Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  “Look,” he said, pointing with his chin out the window again.

  Elizabeth found herself hard-pressed to pull her gaze away. And yet, pull it away she did, gasping at what she saw.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed.

  “We’re going to repair the turrets next.”

  They had dropped lower, the carriage nearing the bridge that led to the castle. And yet, what a difference just a few hundred yards made. She shook her head, for one side of the castle had been repaired, the other side, the side they’d approached from, looked like a bizarre and twisted mirror image of the right.

  “Amazing,” she exclaimed.

  “It has taken us years.”

  Elizabeth could understand why, for the castle was massive. Rectangular in shape, it had four round turrets across the front. The same number of turrets lined the back of the castle. Those turrets, oddly enough, appeared to be in good shape. She could even see glass in them. As the horses took their first steps onto the bridge, the sun hit the stones just right, turning them the color of parchment, the reflection of the castle walls shimmering off a calm sea.

  “It will be beautiful,” she said in awe. And it would be. Like the castle of a fairy-tale princess. All it would need was a lady with very long hair and a prince to rescue her.

  Instead it had Ravenwood. Poor castle.

  And her. The granddaughter of a cobbler. Poor, poor castle.

  “Why is it taking so long?” she asked, knowing the duke had inherited a sizable fortune. Money that could have bought and paid for repairs such as these ten times over. And ten times as quickly, for all that they were lengthy.

  But like a sandcastle swept away by a wave, the pride on his face vanished. His expression turned closed, grew guarded.

  “I am taking my time.”

  Elizabeth studied him, sensing there was more to it than that. He held something back from her, though what it might be, she couldn’t imagine.

  She turned back to the castle. They drew closer now, the water as smooth as glass on either side of the bridge.

  “Is it always this calm?” she asked, a part of her feeling the need to see his expression change.

  Change to what? asked that annoying little voice Elizabeth wanted to choke.

  Back to laughter, she answered herself. She liked the smiling duke much better than the sarcastic one.

  His eyes were still guarded when they looked back at her. “Oftentimes ’tis smooth near the castle,” he answered. “And quite choppy farther away. We’re in a natural bay, however, one that holds back the worst of the waves. Even during a storm.”

  “But I thought …” she let her words trail off.

  “You thought ’twas the elements that had destroyed the castle?”

  She nodded, relieved to see some of the light come back in his jade green eyes.

  “No, ’twas the Scots.”

  “The Scots?”

  “Aye. As you are no doubt aware, all of the castles in Wales were built to fortify the English borders. Unfortunately, Raven’s Keep happens to be the castle closest to that border. As such, we sustained the worst damage, the Scots taking it personally that we would dare to build a castle so close to their homeland. Edward I was not a very popular man.”

  “Do you mean to say the castle has looked like this for almost six centuries?”

  He nodded.

  Elizabeth felt her brows lift.

  “The ocean has helped to weather it, too,” he said. “But for the most part ’twas my Scottish cousins who were responsible for the worst of it. They were quite adept with catapults.”

  “And none of your relatives thought to repair it?”

  Once again, the light seemed to fade from his eyes. He looked away, his lashes squinting as he stared out the carriage window. “They wanted to repair it, but it wasn’t until recently that my family’s fortunes were made. A silver mine discovered upon an old plot of land that had been in the family for generations.” His eyes grew distant. “When we realized we’d have the money for repairs, my brother offered to pay for them, even though by rights the castle belonged to me.”

  Elizabeth felt her heart pause. The oddest urge to reach out and touch his hand filled her then. She must be going daft.

  “Not once did he balk at the cost.” He looked back at her, his gaze turning challenging. “When he died, I took over the project.”

  And received all his money, Elizabeth thought, only to look away, the thought somehow seeming a betrayal, though why that should be when it was the truth, she had no idea. “You’ve done a wonderful job.”

  She was rewarded with a startled, then pleased, expression before he turned to look out the window again. His brother had died nearly three years ago, she mused, and yet with all the ducal money at his disposal, all the time he’d had, he still hadn’t finished the repairs.

  How odd.

  By then the carriage had nearly crossed the bridge, the water so close, it looked as if they rode upon it. As they drew closer to the main entrance, the larger the building looked. Rectangular arrow slits were cut into the outer wall. The curved opening they rode through seemed to swallow them up—so large it looked as if a dragon could pass through it. The carriage suddenly grew dark, the light blocked by the tall exterior walls. The sound of the hooves striking the ground clip-clopped off the stone. She felt the carriage turn, looked curiously toward the front of the castle, and blinked.

  Not only had the right side of the castle been redone, so had the courtyard.

  Large, ornate archways opened toward them like welcoming arms … the courtyard she’d seen from above. From between those arches one could glimpse the small bit of park that surrounded the castle, and on each post, lanterns glowed welcoming light. Above it all rose the castle, light shining from nearly every window. But it wasn’t the Romanesque effect of the structure that made one blink, it was the sixty or so servants lined up before the large, double-door opening of what must be the castle’s main entrance. Red-and-purple livery hung on the frames of men of every size and shape. Even the outdoor servants appeared well dressed, their dark brown half boots and tan breeches pristine with cleanliness.

  “Are they expecting the queen of England perhaps?” Elizabeth queried.

  She decided she quite liked the way her impertinent comments made him look.

  “No,” he said, an odd half smile lighting upon his face. “ ’Tis the way I am always greeted.” His smile turned rakish and somewhat arrogant. “My servants adore me.”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt,” she drawled.

  “Especially the ladies,” he added with a leer.

  She stiffened, her eyes narrowing. Her uncle would get along famously with him. And just as the sun sank below the horizon, so did her mood. How could she have forgotten what sort of man she’d married?

  He seemed to realize that might not have been a wise thing to say, for he quickly added, “But only because I give them time off when they have their menses.”

  “You what?”

  He nodded, his expression endearingly serious, so much so that she wondered if he might not be telling her the truth.

  Do not befooled, Elizabeth, he is merely trying to recover lost ground.

  “Indeed. ’Tis an estate policy, from the lowest scullery maid to the ones who garden. They’ve taken to saying, ‘If you bleed, you don’t weed.’ ”

  She stared at him in absolute shock, a part of her thinking he must surely jest.

  “I see,” she said, knowing that even in the faded light, he could see her blush. Dratted man.

  She had decided he was quite having her on about his female servants and their menses as a crass way of making her forget her ire (to which he hadn’t succeeded, she might add), but when the carriage finally came to a rocking halt, Ravenwood handing her down as gallantly as her aforementioned prince, one look at the expression on the servants’ faces and she had cause to change her startled and stunned mind.

  They cheered.

  She just abo
ut came off the ground, the duke smiling as widely as a courtly knight.

  The cheering grew louder, his staff greeting him like he’d tilted Cervantes’s windmills … and won.

  “John,” Ravenwood called out over the sound. He stepped forward and offered his hand to the only formally clad servant on staff. The man had curly blond hair and wide, boyish blue eyes, although his tall frame and handsome features proclaimed him all man. He wore a black jacket and black boots that bespoke of a tailor, as did the fine cut of his dark gray breeches. “How goes repairing the west side?”

  The man took her husband’s hand, his smile nearly as wide as the duke’s. “It goes well, though it would go better with you lending a hand.”

  Elizabeth started. Lending a hand?

  And suddenly the reason for his callused touch presented itself. And on the heels of that notion came the reason why he was so tan, too. And just as quickly as that came the realization that this was the project he’d spoken of earlier. He hadn’t been fabricating a reason to come north. He’d been utterly serious.

  The duke of Ravenwood labored alongside his staff like a commoner.

  And they loved him for it.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucien turned away from his old friend to see Elizabeth standing next to him with an odd expression on her face. She appeared to be almost in shock. No doubt because of his staff’s effusive greeting. He nearly smiled. What could he say? He was adored.

  Turning back to them, he lifted his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, the signet ring that shouldn’t belong to him, flashing, “if I might have your attention.”

  One by one, the crowd stilled, then quieted. Lucien turned to Elizabeth, giving her a smug smile before facing his staff again. “I would like to present my wife, the Lady Elizabeth St. Aubyn, duchess of Ravenwood.”

  There was a momentary silence, and then smiles broke out, followed abruptly by cheers. Elizabeth was suddenly and completely surrounded by a barrage of servants, each of them greeting her with happy and courteous bows.

  Lucien expected her to stand by woodenly, had anticipated some of his staff’s disappointment when she did so. Instead, she utterly shocked him by smiling widely in return, even going so far as to offer her hand to some.

  What was this?

  He stood there, feeling a juvenile urge to gawk as his prim and proper duchess did the unexpected.

  Again.

  He straightened, watching her, the waning light turning her dark blue dress to purple. The shade was perfection upon her, for it made her eyes appear almost lavender, her skin translucent. There could be no more beautiful a woman in all of London, and yet as she stood there greeting his staff she acted as if she didn’t know it. And perhaps she didn’t, he surmised. It was well-known that she had a harridan of a mother, one who constantly criticized. Perhaps that mother had sapped the confidence out of her.

  “She’s not what I was expectin’,” said his steward and longtime friend, John Thorsen in his Scottish brogue.

  “Were you expecting a toothless old hag?” Lucien asked.

  John shook his head, an answering smile lighting up his face. “Knowing your taste, no.”

  “Then what?”

  “I was expectin’ a lady with a stick so far buried up ’er arse, we’d be hard-pressed not to jerk it out and smack her over th’ head with it.”

  Lucien laughed. “To tell you the truth, John, her ladyship is not what I expected, either.” His laughter faded, saying almost to himself, “She is a mass of contradictions, constantly surprising me with her impertinent comments and equally impertinent behavior. I am hard-pressed to understand what, exactly, I’ve married.”

  A lifted brow greeted his comment. “How did you meet?”

  “She called me a murdering whoremonger.”

  “She’s astute.”

  “Why thank you.”

  “Now tell me the truth. How did you meet?” John asked.

  “I was telling the truth.”

  John lifted a brow.

  “But that was the first time. The second time I sank the ship she was on.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “Your brief stint as a pirate.”

  “Aye, though I never touched her. Barely spent five minutes in her company. The next time we met was recently. At a party.”

  “Ah, at last we come to it.”

  “I compromised her.”

  John laughed. “You never do anything the normal way, do you?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Did you get ’er with child? Is that why you married her?”

  Lucien felt his blood grow cold at the thought. Some of his good mood vanished. “No. She is not carrying my child.”

  “Then why? Compromising a lady has never prompted you to marriage before.”

  He shrugged. “This time it did.”

  His friend held his gaze for a long moment. Oddly enough, it made Lucien want to turn away. He looked at Elizabeth, watching as she bent to greet a child. His new wife sank to the little girl’s level, taking the flowers she shyly held out. He heard a husky, “Thank you,” before she ruffled the girl’s black curls.

  And suddenly, Lucien felt anxious. John’s dire expression, no doubt. And it also became impossible to tear his eyes away from the two, Elizabeth looking up at the child’s mother and saying something he couldn’t catch.

  She was good with children, he noted. Another surprise. And the child appeared to adore her instantly, giving Elizabeth a worshipping smile.

  “You look like a fairy princess,” he heard her say.

  He watched as his new wife laughed, her face filling with comely color.

  “If I do,” he heard her say, “ ’tis only because of my clothes.”

  “May I touch them?” the little girl asked.

  “ ’Ere now,” the child’s mother said. “ ’Tis enough o’ that. ’Er grace is terribly kind for standin’ out ’ere and greetin’ us, but I suspect she’s tired after her long journey.”

  The child’s face fell.

  “Not at all,” Elizabeth said. And then she did something that completely shocked him. She reached out and scooped the child up, the little girl giving out a whoop of glee at being so unceremoniously lifted and then settled into the princess’s arms. “I am delighted to make everyone’s acquaintance.” She looked at the child, then smiled widely at his staff.

  They smiled back.

  Lucien stood transfixed. A tightening in his throat became an obstruction that made it damn near impossible to breathe. He turned to John, disconcerted to realize his steward watched him like a hawk.

  “You’re in love with her,” he said flatly.

  “In love with her?” Lucien shot, peeking to his right to ensure Elizabeth hadn’t heard the ridiculous comment. “Do not be absurd.”

  “That is why you married her.”

  “As you well know, the only person I strive to love is myself.”

  “So you’re fond of sayin’.”

  “Yur Grace,” the child’s mother said. Lucien turned, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t the only “Your Grace” anymore. “Mrs. Fitzherbert is goin’ ta show ’er ladyship inside.”

  Lucien looked at Elizabeth just as she gave the child a squeeze before gently setting her down.

  You love her.

  Hah, Lucien reassured himself, he did not. He had married her because he’d felt obligated to do so. Certainly, he enjoyed bantering with her. That itself was a surprise. But love her? Unlikely.

  “A splendid idea,” he agreed, shoving aside all thoughts of love, his past, and John’s obvious dementia. “I shall go in with you. After all, I have much to discuss with her.”

  Naughty catcalls followed his words. Lucien straightened, giving his staff a censorious stare. They ignored him.

  They were entirely too familiar, Lucien privately admitted. But as he eyed the unruly lot, he realized he rather liked his staff that way. His castle was his oasis. A haven away from the ton. He permitted no
one to visit him here, the ‘wild parties’ often rumored to have happened here simply that—rumors. But as he reflected upon showing Elizabeth his home, a sudden, undeniably boyish enthusiasm filled him.

  “Come,” he said, giving her his arm. “I shall show you the way.”

  She didn’t look like she wanted to take his arm. They stood there, surrounded by his staff, and Lucien wondered if she would publicly humiliate him. Like a fool he’d forgotten how much she despised him. But then she seemed to gather herself and slowly reached for him.

  Something akin to disappointment filled him as he watched how hard it was for her to do so. He laughed silently. What did he expect? Certainly what she felt toward him was no worse than what he felt for himself.

  Forcing laughter into his voice, he leaned toward her and said, “Try not to look so revolted by the prospect of touching me. I promise no cankerous sores will sprout upon your flesh if you do.”

  She glanced up at him, her marvelous blue eyes widening a bit. Then she looked away, finally, softly placing her fingers upon his arm.

  Lucien stilled for a moment, curious and a bit taken aback by the way her light touch made him feel inside.

  Ah, yes, he thought, suddenly feeling as buoyant as a cannonball. The next few weeks should prove interesting. Love her, indeed, he scoffed.

  And yet as he led her inside, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. And who wouldn’t with such a woman on his arm? Even at dusk her skin still seemed to glow. The jaunty cap she wore accentuated the classic shape of her face. Her eyes looked luminous as they swept the interior of the courtyard, and he found himself wondering if she was impressed.

  He’d modeled it after one of Robert Adam’s designs. The famous architect had been partial to archways.

  Ravens and lions frolicked atop the arches. The effect looked rather Roman, the courtyard almost seeming to resemble a coliseum.