Seduced

by Pamela Britton

  He jumped down off the platform. The crowd parted, the same crowd that had thrown tomatoes at him moments before. Lucien found that wildly ironic.

  “Elizabeth,” he called when he spied her in the arms of a stranger. “Devil of a time to swoon.” He went to her, gently—no, lovingly—touching her cheek.

  Shock made him jerk back.

  Her flesh burned. “Get a physician,” he moaned in horror, his hand still warm from her skin. “Get a physician now,” he roared, looking up at the gawking crowd.

  “Gaol fever,” the physician pronounced, looking at Lucien gravely. “Likely caught it whilst visiting you. I’ve bled her twice in the past hour, but it hasn’t helped. Like as not it’s not up to me whether she makes it.”

  Lucien could only stare. He felt John’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Lucien asked, ignoring his friend.

  The doctor shook his head, his spectacles glinting from the reflection of firelight. “I’m sorry.”

  Lucien’s knees almost gave out. “Sorry,” he croaked. “Sorry for what? That the woman I love is sick from a fever that she got visiting me? That one of the few people to believe in me might die as a consequence of her faithfulness? That despite my absolution of guilt, I am still to be punished if God takes her away?”

  The physician merely blinked up at him. John’s grip tightened. “Go,” Lucien ordered, uncaring that the man could see the tears in his eyes. God help him but half of London knew his feelings for his wife. He would not hide them now. “Go and leave me in peace.”

  “Lucien,” John said.

  “Go,” Lucien snapped, turning on him. “Or have you forgotten that I know of your true feelings for her?”

  John looked pained, and in his eyes Lucien could read that he truly had fallen in love with Elizabeth. Bloody bastard.

  “Out!” he screamed.

  John looked ready to balk, but the physician motioned with his head that he should not. They both left the room.

  Lucien turned back to the bed. They were in his town house, a place he had shared with nobody but himself in previous years. The massive oak bed near a corner window now encompassed the small form of his wife. Muted light shone from behind drawn, gauzy curtains to cast a pale glow upon her face. White sheets were drawn up to her shoulders, her black hair loose on the pillow behind her, firelight catching the strands and burnishing them auburn.

  John had told him everything. Of how she’d pawned all of her gowns but the one she stood in in order to pay for the gravedigger, and the physician, and the hack she had hired to take her to his family seat and back. She had moved heaven and earth, literally, to prove him innocent, and now she was paying for it.

  God help him.

  Sitting down next to her, he clasped her hand. So hot. And yet her body was wracked with chills. He could see her shiver beneath the dark blue coverlet. Her veins glowed a matching shade of blue beneath her pale skin, her pulse beating at her neck in a rhythm that was far too rapid. He closed his eyes, feeling out of control.

  What had the clergyman said? Prayers would be answered in time? Well, he thought, here’s my prayer, God. Will you answer it? Will you keep her safe for me?

  He dropped her hand, templing his fingers in prayer, hoping the gesture would prove his sincerity to the powers above.

  Please, God, don’t take her.

  She murmured something, her head beginning to thrash. Without thought, he climbed into bed next to her, pulling her into his arms. She burned, but he didn’t care as he held her.

  “Must hurry,” she murmured. “Hanging him,” she cried out. Her arms began to flail.

  “Shh, Elizabeth,” he soothed. “ ’Tis all right. You made it in time.”

  But the feverish nightmare had her firmly in its grip. “Dig. Dig,” she cried.

  His own tears felt nearly as scalding as her own, her blue eyes opening to reveal a panic-stricken gaze. He relived every moment of her quest to clear his name. She had demanded admittance into Carlton House, John had said, her feverish words confirming the action. She had ordered the Prince up from his bed. Only his attendants refused to rouse him. Only Elizabeth’s steely determination, along with the clutching of one of his dueling pistols—those damn dueling pistols—had convinced them to do otherwise.

  And look where it had gotten her.

  Had it been worth her life?

  He shook his head, uncaring that a sob escaped. Not even the thought of death had filled him with as much fear as the thought of losing Elizabeth.

  How long he held her thus, he had no idea, but eventually the bedroom door opened. He looked up. John stood there, his black jacket and buff breeches spotted with rain, the low heels of his boots covered in mud.

  “Get out of here,” Lucien growled.

  “Not on your life,” John said.

  “Go away,” he ordered again.

  “I am your best friend, Lucien. And I care fer your wife, too. I’m no leaving.”

  “You would have married her.”

  “No,” he said, his eyes filling with something … sadness. “For she only ever loved you.”

  Lucien felt as if the breath were knocked out of him. His arms tightened around Elizabeth.

  “Aye, she does. Though I doubt the lass realizes it.”

  Loved him.

  Did she?

  Stinging hot tears fell down his face as he clutched Elizabeth to him. He closed them, ashamed to let John see them.

  But his longtime friend knew him too well. He came over to the bed, placed a hand on his shoulder, and this time Lucien didn’t fling it away. “You need to be strong, Lucien. You will do her no good if you get no rest this eve. Go,” John ordered. “I will watch her for you. Lord knows if I let anything happen to her, I’ll never forgive myself, either.”

  He didn’t want to move.

  “Come.”

  And Lucien gently, so as not to wake her, laid Elizabeth down. He placed her under the covers, hands shaking as he tucked the covers around her, then patted them gently. He stood.

  “I will call you if anything changes.”

  Lucien nodded. A peace was struck then, one that was forged out of necessity, but one that strengthened as hour after hour passed while Elizabeth fought. The fever came and went, racing across her body with the speed of a grass fire, leaving behind a coldness that seemed to grow more and more pronounced with each feverish outbreak. Lucien willed her to fight, but there came a time when she had little strength to do so.

  “Shall I fetch th’ physician?” John asked.

  They were unshaven, both fighting a fear they refused to name.

  “Aye,” Lucien said, his voice a mere croak. “I think—” He couldn’t go on, his tears long since spent, his body unable to produce another drop. “I think she might be dying.”

  John nodded, and there were tears in his eyes, too. “I’ll be back.”

  Lucien didn’t look up, as he had eyes only for his wife. Her hair had gotten mussed with the last feverish outbreak. He picked up a brush from the side table and began to brush it out.

  “You need to keep fighting,” he told her matter-of-factly, even as he knew such urgings were all for naught. “You need to get well, my love.” A tear blazed a path down his cheek. “Lucy sends her love, by the way. She can’t be here for fear of getting the baby ill.” He couldn’t go on for a moment. “It’s a girl, Elizabeth, and she named her after you.”

  She didn’t move, and a sudden frustration made him throw the brush across the room. “Damn you, Elizabeth. You can’t leave me,” he croaked. “Everyone I have ever loved has left me. My father. My brother. I can’t.” His breath hitched. “I can’t lose you, too.” He shook his head. “God, please don’t take her away from me, too.”

  Her breath grew more shallow. Where was the damn physician? He grabbed her hand, held it to his cheek. She took a deep breath.

  And then stilled.

  Lucien stared at her, willing her to breathe.
/>   But she didn’t.

  “Elizabeth,” he called, panic making him rise.

  She didn’t move.

  “Elizabeth?” He grabbed her shoulders.

  She still didn’t move.

  “Elizabeth,” he cried. “Elizabeth.”

  “Lucien,” he heard John call. “Let her go.”

  “No,” he growled, suddenly clutching her to him. “No. I’ll not let her go. I’ll not.”

  “Lucien,” John ordered.

  Lucien fought him, his eyes blurred as he stared at Elizabeth’s lifeless face.

  “Lucien,” John ordered. “Calm yourself.”

  “She’s gone,” he howled in pain.

  “Lucien,” John snapped.

  Lucien whirled on him. John socked him in the jaw.

  “She’s not dead,” John explained, his look one of apology. He shook his hand. “Look at her, at her face. The fever has broken. She is in a deep sleep.”

  Lucien stared. “What?”

  “She is in a deep sleep,” John explained. “Go, look for yourself.”

  And if he doubted John’s words, he had only to turn to the bed, to see the doctor’s smiling face.

  “This is good,” the bespectacled man said. “This is very, very good. ’Tis not like the other times between fevers. This time her body is cool.” His smile increased. “She is going to make it.”

  Lucien looked down at the bed, at the still form of his beautiful wife.

  And collapsed to his knees in thanks.

  Epilogue

  Five months later

  The carriage rolled to a halt, the lamplight flickering as the coach swayed in its place before Lord and Lady Jessup’s residence. Inside, Elizabeth and Lucien held hands as they waited for the door to be opened.

  “Are you ready?” she asked, staring into Lucien’s lime-colored eyes.

  “Do I look like I’m ready?” he asked wryly.

  Elizabeth peered up at him, pretending to consider his words. He’d been consuming lemon drops again. She could smell the sweet scent of them, the realization making her conceal a grin. “Hmm. I see, no sweat on your brow, nor upon your upper lip. So I suppose you appear ready to go.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.” He patted her hand. “But with you by my side, I am ready for anything.”

  They stared at each other, Elizabeth awed yet again by the turn her life had taken. He loved her. It still amazed her. Sometimes she pulled out the copy of The Times she kept in her drawer, the one that recounted, word for word, what he’d said the day of the hanging. Even now, she still had a hard time believing it. But what astonished her more, what made her smile in secret bemusement, was the mutual love she felt. She didn’t know when it had started, although she sometimes wondered if it hadn’t been that silly dress he’d donned. Or maybe before that, perhaps when he’d tried to take her to see his sunset. Or when he’d bought her the horse. Whenever, it’d come to full bloom as he’d nursed her back to health. No woman could be proof against the kind of devotion Lucien showed her. Still showed her.

  So she’d named the horse Thunder, a name Lucien claimed was entirely girlish. Elizabeth had replied that he was just jealous of certain male parts of her horse’s anatomy, to which Lucien had said … nothing.

  She adored making him speechless.

  Such was the nature of their love, full of smiles and laughter. And not a day went by that Elizabeth didn’t thank God for it.

  “Are you ready, duckies?” the coachman said, Elizabeth’s thoughts scattering like a late summer breeze.

  “One moment, Cedric, I need to put on my boxing gloves,” Lucien replied drolly.

  Moments later they stepped down, the cool night air filled with the scent of evening fires, long-eaten dinners and pampered bodies. A quadrille played, the sound of violins mixing with voices as gaily dressed people walked in and out of the open double doors. Inside the massive main hall, Elizabeth could feel the stares of the other guests, could see the way their hostess started a bit when she spied who stood before her.

  “Lord and Lady St. Aubyn,” she said, her smile seeming to be sincere. “I’m so glad you could come tonight. I confess, when I received your acceptance, I about fell over in shock.”

  “Thank you for inviting us.” Elizabeth gave her a smile.

  Their hostess smiled back, the corners of her blue eyes crinkling in a way that could only be genuine. “My pleasure.” But then her eyes narrowed a bit and she leaned forward. Elizabeth thought at first that she stared at her aunt’s brooch she’d pinned on her dress. “What an unusual necklace, Lady Ravenwood. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen gold …” she leaned even closer. “Balls like that.”

  Not the brooch, her necklace. “Do you like them?” Elizabeth asked, touching them with her gloved hands. “They used to hang between my husband’s legs. I wear them to remind him of all that he owes me.”

  Her ladyship drew back. Her mouth dropped open.

  “Elizabeth,” Lucien chastised, but she could hear the strangled laughter in his voice. “I do wish you’d quit telling people that.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but you know it is the truth.”

  It was Lucien’s turn to smile at the poor woman. “Alas, it is.”

  What could their hostess say to that? Nothing, apparently, for she merely blinked.

  Lucien crooked his arm through hers, smiling again as he led her away, but they both heard their hostess’s titter of laughter. “That went well,” he said.

  “I couldn’t help myself.”

  But their smiles faded a bit as they neared the ballroom.

  “Their graces, the duke and duchess of Ravenwood,” the majordomo boomed.

  Conversations stopped. People turned. Heavens, ’twas as if someone had called out, “Fire!”

  Elizabeth straightened to her full height. She could feel Lucien do the same.

  A man came forward, the earl of Glashow, Lord High Steward from the trial. He looked momentarily hesitant as he approached, but when he stopped before them, he bowed. And was it her imagination, or was that bow a bit deeper than it should have been. “Your gravedigger, er, Graces,” he said. “Good to see you looking so well.”

  He looked up. And, yes, there was definitely a twinkle in his eyes, and a look of apology.

  “Indeed?” Lucien said, recovering first. “I wonder if you might know where my wife can put her shovel?”

  And that was that. Conversation resumed. Good gracious, people smiled. The music started again. Glashow laughed, as did several people around them. And then the well-wishers came forward. People asked how she felt. How Lucien was faring since the trial. Her husband answered the questions with a good-natured smile.

  Apparently, society had put Lucien’s past behind him. Thank God Lucien had, too.

  “Move out of my way, I say,” someone grumbled, a someone whose voice sounded very familiar.

  Beth turned, hardly daring to hope …

  “Lucy,” she gushed, “Oh my goodness, Lucy.”

  Elizabeth felt tears come to her eyes as she and her friend embraced, right there, in the middle of the ballroom, something Elizabeth would never have deigned to do a few months before. Now, however, she’d discovered she didn’t care what other people thought, she only cared that she and the people she loved were happy. She drew back to stare into her friend’s sparkling green eyes. She was most definitely happy.

  “Beth, oh my goodness, Beth. It is you. When I heard your name announced, I couldn’t believe it. Why didn’t you tell me you’d arrived in town?”

  “I didn’t know you were in town. I thought you were still nursing the babe.”

  “I am, and you wouldn’t believe what happened to me earlier. My breasts started leaking right through my ball gown—”

  “Lucy,” Beth interrupted, laughing. “Please, there are some things I do not wish to know.” She turned to Lucien. “You remember my husband.”

  Lucy drew herself up, and Elizabeth had to admit, her friend looked …
different. More mature. Content. Loved.

  “Ravenwood,” Lucy said, giving him a curtsy. “I trust you received my letter?”

  Letter? Elizabeth thought, drawing herself up. What letter?

  “I did, my lady,” Lucien said, and she could tell he was fighting back a smile. “And I duly promise to cherish Elizabeth for the rest of her life.”

  Lucy stared at him a moment longer, then nodded in apparent satisfaction, a lock of her red hair falling loose. “As long as we understand each other.”

  “We do.”

  And Elizabeth tried not to laugh.

  “What do you understand?”

  All three turned at this new arrival. “Garrick,” Lucy said to her husband, a blond-headed giant who towered over men. Right then his blue eyes stared at his wife suspiciously just before he turned to Elizabeth. An instant smile sprang to his lips.

  “How are you, Lady Beth?” he asked.

  “Very well,” Elizabeth answered, turning to Lucien. “You remember my husband?”

  The two stared at each other, neither man making a move. “Aye,” Garrick said, and it was apparent he had yet to forgive Lucien for sinking his ship. Children.

  “I was just reiterating to the duke,” Lucy said, “that if he doesn’t behave, I shall hang him from the rafters by his balls.”

  “Lucy,” Elizabeth gasped again.

  “That might be hard to do since she wears them around her neck,” Lucien offered.

  Lucy and Garrick both lifted their brows. Elizabeth pointed to her neck. And then all four of them laughed.

  “Elizabeth,” a different voice called.

  Elizabeth stiffened. She turned. Her mother stood next to her, her father nodding at them. “Lady Cardiff,” her mother gritted out, nodding at Lucy. “Lord Cardiff,” she added. Then she turned to her. “Why have you not called upon me, my dear? I wonder if you have forgotten my existence?”

  Elizabeth felt her mouth drop open, almost saying something derogatory, but the bond of family—no matter how tedious—was simply too strong to break. To give her credit, her mother had tried to visit her while she’d been ill, but Lucien had shooed her away, and then later they’d wanted time alone …