Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  Instantly, he sobered. His brother would have liked Elizabeth, he admitted. Henry would have approved.

  “You have found me out,” he admitted.

  “Our marriage is not a game, duke,” she chastised. “Indeed, whilst we are on the subject of our marriage, let us get a few things straight.” She pulled herself up as if there was a little string attached to her head. “When you compromised me, you ruined your chances for begetting an heir.”

  Bloody good thing I don’t really want an heir then, Lucien thought.

  “What is more, I insist we go our separate ways once this farce of a honeymoon is over.” She paused, as if waiting for him to object, and when he didn’t, said, “I’ve been thinking about our discussion last eve. We both agreed we did not want to be wed to each other. Likewise, we both agree that we will be miserable in each other’s company. As such, I insist we set up separate houses. I will not bother you, nor condemn you for any mistresses you might take; likewise, you shall not condemn me if I decide to take a lover.”

  As her words sank in, Lucien felt himself grow oddly perturbed. “How utterly civilized.”

  “Yes, it is. Further, while I will not mind you having a paramour, I insist you be discreet. I shall, of course, be the same. There is no reason for either of us to cast shame or embarrassment upon the other for all that we dislike each other.”

  “Are you done?” he asked, wondering how the hell he was to tolerate such a shrew of a wife.

  “No,” she said. “I wish to know how long we will be in northern Wales?”

  “Three months,” he said, the first thing that came to mind.

  “Three months?” she gasped.

  “Yes, three,” he snapped. “And now I wish you to understand some things.” He leaned toward her. “While I agree that we should both be allowed lovers, we shall each wait until after the honeymoon to find our prospective partners.”

  She ignored his words. “But that is a ridiculous amount of time for a honeymoon.”

  “We are not going to Raven’s Keep for a honeymoon. I wish to conduct business there.”

  “Can you not conduct your business in a shorter amount of time?”

  “Actually, no. I need to supervise a project. ’Tis something I wish to handle personally.”

  She didn’t look as if she believed him. No matter.

  “One month,” she tried to negotiate. “I will allow you one month, nothing more.”

  “Two,” he countered, not really caring if she stayed a week, just as long as she stayed some small amount of time. Silly, he knew, but he wanted people to think them married in the truest sense, at least for the first month or so.

  “One-and-a-half,” she bargained.

  “Done,” he agreed, having expected her to stay for less.

  She looked startled by his easy acquiescence. “I shall spend a month and a half at Raven’s Keep, after which I will be free to go,” she reiterated as if she didn’t believe him.

  “Exactly.”

  She settled back against her seat, sunlight flickering in and out of the carriage. Her eyes looked luminous as she stared across at him, luminous and uncertain.

  “And one more thing,” he said silkily. “You will sleep with me.”

  Chapter Six

  Elizabeth jolted away from her seat. “I beg your pardon?”

  His left brow lifted. “Is your hearing going again, my dear?”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “ ‘Sleep with me’?”

  He smiled complacently. “So you did hear me. Good. Then hear this, too. I wish to give people the impression that we’re trying to make a go of it,” he said. “At least for a little while. After that you may sleep alone to your heart’s content.” He studied her for a second, his expression heating in a way that made her distinctly uncomfortable. “Though I rather doubt that will be the case for long.”

  “You lied to me,” she accused.

  “Lied to you? What do you mean, I ‘lied to you’?”

  “You said it would be a marriage of convenience.”

  “Yes, and it is convenient that you sleep with me.”

  “That is not what you meant, and you know it.”

  “Do I? Then explain it to me, Elizabeth. What do you think I mean by a marriage of convenience?”

  “You go your way, and I’ll go mine,” she instructed. “You sleep in one bed, I’ll sleep in another.”

  “No,” he said.

  “No?” she snapped back, clutching the hand strap as they rounded a corner. “And what if I insist we sleep in separate beds? What will you do? Lock me in your room at night?”

  “I might.”

  She wished the hand strap was his throat. “You jest.”

  “I only jest on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he quipped. “And as this is Saturday, I assure you, I am not jesting. I merely wish to present to society the appearance of a marriage, at least for the first month. After that, we will go our separate ways, as we already agreed upon. ’Tis done all the time. A few weeks of communal bliss that all of society knows is a sham, then we lead separate lives. Surely you understand how the game is played?”

  She could think of not a single word to say, for she did indeed understand … all too well. The coach lurched over a bump. Elizabeth looked outside, her eyes unseeing as they passed through the London streets.

  “My dear Elizabeth, don’t look so terrified. You will quite enjoy sleeping with me.”

  “No,” she breathed, her gaze snapping back to his.

  “Although I believe I snore,” he stated matter-of-factly. “At least, that’s what my chums at Oxford told me, but I’m quite sure you shall get used to it. They did.”

  He couldn’t be serious. And yet she could glean no trace of humor in his eyes. None whatsoever.

  He was serious.

  Ravenwood, the Duke of Death, the Rake of Ravenwood, was going to force her to bed with him.

  “You will not touch me,” she ordered.

  “My dear, of course I shan’t touch you. Nor will I force myself upon you, for if you will recall, there was a time not too long ago when I could have easily taken advantage of you, and yet I didn’t. I behaved the perfect gentleman.”

  He was referring to their time aboard that ship, something she still wished to forget. And yet she couldn’t. He had seemed different then. More cold.

  But sleep with him? She didn’t think she could do it.

  What choice do I have?

  “Why?” she breathed, only then realizing she’d whispered the question aloud.

  “Because that is what I wish.”

  His green eyes were unwavering, his thick lashes framing eyes of utter seriousness.

  “Why?” She insisted upon knowing the answer.

  He considered her words. “Because,” he finally answered, “I refuse to be the laughingstock of society. Because I refuse to have my chums know that I couldn’t get my new wife to sleep with me. Because I am many things, Elizabeth, but I am ultimately a man. My pride is all I have.”

  She stared up at him, his words startling her.

  “Do you understand?” he asked.

  She didn’t. And yet … she did. All too well. Sometimes when society or her mother belittled her she, too, depended upon her pride to see her through. She might be publicly humiliated at times, but she never let the public see that humiliation.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “As you wish,” she said, feeling her heart begin to pound in an oddly sympathetic way. And then she had a thought. She stiffened. Gracious, what would she wear? The blood drained from her face.

  What would he wear?

  It was a question that plagued Elizabeth for the whole long ride that day. They were to stop just outside Oxford. From there they would leave the next morning to push on to Wales, a journey that would normally take them two days, but that they would try to do in one, or so Ravenwood told her. They were almost the only words he’d spoken to her since their earlier conversation, not that Elizabeth
minded. She still tried to come to grips with the fact that he expected her to sleep with him.

  The countryside they drove through was some of the most beautiful in England. Gently rolling hills with stone or wood fences that marked the property lines. Fat cows or fluffy white sheep grazed in fields shaded by giant elms with emerald green leaves that sometimes dropped onto their carriage as they passed beneath. The road was smooth, even though it had obviously rained recently. But it always rained in England. The weather today, however, was as scenic as it’d been in London. Fluffy white clouds. Soft, warm breezes, the sky nearly as blue as the tail of a peacock.

  “We are almost there,” Lucien said, interrupting her thoughts. His green eyes resembled the color of a fern as sunlight filtered through them. “I expect you shall want to change.” He smiled. “Unless you like dragging that material behind you?”

  She shook her head, looking away from him, her eyes catching on a beam of light that slid its way along the interior of the carriage, turning the red velvet almost orange wherever it touched.

  “I’m relieved to know that,” he said. “I’d begun to wonder if this massive amount of fabric wasn’t a ploy to keep me at bay during our ride.”

  She looked up sharply. “If I thought such a ploy would work, I would wear it to bed tonight.”

  He lifted one side of his mouth in a naughty smile, green eyes glittered. “You’re quite right. Such a scheme wouldn’t have worked. As you may have heard, I am most adept at relieving women of their skirts.”

  “I thought it was at lifting them?”

  He looked as surprised that she would say such a thing. Truth be told, Elizabeth was surprised at herself. But her nerves were stretched so tight, she felt capable of saying anything.

  “Has someone been telling tales about me?”

  She hated when he smiled at her thus. It made her feel as if she rode with Eros. His grin seemed to say, “I am a very wicked man. Be wicked with me?”

  She swallowed, telling herself that she should be impervious to that smile. Alas, she was not. It made her feel very, very naughty in return … almost like she’d felt when he’d kissed her.

  She’d lost her mind.

  “All of society talks of your reputation,” she said, having to wet suddenly dry lips. It didn’t help that he followed the motion with his eyes. Her insides coiled. This was why she hadn’t encouraged a conversation between them up until now. For every time they conversed, Elizabeth felt like she was prodding a cat with a stick.

  “Hmm. Yes, I suppose they do. Although if I’d had as many lovers as society claims, I’d have long since died of exhaustion.”

  And, of course, she hated the way he made her want to laugh sometimes. How could that be? Gracious, she didn’t like the man. He was forcing her to sleep with him. He shouldn’t want to make her laugh.

  It didn’t help matters that at that very moment, the carriage slowed. Elizabeth stiffened, darting a glance outside. She’d been so busy with the duke, she hadn’t noticed that they’d entered a small town.

  Quaint homes faded into two- and three-story stone or wood buildings. The streets were wide with well-dressed citizens strolling along them. A hay cart pulled by a chestnut draft horse rolled by, the driver trying to peek into their window.

  They glided to a stop, glided because it truly felt as if they rode upon Aladdin’s carpet. She looked out the window on her left. A sign bearing the name of the Duck and Swan swung on a gentle evening breeze. Above the wooden roof clouds had thickened, as if fog hung in the sky only a few miles away. And indeed it did, for as the carriage door opened, she could see it rolling toward them, a giant gray wall that seemed almost ominous in size. So much for sunshine. She shivered.

  “It looks a bit muddy outside,” the duke observed before stepping down. A liveried servant stood at attention while holding the door. Elizabeth, who could count the number of servants her father employed on one hand, found it a bit disconcerting to have not only a coachman, but a tiger and two outriders. Obscene.

  The duke’s gaze swung back to hers. “I’d offer to carry you, but I doubt I could get close enough to lift you.”

  “I’d like to change right away,” she murmured.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve decided that you shall walk around naked. Much more enjoyable that way.”

  Her gaze darted to his, but his expression was absolutely blank. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Indeed, but you must admit, ’twas an intriguing suggestion.” He smiled, that lovely warm smile that made her feel … odd. “I had one of my servants fetch some clothes for you whilst we were getting married.”

  Married. Oh, how the word hit her sometimes. Married to one of London’s most notorious rakes. A ne’er-do-well who enjoyed his drink and cigars more than managing his estates. Who spent most of his life making a jest of things and would no doubt trot off to London the moment their “honeymoon” was over.

  Well, bully for him, she thought. She would be off to live her life, too. That was the bargain they’d struck after all.

  “If you’re ready to disembark, I will help you down. Frankly, you might be able to make a jump for it. I imagine your train is so large it will immediately fill with air, thereby allowing you to float to the ground.”

  She gave him a look. It quite irritated her, for there it was again: the urge to laugh.

  And yet she couldn’t deny it. He did amuse her.

  She watched as he used his hands to shovel away her skirts, and, when he was done, he held out his hand. “My lady,” he said, palm up, his fingers wiggling when she didn’t immediately take his hand.

  She reluctantly reached for him, using her other hand to clutch the frame of the carriage. Somehow she managed to leave her train in the carriage, her body hovering in the doorway.

  One minute she was in the carriage, the next she was in his arms.

  “Sir,” she gasped.

  He looked down at her, their faces close, his breath whispering over her. She could smell him, a combination of lemon and mint soap. She could feel him, too, the heat of his body startling against the cool lamé of her dress. His eyes looked dark, nearly as dark as his ink black hair, and yet she could see something flicker in them, something gentle, yet hard and that made her pulse leap.

  “Look at that,” he said softly. “I could get close to you after all. Perhaps we should take that pair of scissors to your train after all. That way, we could do this more often.”

  Elizabeth felt her whole body go still as she looked up at him. “If you destroy this dress, my mother will have your head.”

  He kept staring at her, his eyes seeming to twinkle as he gave her a look of consideration. “Have you ever thought just how morbid a thing it is to ‘have’ one’s head?”

  And once again, she felt the urge to smile. “No,” she answered back softly, finding it odd that she could be so still on the outside, yet moving so violently on the inside. “I confess, I never gave it a thought.”

  “Well you should. Deuced damn thing to do to a person, taking his head.”

  She merely stared.

  Ravenwood, as if giving up, looked away, nodding at one of his servants to catch her train before it fell out of the carriage.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered.

  Elizabeth hesitated, but when he started to move, she realized she would indeed need something to hold on to. Him. Bother. She encircled his neck with her arms.

  “There,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  She didn’t answer, trying her best to keep her body from touching his. He chuckled softly as if he knew what she was attempting.

  Like an elephant, the servant followed behind her whilst holding the tail of her train. Beth felt snugly warm as Ravenwood held her against his chest, her hands resting against the nape of his soft—surprisingly soft—neck. But with that warmth came a sensation of not being able to breathe. She told herself it was because he held her so tightly, but she wasn�
��t at all convinced that was, indeed, the reason. There was an unreal quality to being held by him thus. She supposed it was because the person who held her was the duke of Ravenwood. Gracious, she still couldn’t believe it. She was his duchess. And the way he held her. So firm, his body so tall, she so petite. She felt utterly feminine and completely surrounded by him. She didn’t like it at all.

  “Right this way,” the innkeeper said, leading them into the establishment.

  “Put me down,” she hissed, the moment they were inside. The smell of stewed beef made her stomach growl, the crowd inside quieting a bit when they spied them in the doorway of the warm room. “Put me down,” she repeated, trying not to blush at the stares they received, mostly from men, not surprising since the bottom floor of the inn was a tavern.

  “Not yet,” he answered, stepping into the room.

  “But there is no need to carry me thus.”

  “Do you want your train to become entangled with the tables and chairs?”

  He had a point.

  She hated when he had a point.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said.

  She frowned, resigning herself to her fate. Truth be told, she’d never stayed at an inn before. When one was a Montclair, one had enough relatives to cross England without ever needing to secure public lodging. The patrons who sat at this particular inn looked to be mostly locals, as did those that sat on tall stools before the bar, their tankards of ale sweating big droplets of water and leaving rings behind when they lifted them to their lips. The inn’s walls were made of stone, thick, dark beams supporting the second floor. Of Norman vintage, she supposed. A stairway cut into the middle of the room. The section to the right appeared to have been walled off. Either that, or the innkeeper led them to a broom closet.

  “I hope you do not mind, but the room is a bit chill. We were not expecting any visitors of your rank.”

  Of our rank. Elizabeth closed her eyes. It still seemed unreal. As if it had happened to someone else. Three weeks ago she’d been living her life. Attending a few parties. Trying to please her mother (usually, unsuccessfully). And now here she was, on her way to northern Wales, a place she’d never been before, with her new husband, a man suspected of killing his brother.