Pure Temptation

by Connie Mason

  Jack stared at Moira, enthralled by the silky-soft texture of her bright hair, so rich and heavy and lush it almost seemed alive. He couldn’t recall ever seeing hair that exact shade of red before. Not exactly auburn, not really red, more like burnished copper. When she returned his gaze with mock bravado, her eyes reminded him of sweet, wild honey.

  “Most domestics live in,” she informed him. “I had no need for separate quarters.”

  Jack eyed her narrowly. “Except for a delightful lilt, you speak flawless English. One could almost deduce that you have been educated beyond your station.”

  Moira hung on to her temper by a slim thread. She thought his lazy drawl sounded somewhat condescending. “My mother insisted that my brother and I be educated. She taught us at home, and when she and my father could afford it, they hired a tutor.”

  “I’m surprised they saw the need to educate you and your brother. It isn’t as if you’re gentry.”

  Refusing to be goaded, Moira’s hand closed convulsively on her locket. She had only her mother’s fanciful notion that she came from noble stock. “My family are poor dirt farmers. Kevin is trying to eke a living for his wife and children out of the drought-ravished land left to him by our parents. Mama and Da died of typhus five years ago.”

  “Who was your last employer?” Jack inquired. “Why were you let go? What aren’t you telling me? Perhaps I should speak with him…”

  Moira blanched. “No! Don’t bother, sir. I’ll be gone soon.”

  Jack shifted uncomfortably. “You may have forgotten that it was my carriage that ran you down, but I haven’t. I intend to take care of you until you’re on your feet again.”

  Moira gulped nervously. “Take care of me?” She didn’t even want to guess what he meant by that remark. “I can take care of myself.” It was shameless of her to let him go on thinking he was responsible for her injuries, but she had no choice.

  “That’s all well and good, but I owe you my protection. If I hadn’t been foxed and hell-bent on driving at breakneck speed last night, I wouldn’t have run you down. Do you have any plans for your future? A promise of employment, perhaps?”

  Though his question was innocent enough, Moira suspected an ulterior motive. It was with good reason that this man was called Black Jack. “I left Ireland to find work and earn money to help out my brother. He’s barely scraping by on the farm. My first employment didn’t work out, but I’ll find something soon.”

  What Moira didn’t say was that it was unlikely she’d ever work as a servant again. Lord Roger had seen to that. Her only recourse was to return to Ireland and become another dependent on her poor brother, not that Kevin would mind. He’d welcome her with open arms, and so would his wife, Katie.

  “Your meager servant’s pay won’t be enough to help your brother substantially,” Jack said, choosing his words carefully. Nor would a streetwalker’s earnings, he thought to himself. “Perhaps I can be of service.”

  Moira sent him a wary look. “How so, sir?” Her gaze lifted to the faded wallpaper, continuing on to the worn draperies and threadbare carpet. It appeared as if Jackson Graystoke wasn’t well-heeled enough to take care of his own affairs, let alone hers.

  Noting the direction of her gaze, Jack shrugged philosophically. “I know what you’re thinking, Miss O’Toole, and you’re right. I’m nothing but an impoverished baronet who can’t even see to the upkeep of his own home. My main source of income arrives via the gaming table, and I must marry money soon or see my ancestral home fall down around my ears. But I’m not powerless to help you.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I have accepted responsibility for your injuries. What in God’s name were you doing out so late on a raw night like last night?” He searched her face. “Were you meeting a lover?”

  “What!” Her eyes blazed with outrage. “What makes you think that? I’m not like that. I thank you for your concern, but I’d rather not say.”

  Jack mulled over her words, deciding there was more to Moira O’Toole than met the eye. She claimed to be from the serving class, but she neither talked nor acted like any servant he knew.

  “Dr. Dudley said you’d be unable to use your arm for at least four weeks, so you may as well content yourself to remain here until you’re able to function on your own. Meanwhile, I’ll hire a maid to see to your needs.”

  “There is no need. I’ll…”

  “It’s all settled, Miss O’Toole.”

  Before Moira could offer further protest, the jangle of a bell coming from somewhere in the far reaches of the old house caught her attention. She looked askance at Jack.

  “Someone is at the door,” Jack said in response to her unasked question. “Pettibone will see to it. He’s the jack-of-all-trades around here. Couldn’t exist without him. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I was about to ask if you have any preferences as to a maid.”

  Moira was on the verge of denying her need for a maid when Lord Fenwick burst into the chamber unannounced. “Ah, I see our little patient is alert this morning. Have you told her yet, Jack?”

  Spence looked like a cat who had just swallowed a canary.

  “Tell me what?” Moira asked sharply. Just what did Black Jack and his friend have in mind for her? Judging from the guilty expression on Jack’s face, it had to be something devious.

  Jack sent Spence a blistering look. “Bloody hell, Spence, do you always speak without thinking? I haven’t said a word yet to Miss O’Toole, but I would have come around to it eventually.”

  Moira certainly didn’t like the sound of that. “I don’t believe I’ll stay after all.” Had she jumped from the frying pan into the fire? She started to climb out of bed but remembered she was wearing naught but a threadbare shift. It suddenly occurred to her that if Jack Graystoke had no maid, then he must have undressed her himself. Her face flamed scarlet and she jerked the covers up to her neck.

  “We mean you no harm, Miss O’Toole,” Jack assured her, though he could see she wasn’t convinced. “What my precipitous friend here wanted to know was did I mention to you a plan we had discussed concerning your future.”

  “Plan? Why should you care about my future? I’m not…” she gulped, unwilling to say the word aloud, “what you think.” Moira could tell by the way Jack talked that he thought her a fallen woman.

  “It matters not one whit what you are, Miss O’Toole. As for your future, I told you I have assumed full responsibility for your accident. I merely want to right a wrong. There is nothing evil in my intent, so don’t reject something that could benefit you greatly. Hear me out.”

  What choice did she have? Moira wondered. She was injured and helpless in a strange bed, in a strange house, wearing naught but her shift. She had no money, nowhere to live and no one to turn to for help. So far, Sir Jack Graystoke had made no demands on her, had in fact accepted full responsibility for her “accident” and offered amends. The least she could do was listen with an open mind.

  “Very well, Sir Graystoke, what is this plan you and Lord Fenwick have devised for me?”

  “First let me explain. Spence is in line for a dukedom and will do nothing to damage his reputation. He’s a marquess in his own right. Thank God I do not aspire to so noble a rank. My young cousin, Ailesbury, is welcome to the title.”

  “Get on with it, Jack,” Spence nagged. “I’m sure Miss O’Toole has no interest in my family tree or your lack of title.”

  “Sorry. I merely wanted to impress upon Miss O’Toole that we mean her no harm.” He turned to Moira, impaling her with the gray intensity of his eyes. “Since you are temporarily unemployable, Miss O’Toole, with no prospects of future work, Spence and I have come up with a solution to your dilemma.”

  Moira’s warm golden gaze settled disconcertingly on Jack, making him decidedly uncomfortable. “I refuse to be used for vile purposes. Others have tried and failed.”

  Jack stared at her through narrowed lids. What in bloody hell did she mean by that remark? What vile purpos
es was she referring to? “My dear Miss O’Toole, Spence and I have no designs on your person. You are perfectly safe with us.”

  Moira looked skeptical but gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Go on, sir, I’m listening.”

  “If you agree to the little escapade Spence and I propose, I can promise you a grand adventure. Moreover, if it works out as we expect, you will never have to worry about money again. You’ll be able to better your own lot and provide for your brother’s family.”

  Moira’s eyes widened in disbelief. “How do you propose to do that?”

  Jack perched on the edge of the bed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a lady? To belong to the gentry?”

  Moira stiffened indignantly, taking his words as an insult. “I am a lady! I may not be gentry, but that doesn’t make me any less a lady.”

  The corner of Jack’s mouth lifted upward. He had her now. “Prove it. Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to be accepted by London society.”

  Forgetting that she was scantily clad in a threadbare shift, Moira jerked upright, wincing in pain when her injured arm protested the sudden jolt. “Are you daft, sir? ’Tis highly unlikely I’ll be accepted by society, let alone mistaken for gentry.”

  Jack gave her a lazy grin. “Spence and I intend to prove you wrong. You will be accepted, Miss O’Toole. We’ll coach you in etiquette, and when the time is right, you’ll be introduced as my ward, a distant relative from Ireland. We’ll make your father a baron, which will make you a lady. Lady Moira. How does that sound?”

  “Outrageous.”

  “Spence and I will do our level best to see you married to an upstanding member of London society, one wealthy enough to keep you in grand style and provide funds for your brother. If that isn’t enough inducement, just consider the endless hours of entertainment Spence and I will derive from our little charade.”

  Moira’s thoughts scattered. What Sir Graystoke suggested was ludicrous. No wonder he was called Black Jack. His warped sense of humor would get them all in trouble. Pass her off as a relative, indeed. How could anyone believe she was gentry? Her mother had told her many times that her grandfather was highborn, but there was no proof to substantiate her claim. That kind of thinking was dangerous. But so were the alternatives, which were definitely unpalatable. Finding another job without references was next to impossible. She had no funds with which to purchase passage to Ireland, even if she decided to burden her poor brother with another mouth to feed.

  Actually, after careful consideration, Moira thought the idea that the two gentlemen proposed had some merit. The idea of marrying money had much to commend it. One possible drawback was having to deal with Black Jack on a daily basis until she left. The man was too arrogant, too handsome and too damn male!

  “Well, what do you think of the idea?” Spence asked excitedly. He was literally hopping from foot to foot, waiting for Moira’s decision.

  “Why would you go to the trouble? There is more to this than an escape from boredom. What do you have to gain by passing me off as a lady?”

  “A pair of…”

  “Nothing,” Jack interjected, abruptly cutting off Spence’s response. He thought it best not to mention the wager he and Spence had agreed upon. His pair of grays against two thousand pounds. “We have your best interests at heart. The diversion your entry into society will provide will give us endless hours of amusement.”

  Jack’s eyes roved over the upper part of Moira’s body, bared when the blanket dropped to her waist. Her breasts were round and full, though not particularly large; he could see the darker aureoles push impudently against the thin material of her shift. A jolt of blatant lust made him want to reach out and encircle the fleshy mounds with his large hands. His fingers tingled, imagining the warmth of her flesh against his palm. He blinked and looked away, surprised at the direction of his thoughts. Moira recognized the look in his eyes and yanked the covers up to her chin with her uninjured arm. She neither needed nor wanted that kind of attention.

  “Amusement,” Moira said bitterly. “Do the gentry think of naught else?”

  Spence grinned. “What else is there?”

  “Come now, Miss O’Toole, what do you say?” Jack asked with gruff impatience. “You’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

  What did she have to lose? Moira wondered. What if she chanced to meet her former employers while she was out and about in society? What if she met Lord Roger at some social function or other? Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize her dressed as a lady, she reflected hopefully. Due to their age, the elderly Mayhews attended few social events, and as for Roger, tame amusements did not interest him. But there was always a possibility of their paths crossing. She’d just have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

  “Very well,” Moira reluctantly agreed. “Your scheme has some merit. I will do it to prove to you that I am a lady, that I’m as good as any woman born to the gentry. And to help my brother. But mostly because I do not wish to remain a burden to you.”

  Jack sent her a dark look. “I must marry money myself if I am to survive, but I will fulfill my responsibility where you’re concerned. If not for me, you would be hale and hearty today instead of recovering from injuries.”

  “Good show, Miss O’Toole!” Spence enthused, sending Moira a pleased look. “When you’re ready, Jack will introduce you as a distant relative and let nature take its course. You’re a beauty, Miss O’Toole. There is nothing coarse or common about you. If Jack wins, we’ll be toasting your engagement inside three months. But if I’m victorious…”

  “That’s enough, Spence!” Jack warned. “We’ve tired Miss O’Toole. I suggest we repair to the study and let her rest. We’ve plans to make.”

  “Don’t we though,” Spence said as Jack hustled him out the door.

  Moira cradled her injured arm and pondered Jack’s outrageous plan. She’d been a fool to agree, but what choice did she have? Despite Jack’s argument to the contrary, clearly he did not want the added responsibility she represented. He thought he had run her down with his carriage, but she knew for a fact he couldn’t have hurt her much more than she’d already been when she’d flung herself from Lord Roger’s coach. She felt guilty about lying to Jack about his involvement in her “accident,” but she feared that telling the truth presented a far greater risk.

  She was in so deep that Moira saw no way to extricate herself gracefully from this muddle. She’d see this through and prove to Black Jack Graystoke that being a lady did not depend upon one’s birth.

  Moira’s thoughts scattered when she heard a discreet knock on the door. Moments later Pettibone poked his head into the room.

  “Come in, Mr. Pettibone.”

  He stepped inside. “Can I get you anything, miss?”

  “No, thank you. You’ve been more than kind. Have you been with Sir Graystoke long?”

  “Aye, miss, a very long time.”

  Moira bit her lip, then blurted out, “Is he as black-hearted as his name implies?”

  For a moment Pettibone looked rattled, then he quickly recovered his dignity. “Not at all, miss. You mustn’t believe everything you hear. I’ll admit he can be a bit of a rogue at times, but I’ve never known him to hurt anyone knowingly, particularly a woman.”

  “Does he truly earn his living at the gaming tables?”

  “True enough, miss. His folks left him little beyond this haunted mansion. And as you can see, it’s in a pitiful state of disrepair.”

  Moira’s eyes grew round. “Haunted?”

  “Indeed, miss. ’Tis said Lady Amelia Graystoke wanders the halls at night, so don’t be alarmed if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Have you ever seen her?”

  “’Tis said Lady Amelia appears only to family members in desperate need of her help. ’Tis rumored she has saved more than one rakehell of the family. In recent years she’s had little reason to appear and no one to redeem, until Bla
ck Jack, that is. But alas,” the old man sighed, “as far as I know, Lady Amelia has yet to appear to her wayward great-great-grandson.”

  “Why does Lady Amelia haunt the Graystokes?” Moira asked curiously. Being Irish, ghosts and such had always intrigued her.

  “’Tis a sad story, miss,” Pettibone said, warming to the subject. He enjoyed nothing better than displaying his knowledge of Graystoke family lore. “Lady Amelia’s only son was a wastrel of the worst sort. He spent his days drinking, gambling, dueling and…er…visiting ladies of ill repute. ’Twas he who lost the family fortune. Lady Amelia finally managed to get him married to a lovely girl, but it didn’t change his dissolute ways. He was killed in a duel days before the Graystoke heir was born.”

  “How sad.” Moira sighed.

  “Upon her death some years after that of her son, Lady Amelia made a deathbed promise. She vowed that no Graystoke heir would walk the same path as her wastrel son, even if she had to haunt future generations of Graystokes to accomplish it. And the story goes that she has kept her vow, appearing only to those male Graystoke heirs who led debauched lives and were well on the road to perdition.”

  “Do you believe that tale?” Moira asked, thoroughly intrigued by Lady Amelia and her pledge to the future generations of Graystokes.

  Pettibone shrugged. “Aye. There have been no wastrel males in the Graystoke family for several generations. Like as not it could be the result of Lady Amelia’s intervention.”

  What he left unsaid was that Black Jack Graystoke surely qualified for Lady Amelia’s help, and if Lady Amelia didn’t intervene soon, it would be too late for his rakehell master.

  “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Pettibone.”

  “If there is nothing you wish, miss, I’ll continue with my chores.”

  “I was wondering what happened to my clothing. I don’t see them anywhere.”

  “They are being cleaned and mended. They’ll be returned when the doctor says it’s all right for you to leave your bed. He’ll be here later today to place a cast on your arm.”