An Accidental Seduction

by Lois Greiman

  Some hours before, Savaana had found a moment to stitch the rough-cut necklace into the hem of her gown, for her décolletage was far too low to hide it.

  She held her head high, her shoulders back, as she entered the ballroom on her faux husband’s arm. They were introduced to the gathering by a man with enough starch in his bleached cravat to make a flag stand on end.

  The Irishman remained with the vis-à-vis. He’d been practically silent the entire day. But his eyes had spoken volumes. Most of it was profanity. And how could she blame him? She had become the epitome of everything she hated. Sneering at him. Lying to him, then accepting him into her bed. She almost snorted at the idea, for the truth was she’d all but forced him into her bed. And had done so moments before welcoming her supposed husband with open arms. Accepting his gifts, sharing a room.

  Gallagher must think her the devil incarnate. And maybe he was right.

  “He can’t take his eyes off you,” Tilmont said.

  She snapped her gaze to him, breath stopped. “That’s not true,” she said. “He’s simply—” She stopped before flinging herself into the fires of stupidity. “Who might we be talking about?”

  He laughed. “The duke, of course. But he’s hardly the only one enthralled.”

  “The…” She tried to still the beating of her wild heart. “…duke?”

  “The Duke of Landsgate. In the corner with the woman who looks like she swallowed a tuna. And there’s Lord Balesford. Near the table. The one drooling as he watches you.”

  She glanced to the left, trying to find her bearings. There actually did seem to be someone drooling. “I think that might be a medical problem,” she said, and he laughed.

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. She turned toward him, meeting his eyes. “What do you mean? Miss me when?”

  For a moment he stared at her, and then he grinned lopsidedly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so macabre. This affliction may not kill me. Perhaps I will only wish to die.”

  “Don’t talk like that. I’ve known several people who have lived long and well with heart conditions.”

  “It’s not my heart that worries me,” he said, and watched a flute of champagne wander past.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Holy hell, she was a terrible fake wife. Indeed, she had entirely forgotten about his alcoholism. “Listen. We don’t have to stay here. We could yet go—”

  “Home. I know,” he said, and laughed again. “But honestly, the way the Irishman drives I think the trip might kill me well before we reached the edge of town.” He raised a brow at her. “You don’t suppose he’s hitting those holes a’purpose, do you?”

  She was going to hell. She was sure of it, but gave Tilmont an innocent if somewhat sickly glance. “I can’t imagine why he would.”

  “To keep us apart, perhaps?” he suggested.

  She snapped her gaze to his, heart hurtling along like a frightened bunny’s. “Surely not! Why ever would he do such a thing? He wouldn’t. That would make no sense.” She was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop. “That is to say, I barely know the man. I surely have no interest in him.” She fluttered a helpless hand. “And he has none in me. Indeed—”

  “My love,” Tilmont said, voice sounding ever so casual against her frenetic rush, “every man here has an interest in you. Indeed, every man everywhere. Even the ones who can do little about it,” he added, and smiling at his own failings, kissed her hand, but when he straightened, he wobbled a little.

  “My lord! Are you well? Can I get you anything?”

  “Anything?” he asked, and watched the champagne tray pass again. “No, I think not. Far better that I keep my mind occupied elsewhere. Would you care to dance?”

  She scowled. The reel had broken up and a waltz began. “I’m not particularly accomplished at the waltz,” she said.

  “Ahh, but it matters little with a woman as lovely as you on my arm. Come,” he said, and led her onto the dance floor.

  In truth, she had been dancing for as long as she could recall. Indeed, according to her grandfather, her grace was only surpassed by her sleight of hand. And though that particular talent was used only for magical tricks, she could imagine how this crowd would react if they knew of her inauspicious beginnings.

  Still, the dance went well enough, though Tilmont seemed winded and a little shaky by the end of it.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit for a bit,” she said, though her nerves were jumping like frogs in a frying pan.

  “There’s no need for you to humor me,” he said. “I’m quite capable of humoring myself. Indeed—” he began, but just then they were approached from behind.

  “Lord Tilmont.”

  They turned in unison. Tilmont smiled. “Lord Reardon, you look well.”

  “And you look as dreadful as always,” said the other, “but your bride…” He opened his arms as if to encompass her. “This is your bride, isn’t it, and not some glamorous figment of my imaginings?”

  “Clarette, my love,” Tilmont said, bowing a little. “I’d like you to meet Lord Reardon, the most irritating man in all of Christendom.”

  “My pleasure,” Reardon said.

  “Always a privilege to meet irritating men,” Savaana said, and they laughed on cue. How easy the nobility was to please. Not at all like entertaining a fractious village crowd.

  There was a bit more small talk before Reardon asked her for a dance. Tilmont handed her off, looking more than a little relieved to find a seat alone, and she was escorted back onto the marble floor.

  “So you’ve landed the notorious Lord Tilmont,” Reardon said as they moved sedately through the crowd.

  “Notorious, is he?”

  “Yes, quite, but I’ll wait for you to figure it out on your own. You seem a bright one.”

  Savaana mulled that over until the dance came to an end.

  “Look after him, won’t you?” Reardon said, and bowed as a tall gentleman appeared to her left.

  She would have liked to excuse herself, but Tilmont was otherwise occupied, so she turned to the newcomer, who held her a little too tightly as they danced. She was glad when the song came to an end, but already there was another man waiting, standing a little behind.

  “Might I cut in?” he asked. His voice evidenced either good breeding or a nasal condition.

  “I believe we’ll take another spin,” said the tall lord, but the other pushed him aside.

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, old chap,” he said, and Savaana turned at the niggle of familiarity.

  There, front and center, was Sean Gallagher, dressed in frock coat and starched cravat, and looking like nothing so much as a debutante’s lusty dreams.

  Chapter 24

  Savaana felt her mouth drop open.

  “Just dance,” he ordered.

  “What happened to your brogue? And where—” she began, but he was already leading her into the first steps, his movements fluid and sure. “What’s this about?”

  He didn’t look at her. “I might ask as much of you.”

  She leaned away from him, watching his face. It looked the same, yet different somehow. His chiseled chin was elevated, his lovely body stiff, his eyes imbued with a confusing mix of anger and boredom. “What are you talking about? Where did you get that jacket?” It fit marvelously across his wide shoulders.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Why—” She felt well out of her depths and sinking fast. “I’m with my husband, Lord Tilmont. You remember him, don’t you?”

  “Oh I remember him, but he’s not your husband.” His posture was perfect as he swept her into a twirl.

  “You’re deluded.” She felt breathless. Maybe it was from the spinning. Maybe not.

  “And happily so,” he said.

  “Do you know what the penalty is for impersonating your betters?”

  He glanced down at her, allowing a smidgen of the Irish to shine through. “Are you so sure I’m
impersonating, lass?” He drawled the last word, employing the damnable brogue.

  She tripped. He pulled her tighter to his chest and continued on, forcing her to follow his perfect lead. “Careful there, my lady. We wouldn’t want you to ruin your fine new frock.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Your frock,” he said, eyes blazing as he skimmed her low décolletage. “It’s quite nice, by the by. Flattering, if you don’t mind showing a bit of your—”

  “What do you mean you’re not impersonating?” she hissed, and he grinned coldly.

  “Ahh that,” he said, and returning to his perfect posture, danced her toward the edge of the gargantuan floor. “Well, perhaps you’re not the only one pretending to be what she’s not,” he said.

  She shook her head in confusion. “So you’re…” She managed a shrug. “…a woman?”

  He grinned a little at her wit, but didn’t bother to glance down. Instead, he kept his head turned away, his shoulders drawn back. The muscles of his thighs felt as hard as hewn granite, his hand strong and callused against hers.

  “You deserve more,” he said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’d give you more.”

  “You!” She gasped the word. “You’re a liar and a…I don’t know what you are.”

  “Maybe I’m the heir to a small fortune.”

  “You…I…” She was at a loss for words. “You seduced me for money!” she said, and the song swept to a crescendo. He twirled her away and then into his arms, her back against the hard plane of his chest.

  “Not for money.”

  Her breath was coming hard. “For a bet. You seduced me for a bet!” she hissed, and his patience exploded.

  “I seduced you because you’re irresistible. Because you’re bright and funny and brave and built…” He skimmed her bosom again. “…like a damned hourglass with legs.”

  Their gazes caught. Her breath stopped. He was leaning toward her. Their lips almost met, and then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a brush of movement. A woman turned toward her for an instant. Her dark hair was pulled into a chignon beneath an ivory bonnet. A veil shadowed her features and her gown was high-necked. Pale and lacy, it covered nearly every inch of her. But for an instant, for just a fractured moment in time, she drew the lace back from her face. Their eyes met. It was like looking in a mirror.

  “Dear God,” Savaana rasped.

  “No. Just a good lover,” Gallagher said, and leaned down, but she was already struggling out of his grip.

  The woman in ivory was gliding toward the door that led to the gardens.

  Savaana pivoted in that direction, but the Irishman held her wrist. “I was only joking,” he said. “Please—” But she barely heard him and tugged urgently at her arm.

  “I have to go.”

  “Go? Where? Listen, I apologize. We need—”

  “Just…I need some air. Time alone. Leave me,” she said, and pulled out of his grasp. The crowd surged like a wild tide against her, but she pushed through. Outside, the mist had rolled over Lady Reardon’s rose garden. But she thought she caught a glimpse of white lace in the darkness. She rushed through the shadows. The outer gate creaked as she hurried toward it.

  “Clarette,” she whispered. Not a soul answered, just the soft song of pool frogs. “Lady Tilmont,” she said, and stepped through the gate. It groaned shut behind her. She glanced toward the house, bright with a thousand candles. Beyond their glittering light the world looked as black as sin. Fear gnawed at her. But a thousand ragged memories pushed her on. She stepped into uncertainty.

  Footsteps, light and quick, hurried away, and she followed, down a well laid path of stone that led to the river. The moon shone for a moment on the dropping land below. Freedom called to her. She could leave. Could quit all this. Could return to her caravan, to the people who had accepted her as their own, but blood ties were still strong.

  “If you’re here—” she began, but suddenly hands grabbed her.

  She gasped. Someone was already covering her mouth, pulling her roughly into the black lee of a towering oak. She struggled wildly. The other’s grip broke.

  “Holy hell!”

  Savaana pulled away, ready to run, but at that instant recognized the voice. “Clarette?”

  “I think you broke my nose.”

  “Clarette, is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me.” Her voice was hissed. “Who the devil did you think it was?”

  “I don’t know. How was I to know you—What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here?” she rasped. “We were supposed to meet. At Knollcrest. Remember Knollcrest, the place where I am paying you to remain?”

  “Of course I remember, but you’re early and—”

  “And what? You decided to enthrall some lusty peer of the realm when you were supposed to make absolutely certain my husband didn’t suspect me of having interest in another?”

  “He’s not a peer.”

  “What is he, then?”

  Hell if she knew. “An Irishman?”

  “Well, you weren’t supposed to enthrall a lusty Irishman while I was gone either.”

  “I didn’t…He’s not…” Savaana shook her head. “You’re the one who left for a tryst.”

  “And you’re the one who was supposed to stay put. What the devil are you doing here in the first place?”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I saw Mrs. Edwards in my tilbury. Naturally I was a bit curious. Why the hell would you hire a chaperone?”

  “I…It’s a long story.”

  “Well, I’ve got all night, since I’m not flirting with a lusty Irishman.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Why? Do you think the Celt will follow you?”

  “Him or your husband.”

  Clarette grabbed Savaana’s arm. “Why would my husband follow you?” Her tone was low, threatening.

  “I don’t know,” Savaana snapped, pulling from her grasp. “Maybe he likes me. What’s he doing here, anyway? I thought he was supposed to be in Bath.”

  “He was supposed to be in Bath!”

  “Well, he’s not.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t had much time to ask him, what with the parties and the clothes and the…” Her voice trailed away.

  “And the what?” Clarette asked, glaring.

  Savaana refrained from stepping back. “Listen, we’ve got more important things to discuss.”

  “More important than whether you’ve been sleeping with my husband?”

  For a moment inexplicable guilt flooded Savaana, but she quashed it. “You wanted nothing to do with your husband!” she hissed.

  “That hardly means I wanted you to do something with him.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t sleep with him?”

  She tried not to wince, but she had been dealing with sister guilt for as long as she could remember. It was she, after all, who had wanted their mother to abandon the squalling baby. “I…”

  “What?”

  “We slept, that’s all.”

  Clarette hissed air through her teeth. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not,” Savaana countered. “He’d been drinking.”

  Clarette scowled as if thinking that sounded likely. “Does he know who you are?”

  “Of course not.”

  They stared at each other, then Clarette shook her head and paced away, all nerves and angst and anger. “I should have known better than to trust a Gypsy. They lie. They cheat. It’s in their blood like—”

  “You’re Rom.”

  Clarette paced back abruptly, then barked a low laugh. “Ah, splendid, and now you’re mad as well.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “Well…” She snorted a laugh and paced again. “I’ve been called a lot of things. A whore. A vixen. A liar. A snobbish little marqui
s once called me an ill-mannered goat. But never a Rom.”

  Savaana was calm now, as if the entirety of her existence rested on this moment and there was nothing she could do to change the events one way or the other. “Your mother was Rom.”

  Clarette stopped as if tripped. “You know nothing of my mother.”

  Savaana took a careful breath. “She had the voice of an angel.”

  Absolute silence echoed between them for a heartbeat. From somewhere far away laughter twittered through the still night air. It sounded surreal and disembodied on the floating mist.

  Clarette shook her head.

  “She sang lullabies.”

  “Every mother—”

  “In Delvanian.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Taking a careful breath, Savaana softly sang the words she still remembered, but Clarette stopped her before she’d uttered two lines.

  “Who sent you?” Her voice was weak, her face pale.

  “She had hair like fresh ginger. The same color as yours.”

  “My hair is black.” The words were whispered.

  “Only so you can escape your past.”

  Clarette opened her mouth to deny the words, then shook her head. “You know nothing of me. Nothing of her. You don’t.” She repeated the words like a mantra, like one in a trance.

  “She gave birth to two daughters,” Savaana whispered. “Less than eighteen months apart.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “She gifted you with her necklace.”

  “You don’t…She…” Clarette began, then laughed again. “’Twas the Earl of Ayrshire who put you up to this, wasn’t it? He was angry when I left him. That, I knew, but I didn’t think he’d stoop to—”

  “I found it in your jewelry box.”

  The air left her lungs like the rasp of a bellows. “You had no right to go through my things.”

  Savaana almost made excuses, but finally smiled at the ridiculousness of the situation. “But pretending to be you…lying to Gallagher, your servants, your husband… that was perfectly fine?”

  Clarette stared at her in silence for a moment. There might have been guilt in her expression. “Who are you, really?”