I pity the lady. It will not be easy for her to bear the scandal.”

  “She is used to scandal.”

  “Not this sort of scandal.”

  “She is the granddaughter of a shoemaker. Their kind can weather the storm. They always do.”

  The difference between war and marriage is that

  in marriage you sleep with the enemy.

  —ANONYMOUS

  Chapter Five

  Like a fairy-tale wedding, the day of Elizabeth Montclair’s marriage to the duke of Ravenwood dawned bright and clear. The air fair sparkled with sunshine, nary a cloud in the pretty blue sky. It was one of those rare, beautiful days when the dew sparkled off blades of grass, the air blew warm with the promise of a perfect, sunny afternoon, and flower petals glowed with a vibrancy that almost hurt the eyes. Fabulous viewing weather for the people who lined the streets leading to St. George’s Church. But unlike a traditional wedding wherein people came to gawk at the bride and her maids, it was the groom people had come for.

  A carnival atmosphere prevailed. Those who weren’t lucky enough to wake up early to find a spot on the road found themselves ten people back instead. Street hawkers, quick to seize an opportunity, sold fruit to those who’d bypassed breakfast. Dandies dressed in their morning finery, mixed with servants dressed in their Sunday best, the ladies wanting to know if the fairy-tale prince—or duke as the case may be—would show up to sweep the fair maid off her feet. Or not.

  One problem marred it all, not that the populace knew. The bride hated the groom.

  Well, perhaps “hate” is too strong a word. But the morning after her tête-à-tête with the duke of Ravenwood, Elizabeth Montclair still felt as steamed as a teapot. As to the kiss, well, she’d shoved that thought to the furthest corner of her mind, an oak door covering it and the words Not to Be Examined painted upon its surface. Instead she focused on the duke of Ravenwood, the stress of having to marry a man within three weeks of being ruined by him combined with not being able to sleep the eve before, and, well, to say she was rankled would be a severe understatement.

  She was ready to draw blood. Ducal blood.

  The energy generated by her anger helped to cover her nervousness as she donned her wedding finery—something that took nigh on two hours. Helped her to focus as she was pampered and primped and made to look like a princess bride. One thought emerged. He better bloody well show.

  And yet, what could she possibly do if he didn’t?

  “There, m’lady,” her maid said, stepping back.

  Elizabeth forced her troubled thoughts aside, looking at herself in the mirror. What she saw startled her, for as her mother was fond of telling her, she was no classic beauty. And yet, today she looked rather fine. At least she thought so.

  “You’ve done well given what you had to work with,” her mother said from her position standing in the corner of Elizabeth’s room.

  “Thank you, my lady,” the maid bobbed.

  Elizabeth studied her reflection again, admitting her mother was right. The dress was shaped to accentuate her bust. It lifted, pushed her breasts up so high she wagered she could bal
ance a plate upon them. Her hair, too, had been teased into an elegant mass reminiscent of the Georgian era, three black curls left to dangle down her right shoulder. And the white gown, rather than wash out her coloring, made her skin look even creamier, her blue eyes more startling. There was very little beading upon the gown—there hadn’t been time—but the seamstress had managed something rather clever. What pearls she had sewn upon the fabric were shaped to resemble ivy, the vines seeming to sprout from her waist, creeping toward her toes and neckline in S-shaped patterns.

  “Shall I call for the carriage?” the maid asked.

  “Yes,” her mother breathed softly. “She is ready to be viewed.”

  Ready to be viewed? Elizabeth thought, feeling an unruly reaction come to mind. Was she an exhibit? Was there a sign upon her rear requesting a shilling per view? Ready to be viewed, indeed.

  “Now, my dear,” her mother said, “when you enter the church I want you to pause in the doorway. Let society get a good look. Goodness knows St. George’s doesn’t seat a lot of people, so I want those we were able to invite to be able to recall perfectly how expensive yet tasteful your gown looked.”

  Oh, bother.

  “Then, just when the music reaches a crescendo, I want you to stroll, not walk, down the aisle.”

  Wasn’t a stroll a walk?

  “Once you reach the duke, pause again—”

  “Mother, please,” Elizabeth dared to interrupt.

  Her mother’s words abruptly stopped, her eyes narrowed.

  Elizabeth felt her heart begin to race at her daring, but, she reminded herself, this would be the last day she would have to listen to her mother’s orders. “I understand what to do.”

  “I hope that you do,” her mother snapped coldly. “This is an important day.”

  “Yes, I know.” This was the day the family fortune was restored. “I know what you want me to do, but for now, I want to be alone.”

  “Alone. Do not be ridiculous. You are about to marry a duke—”

  “Mother,” Elizabeth dared to interrupt again, only more firmly. “Please.”

  The countess’s mouth flopped open and shut a few times, but Elizabeth held firm. But then her mother’s eyes swept her up and down. A self-satisfied gleam entered her gaze.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “I suppose it will not hurt to let you alone for a moment.”

  “Thank you. I promise not to slit my wrists.”

  “Elizabeth, do not even jest about such a thing,” her mother gasped. “Why, I forbid you to do it.”

  Forbid it? Elizabeth felt like laughing. Even if she was desperate enough to do such a ghastly thing—which she wasn’t—she doubted her mother could stop her. “I beg your pardon, Mother. That was in poor taste.”

  “Indeed it was. And just for that, I will expect you downstairs in two minutes.”

  Elizabeth merely nodded and, when she was alone, turned toward her window, only to realize she could barely move her train was so heavy. Anchored to the floor, she contented herself with viewing the sky, sending a short prayer heavenward for help.

  Ah, but what kind of help? Elizabeth asked herself.

  If the duke didn’t appear, she might—just might—be better off than she was before. Jilted sounded better than ruined. If she were jilted, she might be able to marry someone else.

  Yes, but your family will be destitute.

  So? That didn’t mean she couldn’t wed.

  Like who? An undertaker?

  At least he wouldn’t be Ravenwood.

  An undertaker would be better than Ravenwood?

  She thought about it for a moment.

  Yes!

  The carriage Elizabeth rode to the church in was magnificent. And rented. It had three large windows, one on each side and one in the back. Its black paint gleamed majestically, as did the four white horses pulling it—not a speck of dirt marring their coats—two servants riding postillion wearing green and gold livery. A giant bouquet of red roses sprang from the roof—an idea her mother stole from a marchioness—the blooms bobbing in the slight breeze. She was to ride in it alone, like a princess on her way to meet her prince.

  Hah.

  It was disgusting, Elizabeth thought. One might actually believe they were true peers of the realm, or that her mother expected the duke to show.

  She climbed into the coach, her heart pounding in her chest, her palms sweaty.

  Gracious heavens, she needed to get control of herself. But as the door closed behind her with a snick—the fresh air sucked out of the interior like a casket—she felt more alone and frightened than she ever had in her life. Longing for her friends overcame her. But Lucy was eight months with child—her first—her other good friend, Salena, in a similar state. Matrimony, it would seem, was not the least bit disagreeable to her bosom friends.

  And so the panic increased.

  Not a good thing.

  Not a good thing at all.

  She barely noticed the ride to St. George’s Church, deathly afraid the evidence of her nervousness stained the pristine white fabric of her underarms. The carriage door opened. The sharp gust of wind that blew in did little to alleviate the cloying sense of suffocation that had overcome her. Someone handed her down—Elizabeth would never recall whom. Her legs nearly collapsed as she stood upon the hot pavement. Her breath grew labored. The distant cousin whom Elizabeth had never met before and who acted as bridesmaid handed her a bouquet of white lilies and red roses. Elizabeth clutched them. Her mother went inside but Elizabeth held back, the blooms shaking so badly they looked scared. Barely breathing, she watched as the church doors swallowed her mother. Would that they could swallow her, too. And spit her back out. Somewhere on the other side of London. Bother that, the world.

  Was he inside? she wondered. Had he arrived?

  No one told her. No one said a word.

  It was too much for Elizabeth. She had to know. Slowly, she approached the door, one of the ushers waving her away. Yes, yes, yes. She knew it wasn’t time for her to go down the aisle. She just wanted to peek. Just one tiny peek. She leaned forward, her train tugging at her waist. The light inside the church was muted, as if not even the sun would dare to shine brightly in such a holy place. Mahogany pews to the left and right of the main aisle were packed with people, their heads dipping and bobbing as if from a wind. One would think their attention would be taken with the painting of the Last Supper that hung at the altar. But no. They were all looking at him … at Ravenwood.

  He’d shown.

  Emotions pelted her. Relief. Disappointment, followed by an overwhelming urge to put a pistol between his grace’s legs and pull the trigger (oh, yes, she knew how to wound a man). Certainly not a very ladylike thought, but there you had it. Elizabeth Montclair had reached the end of her rope. She’d hit the wall. Taken the final step off a short pier. The spectacle of her marriage combined with the lack of sleep after her midnight rendezvous with him all culminated to give her a sudden and thorough steaming head of temper.

  Oh, gracious, was she ever mad.

  He kept his back to her. It was as if he couldn’t be bothered to turn. As if in showing up he’d done his part, now it was up to her to come to him.

  Elizabeth grew even more furious.

  Come to him, eh? She’d go to him alright.

  Anger suddenly propelled her forward. The bridesmaid yelped, pulled forward and off her feet by Elizabeth’s sudden dash.

  The musicians hiding in the second-floor alcove must have glanced down, seen her coming, then hurriedly started to play the wedding march. People quickly rose, bumping into each other in the process.

  And Elizabeth stomped. Oh, how she stomped, not strolled, not floated, not any of the things her mother had ordered her to do. The string quartet played faster and faster, trying to match the music to her pace. She flew down the aisle, her train so heavy, she felt rather like a draft horse, all but grunting as she leaned into it. She came to a halt at the front of the church, next to Ravenw
ood.

  The duke who still refused to turn.

  The curate, who looked startled by her heaving walk down the aisle, stared between the two, his bespectacled eyes appearing huge behind his glasses.

  “Ahem,” he coughed, trying to alert her groom that his bride had arrived.

  But his grace still didn’t turn.

  Hateful man.

  “So glad you could make it today,” she hissed.

  Finally, slowly, he turned.

  Elizabeth stiffened.

  It was utterly maddening. The cad looked resplendent. Unlike last eve, he appeared ready to cut a fine swath this morn, his cravat tied in a subtle, yet sophisticated style. He wore a dark blue jacket with tails, his tan trousers nearly as pristine as her wedding dress. His hair slid back over his head like it existed only to make him look even more suave. But it was the look in his green eyes that stood out most. He laughed at her. Faced her as if this was all a fine joke and she the butt of it.

  Ooo, the wretch.

  “So glad you could make it, too,” he responded, though not as softly as her. “You look rather well.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled tightly. “You look rather ghoulish.”

  “Why thank you,” he replied, equally polite.

  If anyone thought it rather odd that the bride and groom were chitchatting at the altar, no one commented. Then again, they were probably too busy trying to hear what was being said.

  “Shall we begin?” the duke asked after turning back to the befuddled curate.

  The man blinked behind his glasses. “Begin what?” the curate asked.

  “The ceremony.”

  The man jumped, saying, “Oh, ah, certainly. Certainly.”

  Elizabeth watched as he took a deep breath, seemed to clutch his Bible as if praying for divine intervention, then began, “Dearly beloved. We are gathered here in the sight of God …”

  And that was when Elizabeth truly began to panic. The marriage ceremony had begun. He had shown up. She would be wed. To the duke of Ravenwood.