Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  Marvelous.

  “A fire has just been started,” the innkeeper said, “and your meal will be brought to you shortly.” He bowed as they passed. “Please ring if you need anything else.”

  Ravenwood paused just inside the doorway, ignoring the man. Elizabeth waited for him to let her go. And yet, he didn’t immediately. She looked up, startled to note his eyes fixed upon her.

  “Are you certain you don’t wish to proceed directly to the bedroom?”

  Her body tensed. She glanced behind her to the servant who was very obviously trying not to appear silly whilst he carried her train.

  “We could make a night of it,” the duke added, his tone dropping a octave. “Quite a night of it.”

  She peered back up at him. “No thank you, sir. Feel free to enjoy your own company. I shall certainly not miss you.”

  Her sarcastic words made him give a bark of laughter. “Jamie,” he said to the servant, “do you see what it is I’ve married? A smart-mouthed shrew.” He looked back at her, his laughter fading. “In time you will learn to miss me, my dear.” His smile grew as big as a jack-o’-lantern’s. “In time.”

  “That, I doubt,” she muttered.

  “Would you like to change before or after dinner?” he asked, ignoring her words.

  “Before, please.”

  With a wordless nod, he slowly let her go, but not quickly. No, he set her down in such a way that their bodies rubbed together. Inch by inch. Belly to belly. Thigh to thigh.

  Her mouth dropped open. She snapped it closed, not at all affected by the feel of his body against her. Not at all.

  The servant gently laid down her train, then turned, apparently on his way to go fetch her trunk. Elizabeth watched him go, feeling very alone suddenly and very vulnerable, with her train all but bolting her to the floor. The room was paneled in golden oak, the flames in the hearth seeming to set the walls aglow. A faded red carpet covered the floor, an ornately carved table in the center of the room. Two single chairs added to her sense of loneliness, one at each end of the table. She wondered what the innkeeper did if there were more than two guests.

  “Do you need me to carry you up to our room?”

  “No,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “A maid can help me upstairs.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked with a wicked smile.

  Dratted man. “Positive,” she added.

  He smiled, that mischievously boyish smile that she loathed.

  “Then perhaps,” he said, “if you won’t let me help you to our room, you will let me help you get undressed?”

  “No, thank you,” she gritted out.

  He bowed his head, smiled, his green eyes all but twinkling. Elizabeth wanted to poke them out.

  Something needs to be done, Elizabeth thought as she dressed. Something drastic. But she could think of nothing that would change her present circumstances. Nothing except to show his grace that she would not be intimidated by his sexual innuendos and crass comments. Quite the contrary. Two could play at that game.

  To that end she donned a dark blue, high-waisted gown that highlighted the blue-black of her upswept hair and made her eyes appear huge. For added effect, she didn’t wear any petticoats. She also dampened her skirts. The finished result looked quite shocking. And daring. So much so that she felt almost liberated as she made her way downstairs, the damp dress clinging to her legs most revealingly.

  She would show his grace that she was no milk-and-water miss.

  But something was wrong because no one gave her a second glance as she entered the main room. Oh, men looked, but their gazes just as quickly shot away. She felt her brow wrinkle, then glanced down, assuring herself that nothing was out of place. She looked fine. Perhaps it was the way she moved. She’d heard tale that courtesans had a way of walking that drove men wild. They swung their hips, she remembered. She tried doing that, swishing her rear from side to side like a pony.

  “So did you see the McGregors’ cow?” a man asked as she walked by.

  Elizabeth almost stumbled. Cow? She was strutting quite noticeably, and they were reminded of cows?

  And then she spied her husband by the parlor door. He stared at her, and his eyes weren’t narrowed heatedly as they swept her up and down, they were … they were …

  Laughing.

  She stiffened. He laughed at her.

  Oh! She almost turned around and went back to her room, embarrassment making her feel as hot as the tavern ovens. Had he noticed what she tried to do? Lud, she hoped not.

  But any hope that he hadn’t was erased the minute he said, “My dear. If you’re going to attempt to draw a man’s attention, I would suggest you lower the angle of your nose. Having salacious thoughts about the queen of England is unlikely at best.”

  The queen? She hadn’t looked like the queen, had she? But then she realized she shouldn’t reply, for to do so would admit what she’d done.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, lifting her head as she walked past him and into their private room.

  She thought she heard him chuckle as she passed, thought, but she couldn’t be sure.

  Dratted man. She was still piqued as he helped her into her seat, although the minute she sat, her stomach turned. Soon they would go upstairs, and he would—she gulped—he would what?

  She didn’t know. Didn’t want to even attempt to guess.

  So it was that the meal passed in a blur. All too quickly Ravenwood was saying, “Are you ready, my beloved, to engage in our night of passion?”

  Elizabeth could have been eating wood chips, for all the notice she’d taken. Those wood chips instantly petrified. Into cement. She put her fork down. Ravenwood did, too, a wicked smile upon his face, his green eyes flickering in the firelight.

  “I know you are as anxious as I,” he added. “So let us be off.”

  Elizabeth didn’t move. Oh what she wouldn’t give for a magic wand to whisk her away.

  “Come, my love,” the duke prompted as he stood and held out his hand.

  “I am not your love,” she said slowly and succinctly.

  “No, but you will be loved by me,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “Thoroughly, loved,” he added with a suggestive leer. “Come.” He waved his hand.

  Swallowing, Elizabeth clutched her skirts and stood. No sense in delaying matters. She was wed to him, and that was that.

  But when he held out a hand, the ruby signet ring he wore flashing, she ignored it, lifting her skirts as she exited the room. Her heart beat so fast, she was afraid it would stop in exhaustion.

  “Give it to ’er, mi lord,” a drunken voice yelled.

  There were echoes of, “ ’ear, ’ear,” around the room.

  “Ride ’er ’ard,” another yelled.

  Lucien caught her hand, forcing her to stop so that they faced the crowd. She tried to pull her hand away, but he forced her around by crooking his arm through hers, swinging her as though they were in the midst of a country dance.

  “I assure you, gentlemen,” he called out, patting her hand lovingly, “I shall do my best to show the lady a very good time.”

  The men erupted into laughter. Elizabeth felt her cheeks sting. And yet, she didn’t cower away. Instead she straightened, one of those odd thoughts coming into her mind. She wanted to say something shocking. Wanted to set his lordship on his ear. She wanted to say, “It’s his lordship that needs to worry,” in a calm, clear voice, yet disconcerted to realize that she had, indeed, spoken the words aloud. But she had everyone’s attention now.

  “And why is that, my love?” Lucien asked with a leer.

  “Why because, my sweetling,” she gritted out, “ ’Tis I that shall wear you out.”

  She had the wonderful experience of seeing Lucien’s eyes widen with surprise. She gave him a smile as sublimely false as his own.

  “Give ’im ’ell, Duckie,” a barmaid called.

  “Wear ’is bleedin’ cock off,” another one added.

 
; Holly berries could not possibly be as red as she felt, Elizabeth thought. And yet she also felt, well, smug.

  “My, my,” Lucien drawled down at her, green eyes glinting. “Perhaps you’re not such a stick-in-the-mud after all.”

  “Do not, for one moment,” she hissed through her false smile, “think I spoke the truth.”

  He didn’t answer, merely sent her an enigmatic look, a look, Elizabeth felt sure, that was meant to worry her. Oddly enough, it didn’t. She didn’t know what had happened to her as she stood in that room, but she suddenly refused to take any more.

  Without another word the two headed up the stairs, the crowd’s ribald comments following them the whole, long way. And yet with each stair, a bit of Elizabeth’s bravado faded. It was odd.

  Their room was all the way at the end of the hall, and Elizabeth’s heart beat faster and faster as they neared the door. The wood floor creaked as they made their way toward it, flickering wall sconces shedding muted light. By the time they reached their room, her palms were as sweaty as the insides of gloves.

  He opened the door for her, and more of her resolve fled. The room was large, surprisingly large, for it didn’t look like the inn was that big from the outside. Two of the walls were made of stone, an arched hearth embedded in one of them. A fire snapped, heating the room to a nearly unpleasant temperature.

  They were supposed to spend the night out of their clothes.

  Gracious, what a thought.

  Her eyes caught on the giant bed, which sat opposite the hearth, the finely woven dark blue coverlet turned back to reveal pristine, white sheets.

  She gulped.

  “Feel free to disrobe at any time. I shan’t peek, I promise,” he said, his breath wafting over her. Lemons again.

  “Why,” she snapped, “do you always smell like lemons?”

  He looked startled by her question, only he recovered quickly. She watched as he opened his mouth, and then, good heavens, showed her his tongue. The remains of a tiny yellow candy hung upon it. “Drops. I like them.”

  Why she should suddenly want to laugh, Elizabeth had no idea. Likely hysteria again.

  He closed his mouth again. “Well,” he asked, “are you going to undress?”

  She glared up at him. And yet no teasing look glinted from his eyes, no playful smile tugged the edges of his mouth. His expression was blank, and yet … not.

  She swallowed again. Her mouth grew dry as sunbaked dirt.

  And then he blinked, and the teasing look slipped back on his face, his eyes glinting nearly as brightly as her wedding ring. He smiled, that roguish smile that always reminded her of a schoolboy up to mischief.

  “Or are you afraid I might lose control of myself and cork you right where you stand?”

  If he had tried to embarrass her, he’d succeeded brilliantly, but she refused to let him see that. Not for nothing had she been a social outcast. She knew how to control her facial expression—rather well—she might add.

  “Not at all, duke. The only thing you will be corking tonight will be a bottle of brandy.”

  He smiled, nodded. “Very good, my dear. I see you’ve developed some spine again. Rather like downstairs. I like that.” His smile grew. “And, since you appear not to be intimidated by my, ah, suggestive comments, why don’t you turn around so that I may help you with your stays.”

  Everything inside of her screamed the word, “No,” but she turned her back just the same.

  “Try not to scratch me with your rough hands,” she ordered.

  “Oh, but I heard you liked it rough.”

  She turned her head, giving him her profile. “I believe you are confusing me with one of your mistresses.”

  Oddly enough, Lucien had to force himself to move forward. “Believe me, my dear, if I’d confused you for one of my mistresses, we would not be standing here talking.”

  “Mmm mmm,” she said, turning her face away from him, her curls sweeping over one shoulder. “No doubt you are correct. You would be enjoying yourself immensely, I’m sure, whilst your mistress would no doubt be pretending to enjoy herself.”

  He almost laughed. The urge surprised him. He forced himself to lean toward her and not touch.

  “Women don’t have to pretend with me,” he said into the soft pink curves of her ear.

  She shrugged, almost as if the feel of his breath disturbed her. “With the money you pay them, I’m sure you’re correct.”

  By God, but she was sparring with him. The shrew had disappeared. How intriguing. “Most of the time, they offer to pay me,” he added.

  “And yet they never have, ” she murmured. “I wonder why?”

  Her words suddenly challenged him, made him want to kiss her. To trace his tongue over the tip of her delectable ear. To kiss the side of her neck. To suck her sweet flesh and leave his mark upon her.

  Down, Lucien. She is not for you.

  “Not all the women I bed are paid to be there.”

  She gave him her profile and a half smile. “Ah, yes, I forget. You like to seduce innocents.”

  “They weren’t innocent by the time I was through with them.”

  She didn’t say anything, merely faced forward again. Did his dastardly reputation worry her? he wondered. He hoped it did. After all, what was the fun of being a rake if not to frighten little innocents like Elizabeth?

  He straightened, chagrined to realize that he’d leaned so close to her he could smell the sweet scent of roses that lingered from her toilette this morning. Damnation, it surprised him how much he wanted to touch her. He had to clench his hands to stop from doing so. Had to steel himself to undo her first stay. He didn’t deserve to touch her. Didn’t deserve anyone.

  He touched her.

  She jumped.

  He almost did, too. Almost splayed his hands against her back, almost leaned into her. But he didn’t, just forced himself to stand behind her, her warmth resonating through his fingers. If only …

  “Your hair is thick,” he heard himself say, trying to turn his thoughts with mundane conversation.

  “Aye, it is.”

  Forcing himself to lift his hand again, he dragged his fingers across the sensitive skin above the edge of her gown. Obviously he liked to torment himself.

  “Why do you not cut it?” he asked, breathing upon her neck as he did so. She smelled sweet and innocent and all too alluring. “Short hair is all the rage.”

  “My mother refused to let me,” she said, only her voice sounded uneven. He watched a pulse beat near the base of her neck. Rapid. On edge. “She said it was my best feature.”

  He undid the second catch, slowly, carefully, making sure he didn’t touch her, and yet it couldn’t be helped. The tip of his thumb skated over her flesh. She jerked. He forced himself to breathe.

  “She was wrong,” he said.

  “Oh?” she croaked.

  His manhood warmed.

  Control yourself, Lucien.

  “Your best feature is your eyes.”

  He waited for her response, waited to hear that breathless quality to her voice again. But she didn’t say anything.

  “Elizabeth?” he queried, wondering what she thought of his compliment. Wondering why he cared.

  “Do you mind finishing, sir?” she asked, her face in profile again. “I am quite exhausted and wish to go to bed.”

  The words stung, which he supposed they were meant to do, but he was surprised at how much her cavalier attitude bothered him. “In a hurry, are you?” he asked in an attempt to set her at odds like she did him.

  “In a hurry to retire,” she corrected.

  “Are you not afraid to share a bed with me?” he asked as he undid the catch.

  “You promised not to touch me,” she said, her shoulders tensing as his fingers dropped lower. He could see the cords of her back through the thin chemise. And from nowhere came the image of him kissing that flesh. Oh, how he wished he could.

  “And what if I accidentally do?” he asked, popping another
stay free. “What if I am overcome by the urge to touch you?” He leaned closer to her, some urge he couldn’t resist wanting to prick at her self-assured bubble. “To do this,” he whispered, lightly brushing her neck with his lips. He told himself he touched her thus to prove he could do so without reacting.

  Pity it didn’t work.

  She jumped, whirled, her hands clutching at her dress, the ring he’d spent hours and hours picking out glinting on her finger. “Do not do that, sir,” she ordered, her blue eyes wide with shock and something else, something dark and warm. Could that be desire?

  “Do what?” he asked, his manhood suddenly hardening like candy. “This?” He brushed his lips against hers.

  She drew away, the dress sliding down farther. One dusky nipple teased him through the chemise. The urge to taste that nipple made him feel as randy as a seventeen-year-old.

  “Stop it,” she ordered. “Stop it right now.”

  He stared down at her, pulling on a bland face only by sheer force of will. Odd’s blood, what had happened to his willpower? Taking a deep breath he attempted to do what he always did when faced with circumstances out of control—he assumed an aloof attitude. Straightening, he said, “Alas, I suppose you’re right. I wouldn’t want you to go to bed too aroused. ’Tis not good for one’s sleep.”

  But it was he who would go to bed unsatisfied this night, he found himself admitting. And he did, Lucien tossing and turning as he slept on the floor, all the while admitting that she was right. Sleeping unsatiated was devilishly uncomfortable. And he wasn’t at all sure he could take another night.

  Every woman is at heart a rake

  —IB, EPISTLE

  Chapter Seven

  Elizabeth felt quite sure she looked like a troll the next morning. A baggy-eyed troll. It didn’t help that Lucien appeared to have slept well, for no lack of sleep showed on his handsome, fiendish face. He wore a dark green jacket that caught the color of his eyes perfectly, turning them a lighter shade of green. His cravat was loosely tied. His jacket hung open, the buff-colored trousers he wore ending above dark brown half boots. He looked a veritable pink of the ton, in a Beau Brummel sort of way. She, however, hadn’t slept a wink, his snoring was so loud that she was surprised the people in the room next door hadn’t banged upon the walls.